Now the Nightmare's Real, for cherry619
Aug. 25th, 2016 11:33 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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spn_summergenTitle: Now the Nightmare’s Real
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cherry619
Rating: T
Word Count: 4216
Warnings: Blood and gore. Possession.
Author’s Note: I was super pumped to be writing for cherry619 because I’ve been a fan of her works almost as long as I’ve been a fan of Supernatural. I only hope she enjoys my humble offering as much as I enjoyed writing it. Many thanks to my little sister for being my beta and also just being awesome. This fic is set in season 10 right after Fanfiction.
Summary: So the nightmare began and thus the nightmare continues. And Sam lies, haphazardly propped up on his good side and staring up at the man and praying he’s not looking at the demon.
It's not his favorite way to wake up. It doesn't even make the top 10. Granted, it isn’t in his list of worst wake-ups either, but considering that includes things like Lucifer peeling his eyeballs like grapes or knitting his small intestine into a squishy, leaking scarf, he thinks his scale might be a little skewed. But before Lucifer, before the cage, this would have been pretty damn bad.
He is definitely not going anywhere, for starters. He isn’t sure exactly what bound his hands together behind his back but the aching throb of something buried beneath his skin coupled with the slow slide of fresh blood tickling his hands suggests it is some sort of wire. In his last memory, he had been wearing his FBI suit but he had been stripped down to his boxers
He puts his headache at probably a 7. Maybe 8 if the light is bright when he finally opens his eyes. He cracks his eyes open and squints against the late afternoon sunlight. He flinches violently at what he sees and fire ignites in his shoulder, forcing a muffled scream through his tightly clenched teeth. He shrinks back, blinking, hoping the blurry vision will resolve into a picture that makes more sense but every blink brings his worst nightmare into focus. He definitely needs to rethink that scale.
1 DAY EARLIER
Dean grunted and jerked awake as a warm, slightly squishy bag caught him in the stomach. “What the hell, dude?” he yawned as he blinked upward at the sleep-blurred face of his little brother.
“It’s breakfast. Change of plans. We’re not heading back to the bunker just yet.” Sam set down a still steaming paper cup of coffee down on the nightstand by Dean’s bed.
“You found us a case?” Dean scratched his stomach and slowly sat up. He dug through the bag before grinning and pulling out a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper nearly transparent with grease.
“Yeah, I picked up a newspaper this morning while I was waiting for the food. We’re only about an hour away from Sterling Heights so there is no reason we can’t take care of this quickly before heading home,” Sam pulled out his own breakfast burrito, grimacing at the oily feel of the paper after it had sat next to Dean’s heart attack on an English muffin.
“Don’t leave me in suspense, Sammy,” Dean spoke through a mouthful of egg, bacon, cheese, and bread.
“So get this,” Sam dropped into a seat at the table and pulled his open laptop a little closer, hardly noticing the glob of scrambled egg white about to drop on his keyboard from the wrap in his hand. “There’s this cluster of cul-de-sacs on the outskirts of the city and usually it’s just a really quiet area, no drugs, no wild parties, almost exclusively families with young children. Anyway, for the last two weeks, there have been almost constant 911 calls from the parents in this area. Some of it’s pretty innocuous, strange noises, large animals that have avoided capture, that kind of thing. But some of the parents have been calling in saying their children have been kidnapped and replaced with lookalikes. And last week, two of the couples who said this went a little crazy and basically tore each other apart. Only one of the parents survived. It sounds a bit like changelings, like the ones we faced in Cicero.”
“Yeah, minus the parents going postal on each other,” Dean agreed.
“It could be a different kind of changeling than the ones we saw before. Different species, maybe,” the egg finally dislodged from its precarious position and splattered on the keys. Sam cursed and wiped it up carefully with a crumpled napkin.
“Might as well check it out, since we’re here,” Dean grinned but toned it down a little when he saw Sam’s brow furrow. “Calm down, this isn’t over-the-top demon bloodlust. This is just me ready to jump back in with both feet.”
“You sure? Because it’s not too late to call another hunter and head back to the bunker if you’re not quite ready. We’re allowed to take our time getting back into the swing of things,” Sam said.
“Dude, we’re an hour away and we’re finished our previous case. We have no guarantee that anyone else could get there in time to prevent the next death. Come on, don’t be a girl and pack your stuff,” He wadded up the greasy paper and tossed it into the garbage can before pushing himself to his feet and starting to gather his few possessions. He knocked into Sam’s shoulder as he walked by, unaware of Sam’s barely contained wince.
Sam sighed and followed suit. They were on the road again in less than ten minutes. The fake Samulet still swung gently from the rearview mirror and Dean couldn’t help smiling just a little bit fondly about how right it felt to have that tangible piece of better days, even if the real amulet was long gone.
Their first stop in Sterling Heights was another crappy motel. They both agreed that it was probably wise to gather a little intel before investigating the neighbourhood itself. Dean took the car to the police station to charm some police files and Sam headed out on foot to the local hospital, intending to talk to the woman who had survived her husband’s brutal attack.
It was unseasonably warm for November and Sam was sweating profusely into his suit jacket by the time he reached the hospital. He ducked into a public washroom in the reception area of the hospital in an effort to do something about his stringy hair and red face. The air conditioning helped him approach presentable but he knew he was probably going to have to pull out the dimples if he was going to get in to see the patient.
She was not overly thrilled about the idea of visitors. She had been poked and prodded from the moment she had been brought into the ER. And although no decisions had been made as long as she was still suffering the effects of blunt force trauma to the head, she had heard her doctors out in the hallway talking casually about delusions and moving her to the psych facility. And so by the time Sam managed to charm his way into seeing her, Eleanora Wright was not talking.
“I told this to the police,” she scowled at him. “Someone broke into my house, killed my husband and stole my daughter. I didn’t see who it was. They hit my head and that’s why I was confused.”
“I understand that it’s difficult to recall the events but it would be really helpful if you could tell me everything you remembered, no matter how inconsequential it might be. Or how strange it might sound,” Sam looked at her earnestly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she glared. “You say that but you don’t mean it. And I don’t need yet another so-called professional looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. My husband is dead. My little girl is...gone. Just leave me alone in my pain,” She pressed the call button and soon Sam was being politely and apologetically ushered out.
By the time he met Dean at the diner, he was sweating again. He flopped gracelessly into the booth opposite Dean and drained half his glass of water in one swallow.
Dean smirks at him. “It looks like you had about as good a time as I did.”
“Couldn’t get the police files?” Sam asked.
“There weren’t any,” Dean grumbled. “They kept giving me the runaround at the station. I talked to the receptionist, the police chief, the officers who checked out the complaints. No one filed anything. They all maintain the calls were just false alarms or overreacting parents. Even with the parents who were killed, they said someone must have broken in and they were probably long gone by now and if I couldn’t find the report, it had probably been misfiled. It’s like everyone is just looking the other way.”
“This whole thing just feels off,” Sam frowned and then looked up in surprise as a waitress plopped a bowl full of leaves down in front of him. “I didn’t…” he started.
“I ordered for you,” Dean said. “It’s the magical mystery salad or something weird like that. I thought you’d like it.” He picked up his greasy burger and bit down, moaning as ketchup dripped down the sides.
Sam rolled his eyes and scooped up a bite of the salad. His eyebrows rose as he tasted it. There was kale and aragula and other baby greens, along with peppers and red onions and tomatoes. And the most surprising thing was the sheer amount of fresh herbs. He could taste basil and sage and parsley and a few others that he couldn’t identify, maybe cilantro too. He was soon eating as avidly as Dean and he didn’t stop until his plate was clean.
Although Sam never liked to run in without a better idea of what they were dealing with, they didn’t really have any other choice but to check out the crime scene directly. They began with the Wright house. But long before they reached the door, they were both on edge. The neighbourhood was oddly still. Some of the kids were probably in school but from what Dean had gathered at the police office, most of the moms in the area were stay-at-home and there were a number of children under school age. Surely there would at least be a few taking advantage of the gorgeous late fall weather. But no, the houses were all quiet, curtains drawn, cars in the driveway and a strange stillness hung over the street.
“Yikes,” Dean spoke from behind Sam.
“I’d say you were over reacting. But this neighbourhood gives me the creeps,” Sam replied. “That house over there is the one with the most police calls. They stopped a couple days ago but hopefully they can tell us more about what’s going on.” He pointed to an unassuming beige house with a white fence and a flower garden. As he looked, he could have sworn he saw someone peering out the window through the blinds, someone at child height.
They knocked on the door, and shouted FBI. They heard movement from within but no one opened the door for them.
“Pick the lock?” Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam and Sam sighed and pulled his kit from his suit jacket pocket. They were slowly opening the door in moments.
The first thing that struck Sam was the smell. It was old blood and human waste and the cloyingly sweet scent of decay. And Sam knew why the phone calls had stopped. Part of him wanted to back away and shut the door but Dean’s solid comforting presence was at his shoulder and he pulled his gun from his waistband and cautiously entered the home.
It was if a bomb had gone off. Congealed blood caked the walls and the bodies on the floor were hardly recognizable as human. They had been torn apart, limbs separated from the torso, innards leaking on the carpet. And standing there, staring straight at them, was a child, a little girl, grinning through red stained teeth.
“Welcome,” she whispered softly, eyes flashing a brilliant green.
Sam wasn’t taking any chances. He shot twice, right between the eyes and two more into centre mass, just to be safe. The girl just laughed it off, climbing back to her feet before stretching out her hands, palms out, at the two of them. Sam staggered momentarily as a wave of dizziness washed over him but he quickly shook it off, keeping his admittedly useless gun trained on her.
There was movement at his back. Sam glanced away long enough to see Dean at his shoulder before focussing back on the monster child. He barely registered the breaking of glass and the sharp pain in his head before he was falling to the floor. The sound of laughter followed him into unconsciousness.
NOW
So the nightmare began and thus the nightmare continues. And Sam lies, haphazardly propped up on his good side and staring up at the man and praying he’s not looking at the demon. Dean’s eyes are cold, hard, but not black, not yet. But Sam can not relax because this Dean is not jumping forward, knife in hand, to cut his bonds. This Dean is not keeping up a steady stream of chatter. There is no “Sammy,” or “I gotcha,” or “you’re gonna be fine, little brother.” No, this Dean just stands, emotionless, blood dripping from the knife and the green-eyed child watched from the shadows, completely still and silent.
“Should have stayed away, Sammy,” Dean finally speaks. “I finally got out of hell, out from under Crowley’s thumb and I brought my sisters with me. Sure, the body count is a little high right now but only while we’re getting established. And we’re only killing the ones who are able to resist us. If they submitted to us, to our control, we would simply have relocated them. We just wanted out of the war. We don’t want to fight heaven. We don’t want to be Crowley’s little subjugators.”
“This is what?” Sam asks bitterly. “Mind control?”
Dean laughs. “Of a sort. It’s really too bad it didn’t work on you. We would have wiped your memory of the last couple of days and implanted the urge to find another monster in another state across the country. But now you have to die. We’ll let Dean go. Crowley won’t forgive us for slaughtering his favourite little pet. He’ll leave this house but he won’t remember you. He’ll spend the rest of his life searching for a face he misses but can't recall.”
Sam pulls harder at the wire binding his wrists. They bleed heavily but he is no closer to breaking through. And Dean kneels beside Sam, pushing him back to the ground and grinding his face into the bloody carpet, knee pushing cruelly into his little brother’s newly healed shoulder. Sam screams as he feels his tendons stretching quickly to their limits.
“This will be lots of fun for me,” Dean hisses in Sam’s ear. “This body knows things that I’ve never dreamed of. I know that heaven calls him the righteous man, the Michael Sword, but in here, he can’t hide from me. He is Alastair’s apprentice, Cain reborn, and the bloodlust runs unchecked. I’m doing you a favour really. If he kills you now while I’m in control, you can at least comfort yourself with the fact that he did not choose to murder you. But if I let you go, the fragile control he keeps over his anger, his violence, will break and you’ll be the first in the line of fire.”
“Dean, fight this!” Sam shouts, desperately trying to buck his brother off. Dean simply shifts to straddle Sam’s hips.
“He can’t hear you,” Dean’s voice whispers, so close he can feel his brother’s hot breath on his ear. “But if he could, how do you know he would stop? I can see every thought he has had about you, every fear. He knows that you feel dirty. He knows you will never feel like you have atoned. He wonders if you can ever do enough to fix the damage you have done. If I let him up right now but whisper in his ear that this will save you, that this will be enough to fix you, what do you think he will do?”
“My brother...wouldn’t hurt me,” Sam gasps, glaring heatedly at the girl standing in silence. She smiles faintly but still does not speak.
“Oh, he would, and he has.” Dean says, pressing harder on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shouts when it pops and the displaced joint grinds against tender tissue. “You know he still hasn’t forgiven you for Ruby or for leaving him in purgatory. And he is still annoyed at you for being angry when he tricked you into saying yes to that angel. And now the darkness behind this mark is weaving itself into every resentment he still harbours and fanning the flames. It would only be a matter of time before he snapped and killed you. But don’t worry, I won’t let him out. He loves you still and he would make it quick. I don’t want this to be over too soon.”
Sam freezes as he feels the tip of Dean’s silver knife gently graze the skin at the nape of his neck. He fights to keep from shivering as it slowly traces his spine without breaking skin. “I know what you are,” Dean chuckles. “Even if I didn’t have a direct line to Dean’s fucked up brain, I still would have heard all the stories. All you needed to do was roll over and present yourself to Lucifer but you couldn’t even fulfill your destiny properly. But I’ll fix it for you. You can at least look like the angel bitch you are.” Dean leans closely again. “I’m going to give you wings.”
Sam screams as Dean begins to carve, tracing ribs and shoulder blades in bloody lines and curves. He shudders as the knife sinks deep enough to scrape bone. Blood seeps down his sides and pools under his body. He can feel every movement of the knife as Dean slowly drags it, zigzagging along the top of his shoulder, setting every nerve ending on fire.
“Please,” he whimpers when Dean pulls back to admire his macabre artwork.
“I’m hardly finished,” Dean laughs. “What are angel wings without feathers?” He takes the knife to Sam’s skin once more, starting next to the spine and carving ovals into his skin stretching out toward the tip of Sam’s left shoulder. Sam’s voice gives out after the fourth feather and he knows it will be over soon. None of the wounds are particularly life threatening but shock and blood loss will take care of him soon. And then his brother will be lost. Dean will forget that he had a brother who loved him and the thirst for blood will soon overwhelm him with no one to keep him in check. Sam will die and Dean will turn the world to ash. And for this, and other failures, Sam will burn.
“NO!” Sam shouts through bleeding throat. And there is light, pure and beautiful and holy, so holy he expects to to be struck down simply for failing to avert his gaze. It tears through Dean, green fire flaring for an instant behind him before being extinguished. The girl screams as she is engulfed and thrown back into the wall. When the light fades, she is nothing but a burned out corpse, empty eye sockets smoking, charred flesh rapidly crumbling to ash. Dean lies beside him, eyes open and staring. Sam can’t even tell if he is still breathing. He struggles against his bonds once more to try to reach his brother but the pain from his back quickly tumbles him back down into unconsciousness.
Sam really hates waking up in hospitals. They smell foul and the light hurts his usually concussed head. He is propped up on his side to keep off the wounds on his back and his recently liberated arm is wrapped and immobilized to his chest once more. But when he opens his eyes, Dean is in his sight line, haggard, but relieved.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes once he has established that Sam is truly aware of his surroundings.
“How long?” Sam groans.
“It’s been four days. And dude, I have no idea what happened. I woke up and you were down for the count. The Monster was ganked. Most of the houses in the area were burning, a child’s body at the centre of each fire. You aren’t even that badly hurt, although you broke your current record for number of stitches at one time. But you should have woken up long before now. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on.” Dean tries to keep his voice light but Sam can see the worry in his eyes. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know. That thing had some kind of mind control. It took you over and made you do the dirty work. Then there was a bright light. I didn’t see where it came from. It burnt it out and I passed out.” Sam says slowly. “I think it was some kind of demon. It mentioned Crowley but it had green eyes. I’ve never seen a green-eyed demon.”
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean's face pales. “Did I do this to you?”
“No,” Sam pauses. Dean opens his mouth to say something, probably an apology, but Sam cuts him off. “No, Dean. It wasn't you. You would never hurt me.”
Dean tries to speak but the words won’t come. Finally, he manages to begin. “Why do you think I was vulnerable? I mean...I was a demon. Do you think that had something to…”
“No, Dean,” Sam interrupts again. “It told me what it had done. It controlled some of the parents too and unless you think they all were former demons, I think you can rule that out.”
“Then why? Why could you resist and I couldn't? You don't really have the best track record with demons…” Dean trails off as Sam shoots him an exasperated look.
“This is going to sound dumb, but I think it was the salad. I'd have to look up the effects of some of the other ingredients but for sure the sage is used for purification and protection,” Sam grins.
“Huh,” Dean frowns. “I guess the rabbit food has to be good for something.”
“Does that mean you’ll get the salad next time?” Sam teases.
“God, no,” Dean shudders. “I think I’d rather have the herbs in suppository form. I’m not letting that shit anywhere near my taste buds.”
“Gross, Dean,” Sam pulls a truly memorable bitch face. “I could probably mix some of them into raw hamburger once I figured out the combination...unless you really want to shove sage up your ass.”
“Find a hot enough chick to do it and I wouldn’t say no,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows lewdly.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that will go over well. ‘Hey, my name is Dean. Want to perform mutually enjoyable adult activities and also shove this gigantic green pill into my asshole?’” Sam jeers.
“Geez, Sammy, no wonder you can’t get laid if that’s the type of line you use,” Dean smirks as Sam yawns.
“Dean, I’ve heard the types of lines you use. That one would probably improve your game,” Sam yawns again, wider.
“Well I’ll...improve your game,” Dean shoots back.
Sam tries hard to keep his eyes open to laugh at the look on his brother’s face but he is fighting a losing battle. He feels tentative fingers brush the hair back from his forehead. He pulls his eyes open once more and is shocked by the naked pain on Dean’s face. “It really wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs.
“Even if I wasn’t in control, your blood is still on my hands,” Dean whispers, suddenly unable to look his brother in the eye.
“If you plan on beating yourself up about this, I’m gonna have to go back to feeling guilty for the things I’ve done while possessed or soulless,” Sam tries to glare up at his brother.
Dean grips Sam’s hand hard. “You know I can’t disagree with you when you’re looking up at me like a sad, sleepy puppy,” he says softly.
“My evil plan…” Sam’s jaw cracks as he yawns again. “...worked.”
Dean goes back to running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Sleep, Sammy,” he whispers. And Sam does.
Tomorrow they will be back on the road. Tomorrow, Sam will sit gingerly in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean will crack terrible jokes and accuse his brother of being a wimp, all the while avoiding all the potholes to give his brother the smoothest ride possible. And tomorrow Sam will look at his brother and wonder if the mark of Cain is changing him. He will remember the words of the demon and he will pray to whoever is listening that Dean never gives in because Dean will never survive his brother’s death. Sam will remember the light that destroyed the demons and wonder if it came from within and if yet another foreign power has begun to make its home in his body without his consent. But perhaps he won’t search too deeply if it will give him the chance to defeat the evil that mars his brother’s skin.
And tomorrow there will be words spoken in anger and thoughtless actions. There will be misunderstandings and, because they are the Winchesters, there will be lies.
But today they have this, a small hospital room with a pale but healing little brother, a big brother finally heaving a sigh of relief, and a win, no matter how it was earned. And for today, that is enough. They are enough.
Recipient:
cherry619Rating: T
Word Count: 4216
Warnings: Blood and gore. Possession.
Author’s Note: I was super pumped to be writing for cherry619 because I’ve been a fan of her works almost as long as I’ve been a fan of Supernatural. I only hope she enjoys my humble offering as much as I enjoyed writing it. Many thanks to my little sister for being my beta and also just being awesome. This fic is set in season 10 right after Fanfiction.
Summary: So the nightmare began and thus the nightmare continues. And Sam lies, haphazardly propped up on his good side and staring up at the man and praying he’s not looking at the demon.
It's not his favorite way to wake up. It doesn't even make the top 10. Granted, it isn’t in his list of worst wake-ups either, but considering that includes things like Lucifer peeling his eyeballs like grapes or knitting his small intestine into a squishy, leaking scarf, he thinks his scale might be a little skewed. But before Lucifer, before the cage, this would have been pretty damn bad.
He is definitely not going anywhere, for starters. He isn’t sure exactly what bound his hands together behind his back but the aching throb of something buried beneath his skin coupled with the slow slide of fresh blood tickling his hands suggests it is some sort of wire. In his last memory, he had been wearing his FBI suit but he had been stripped down to his boxers
He puts his headache at probably a 7. Maybe 8 if the light is bright when he finally opens his eyes. He cracks his eyes open and squints against the late afternoon sunlight. He flinches violently at what he sees and fire ignites in his shoulder, forcing a muffled scream through his tightly clenched teeth. He shrinks back, blinking, hoping the blurry vision will resolve into a picture that makes more sense but every blink brings his worst nightmare into focus. He definitely needs to rethink that scale.
1 DAY EARLIER
Dean grunted and jerked awake as a warm, slightly squishy bag caught him in the stomach. “What the hell, dude?” he yawned as he blinked upward at the sleep-blurred face of his little brother.
“It’s breakfast. Change of plans. We’re not heading back to the bunker just yet.” Sam set down a still steaming paper cup of coffee down on the nightstand by Dean’s bed.
“You found us a case?” Dean scratched his stomach and slowly sat up. He dug through the bag before grinning and pulling out a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper nearly transparent with grease.
“Yeah, I picked up a newspaper this morning while I was waiting for the food. We’re only about an hour away from Sterling Heights so there is no reason we can’t take care of this quickly before heading home,” Sam pulled out his own breakfast burrito, grimacing at the oily feel of the paper after it had sat next to Dean’s heart attack on an English muffin.
“Don’t leave me in suspense, Sammy,” Dean spoke through a mouthful of egg, bacon, cheese, and bread.
“So get this,” Sam dropped into a seat at the table and pulled his open laptop a little closer, hardly noticing the glob of scrambled egg white about to drop on his keyboard from the wrap in his hand. “There’s this cluster of cul-de-sacs on the outskirts of the city and usually it’s just a really quiet area, no drugs, no wild parties, almost exclusively families with young children. Anyway, for the last two weeks, there have been almost constant 911 calls from the parents in this area. Some of it’s pretty innocuous, strange noises, large animals that have avoided capture, that kind of thing. But some of the parents have been calling in saying their children have been kidnapped and replaced with lookalikes. And last week, two of the couples who said this went a little crazy and basically tore each other apart. Only one of the parents survived. It sounds a bit like changelings, like the ones we faced in Cicero.”
“Yeah, minus the parents going postal on each other,” Dean agreed.
“It could be a different kind of changeling than the ones we saw before. Different species, maybe,” the egg finally dislodged from its precarious position and splattered on the keys. Sam cursed and wiped it up carefully with a crumpled napkin.
“Might as well check it out, since we’re here,” Dean grinned but toned it down a little when he saw Sam’s brow furrow. “Calm down, this isn’t over-the-top demon bloodlust. This is just me ready to jump back in with both feet.”
“You sure? Because it’s not too late to call another hunter and head back to the bunker if you’re not quite ready. We’re allowed to take our time getting back into the swing of things,” Sam said.
“Dude, we’re an hour away and we’re finished our previous case. We have no guarantee that anyone else could get there in time to prevent the next death. Come on, don’t be a girl and pack your stuff,” He wadded up the greasy paper and tossed it into the garbage can before pushing himself to his feet and starting to gather his few possessions. He knocked into Sam’s shoulder as he walked by, unaware of Sam’s barely contained wince.
Sam sighed and followed suit. They were on the road again in less than ten minutes. The fake Samulet still swung gently from the rearview mirror and Dean couldn’t help smiling just a little bit fondly about how right it felt to have that tangible piece of better days, even if the real amulet was long gone.
Their first stop in Sterling Heights was another crappy motel. They both agreed that it was probably wise to gather a little intel before investigating the neighbourhood itself. Dean took the car to the police station to charm some police files and Sam headed out on foot to the local hospital, intending to talk to the woman who had survived her husband’s brutal attack.
It was unseasonably warm for November and Sam was sweating profusely into his suit jacket by the time he reached the hospital. He ducked into a public washroom in the reception area of the hospital in an effort to do something about his stringy hair and red face. The air conditioning helped him approach presentable but he knew he was probably going to have to pull out the dimples if he was going to get in to see the patient.
She was not overly thrilled about the idea of visitors. She had been poked and prodded from the moment she had been brought into the ER. And although no decisions had been made as long as she was still suffering the effects of blunt force trauma to the head, she had heard her doctors out in the hallway talking casually about delusions and moving her to the psych facility. And so by the time Sam managed to charm his way into seeing her, Eleanora Wright was not talking.
“I told this to the police,” she scowled at him. “Someone broke into my house, killed my husband and stole my daughter. I didn’t see who it was. They hit my head and that’s why I was confused.”
“I understand that it’s difficult to recall the events but it would be really helpful if you could tell me everything you remembered, no matter how inconsequential it might be. Or how strange it might sound,” Sam looked at her earnestly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she glared. “You say that but you don’t mean it. And I don’t need yet another so-called professional looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. My husband is dead. My little girl is...gone. Just leave me alone in my pain,” She pressed the call button and soon Sam was being politely and apologetically ushered out.
By the time he met Dean at the diner, he was sweating again. He flopped gracelessly into the booth opposite Dean and drained half his glass of water in one swallow.
Dean smirks at him. “It looks like you had about as good a time as I did.”
“Couldn’t get the police files?” Sam asked.
“There weren’t any,” Dean grumbled. “They kept giving me the runaround at the station. I talked to the receptionist, the police chief, the officers who checked out the complaints. No one filed anything. They all maintain the calls were just false alarms or overreacting parents. Even with the parents who were killed, they said someone must have broken in and they were probably long gone by now and if I couldn’t find the report, it had probably been misfiled. It’s like everyone is just looking the other way.”
“This whole thing just feels off,” Sam frowned and then looked up in surprise as a waitress plopped a bowl full of leaves down in front of him. “I didn’t…” he started.
“I ordered for you,” Dean said. “It’s the magical mystery salad or something weird like that. I thought you’d like it.” He picked up his greasy burger and bit down, moaning as ketchup dripped down the sides.
Sam rolled his eyes and scooped up a bite of the salad. His eyebrows rose as he tasted it. There was kale and aragula and other baby greens, along with peppers and red onions and tomatoes. And the most surprising thing was the sheer amount of fresh herbs. He could taste basil and sage and parsley and a few others that he couldn’t identify, maybe cilantro too. He was soon eating as avidly as Dean and he didn’t stop until his plate was clean.
Although Sam never liked to run in without a better idea of what they were dealing with, they didn’t really have any other choice but to check out the crime scene directly. They began with the Wright house. But long before they reached the door, they were both on edge. The neighbourhood was oddly still. Some of the kids were probably in school but from what Dean had gathered at the police office, most of the moms in the area were stay-at-home and there were a number of children under school age. Surely there would at least be a few taking advantage of the gorgeous late fall weather. But no, the houses were all quiet, curtains drawn, cars in the driveway and a strange stillness hung over the street.
“Yikes,” Dean spoke from behind Sam.
“I’d say you were over reacting. But this neighbourhood gives me the creeps,” Sam replied. “That house over there is the one with the most police calls. They stopped a couple days ago but hopefully they can tell us more about what’s going on.” He pointed to an unassuming beige house with a white fence and a flower garden. As he looked, he could have sworn he saw someone peering out the window through the blinds, someone at child height.
They knocked on the door, and shouted FBI. They heard movement from within but no one opened the door for them.
“Pick the lock?” Dean raised his eyebrow at Sam and Sam sighed and pulled his kit from his suit jacket pocket. They were slowly opening the door in moments.
The first thing that struck Sam was the smell. It was old blood and human waste and the cloyingly sweet scent of decay. And Sam knew why the phone calls had stopped. Part of him wanted to back away and shut the door but Dean’s solid comforting presence was at his shoulder and he pulled his gun from his waistband and cautiously entered the home.
It was if a bomb had gone off. Congealed blood caked the walls and the bodies on the floor were hardly recognizable as human. They had been torn apart, limbs separated from the torso, innards leaking on the carpet. And standing there, staring straight at them, was a child, a little girl, grinning through red stained teeth.
“Welcome,” she whispered softly, eyes flashing a brilliant green.
Sam wasn’t taking any chances. He shot twice, right between the eyes and two more into centre mass, just to be safe. The girl just laughed it off, climbing back to her feet before stretching out her hands, palms out, at the two of them. Sam staggered momentarily as a wave of dizziness washed over him but he quickly shook it off, keeping his admittedly useless gun trained on her.
There was movement at his back. Sam glanced away long enough to see Dean at his shoulder before focussing back on the monster child. He barely registered the breaking of glass and the sharp pain in his head before he was falling to the floor. The sound of laughter followed him into unconsciousness.
NOW
So the nightmare began and thus the nightmare continues. And Sam lies, haphazardly propped up on his good side and staring up at the man and praying he’s not looking at the demon. Dean’s eyes are cold, hard, but not black, not yet. But Sam can not relax because this Dean is not jumping forward, knife in hand, to cut his bonds. This Dean is not keeping up a steady stream of chatter. There is no “Sammy,” or “I gotcha,” or “you’re gonna be fine, little brother.” No, this Dean just stands, emotionless, blood dripping from the knife and the green-eyed child watched from the shadows, completely still and silent.
“Should have stayed away, Sammy,” Dean finally speaks. “I finally got out of hell, out from under Crowley’s thumb and I brought my sisters with me. Sure, the body count is a little high right now but only while we’re getting established. And we’re only killing the ones who are able to resist us. If they submitted to us, to our control, we would simply have relocated them. We just wanted out of the war. We don’t want to fight heaven. We don’t want to be Crowley’s little subjugators.”
“This is what?” Sam asks bitterly. “Mind control?”
Dean laughs. “Of a sort. It’s really too bad it didn’t work on you. We would have wiped your memory of the last couple of days and implanted the urge to find another monster in another state across the country. But now you have to die. We’ll let Dean go. Crowley won’t forgive us for slaughtering his favourite little pet. He’ll leave this house but he won’t remember you. He’ll spend the rest of his life searching for a face he misses but can't recall.”
Sam pulls harder at the wire binding his wrists. They bleed heavily but he is no closer to breaking through. And Dean kneels beside Sam, pushing him back to the ground and grinding his face into the bloody carpet, knee pushing cruelly into his little brother’s newly healed shoulder. Sam screams as he feels his tendons stretching quickly to their limits.
“This will be lots of fun for me,” Dean hisses in Sam’s ear. “This body knows things that I’ve never dreamed of. I know that heaven calls him the righteous man, the Michael Sword, but in here, he can’t hide from me. He is Alastair’s apprentice, Cain reborn, and the bloodlust runs unchecked. I’m doing you a favour really. If he kills you now while I’m in control, you can at least comfort yourself with the fact that he did not choose to murder you. But if I let you go, the fragile control he keeps over his anger, his violence, will break and you’ll be the first in the line of fire.”
“Dean, fight this!” Sam shouts, desperately trying to buck his brother off. Dean simply shifts to straddle Sam’s hips.
“He can’t hear you,” Dean’s voice whispers, so close he can feel his brother’s hot breath on his ear. “But if he could, how do you know he would stop? I can see every thought he has had about you, every fear. He knows that you feel dirty. He knows you will never feel like you have atoned. He wonders if you can ever do enough to fix the damage you have done. If I let him up right now but whisper in his ear that this will save you, that this will be enough to fix you, what do you think he will do?”
“My brother...wouldn’t hurt me,” Sam gasps, glaring heatedly at the girl standing in silence. She smiles faintly but still does not speak.
“Oh, he would, and he has.” Dean says, pressing harder on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shouts when it pops and the displaced joint grinds against tender tissue. “You know he still hasn’t forgiven you for Ruby or for leaving him in purgatory. And he is still annoyed at you for being angry when he tricked you into saying yes to that angel. And now the darkness behind this mark is weaving itself into every resentment he still harbours and fanning the flames. It would only be a matter of time before he snapped and killed you. But don’t worry, I won’t let him out. He loves you still and he would make it quick. I don’t want this to be over too soon.”
Sam freezes as he feels the tip of Dean’s silver knife gently graze the skin at the nape of his neck. He fights to keep from shivering as it slowly traces his spine without breaking skin. “I know what you are,” Dean chuckles. “Even if I didn’t have a direct line to Dean’s fucked up brain, I still would have heard all the stories. All you needed to do was roll over and present yourself to Lucifer but you couldn’t even fulfill your destiny properly. But I’ll fix it for you. You can at least look like the angel bitch you are.” Dean leans closely again. “I’m going to give you wings.”
Sam screams as Dean begins to carve, tracing ribs and shoulder blades in bloody lines and curves. He shudders as the knife sinks deep enough to scrape bone. Blood seeps down his sides and pools under his body. He can feel every movement of the knife as Dean slowly drags it, zigzagging along the top of his shoulder, setting every nerve ending on fire.
“Please,” he whimpers when Dean pulls back to admire his macabre artwork.
“I’m hardly finished,” Dean laughs. “What are angel wings without feathers?” He takes the knife to Sam’s skin once more, starting next to the spine and carving ovals into his skin stretching out toward the tip of Sam’s left shoulder. Sam’s voice gives out after the fourth feather and he knows it will be over soon. None of the wounds are particularly life threatening but shock and blood loss will take care of him soon. And then his brother will be lost. Dean will forget that he had a brother who loved him and the thirst for blood will soon overwhelm him with no one to keep him in check. Sam will die and Dean will turn the world to ash. And for this, and other failures, Sam will burn.
“NO!” Sam shouts through bleeding throat. And there is light, pure and beautiful and holy, so holy he expects to to be struck down simply for failing to avert his gaze. It tears through Dean, green fire flaring for an instant behind him before being extinguished. The girl screams as she is engulfed and thrown back into the wall. When the light fades, she is nothing but a burned out corpse, empty eye sockets smoking, charred flesh rapidly crumbling to ash. Dean lies beside him, eyes open and staring. Sam can’t even tell if he is still breathing. He struggles against his bonds once more to try to reach his brother but the pain from his back quickly tumbles him back down into unconsciousness.
Sam really hates waking up in hospitals. They smell foul and the light hurts his usually concussed head. He is propped up on his side to keep off the wounds on his back and his recently liberated arm is wrapped and immobilized to his chest once more. But when he opens his eyes, Dean is in his sight line, haggard, but relieved.
“Sammy,” Dean breathes once he has established that Sam is truly aware of his surroundings.
“How long?” Sam groans.
“It’s been four days. And dude, I have no idea what happened. I woke up and you were down for the count. The Monster was ganked. Most of the houses in the area were burning, a child’s body at the centre of each fire. You aren’t even that badly hurt, although you broke your current record for number of stitches at one time. But you should have woken up long before now. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was going on.” Dean tries to keep his voice light but Sam can see the worry in his eyes. “What happened?”
“I don’t really know. That thing had some kind of mind control. It took you over and made you do the dirty work. Then there was a bright light. I didn’t see where it came from. It burnt it out and I passed out.” Sam says slowly. “I think it was some kind of demon. It mentioned Crowley but it had green eyes. I’ve never seen a green-eyed demon.”
“Shit, Sammy,” Dean's face pales. “Did I do this to you?”
“No,” Sam pauses. Dean opens his mouth to say something, probably an apology, but Sam cuts him off. “No, Dean. It wasn't you. You would never hurt me.”
Dean tries to speak but the words won’t come. Finally, he manages to begin. “Why do you think I was vulnerable? I mean...I was a demon. Do you think that had something to…”
“No, Dean,” Sam interrupts again. “It told me what it had done. It controlled some of the parents too and unless you think they all were former demons, I think you can rule that out.”
“Then why? Why could you resist and I couldn't? You don't really have the best track record with demons…” Dean trails off as Sam shoots him an exasperated look.
“This is going to sound dumb, but I think it was the salad. I'd have to look up the effects of some of the other ingredients but for sure the sage is used for purification and protection,” Sam grins.
“Huh,” Dean frowns. “I guess the rabbit food has to be good for something.”
“Does that mean you’ll get the salad next time?” Sam teases.
“God, no,” Dean shudders. “I think I’d rather have the herbs in suppository form. I’m not letting that shit anywhere near my taste buds.”
“Gross, Dean,” Sam pulls a truly memorable bitch face. “I could probably mix some of them into raw hamburger once I figured out the combination...unless you really want to shove sage up your ass.”
“Find a hot enough chick to do it and I wouldn’t say no,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows lewdly.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that will go over well. ‘Hey, my name is Dean. Want to perform mutually enjoyable adult activities and also shove this gigantic green pill into my asshole?’” Sam jeers.
“Geez, Sammy, no wonder you can’t get laid if that’s the type of line you use,” Dean smirks as Sam yawns.
“Dean, I’ve heard the types of lines you use. That one would probably improve your game,” Sam yawns again, wider.
“Well I’ll...improve your game,” Dean shoots back.
Sam tries hard to keep his eyes open to laugh at the look on his brother’s face but he is fighting a losing battle. He feels tentative fingers brush the hair back from his forehead. He pulls his eyes open once more and is shocked by the naked pain on Dean’s face. “It really wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs.
“Even if I wasn’t in control, your blood is still on my hands,” Dean whispers, suddenly unable to look his brother in the eye.
“If you plan on beating yourself up about this, I’m gonna have to go back to feeling guilty for the things I’ve done while possessed or soulless,” Sam tries to glare up at his brother.
Dean grips Sam’s hand hard. “You know I can’t disagree with you when you’re looking up at me like a sad, sleepy puppy,” he says softly.
“My evil plan…” Sam’s jaw cracks as he yawns again. “...worked.”
Dean goes back to running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Sleep, Sammy,” he whispers. And Sam does.
Tomorrow they will be back on the road. Tomorrow, Sam will sit gingerly in the passenger seat of the Impala and Dean will crack terrible jokes and accuse his brother of being a wimp, all the while avoiding all the potholes to give his brother the smoothest ride possible. And tomorrow Sam will look at his brother and wonder if the mark of Cain is changing him. He will remember the words of the demon and he will pray to whoever is listening that Dean never gives in because Dean will never survive his brother’s death. Sam will remember the light that destroyed the demons and wonder if it came from within and if yet another foreign power has begun to make its home in his body without his consent. But perhaps he won’t search too deeply if it will give him the chance to defeat the evil that mars his brother’s skin.
And tomorrow there will be words spoken in anger and thoughtless actions. There will be misunderstandings and, because they are the Winchesters, there will be lies.
But today they have this, a small hospital room with a pale but healing little brother, a big brother finally heaving a sigh of relief, and a win, no matter how it was earned. And for today, that is enough. They are enough.
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