Work Text:
They're monitoring my subconscious massacres, I know
Bringing it closer to the surface so it's easily pervertible
-Gallery Piece, Of Montreal
The only reason Sam’s upright instead of collapsed on the floor is because Dean’s got him pinned to the wall, so really, he ought to be grateful. Then again, it was Dean who broke his legs in the first place, so on second thought, maybe not.
Two swift strikes from that hammer were all it took to fully incapacitate him. Legs useless, already down an arm, and now, eyeing the weapon in his brother’s spare hand, the one not pressing hard into his chest, he’s not exactly keen to attempt to fight back and risk the other.
(He’d thought it was ridiculous, at first. That hammer - like something out of a bad horror flick. Not anymore.)
The pain is unbearable. Throbbing and sharp, blindingly hot. He can feel both knees swelling rapidly, jeans growing tight around the joints, and there’s a grinding sensation between the bones like pebbles in a food processor. Every agony flares up tenfold when he moves even an inch, which hasn’t at all eluded Dean, who takes plenty of pleasure in jostling him every time it seems Sam’s face starts to settle, or his breathing finds its rhythm.
But any pain pales against looking into his brother’s dark eyes and seeing that unfiltered vitriol, that sadistic glee. The worst part is, he can’t even say there’s nothing of his brother in that look, no matter how badly he wants to. This isn’t possession; he’s not a different man. That’s Dean, through and through - only twisted, amplified, uninhibited.
Sam winces, just a fraction, as Dean throws and catches the hammer, testing its weight. His eyes flick down to his hand, note the veins bulging, his grip hard and tight. He imagines, under his sleeve, the mark burning brighter, skin bubbling from the heat of it.
Of course, Dean notices this. How could he not? They’re face-to-face, inches apart. He can smell the sour, yeasty tang of beer on Dean’s breath, can see the smear of blood on his grinning teeth from when, six doses in, he bit his tongue amidst wild thrashing and cursing.
It only makes him grin brighter.
“You know,” he says, voice low, cruelly casual. It’s a tone better suited for decompressing over a couple of beers in the back of a shitty dive. “I’m really gonna enjoy this.”
“Dean,” he tries, voice a careful, measured calm. It’s hard to manage. Reasoning with him, trying to appeal to whatever scraps of humanity might still be left in that corrupted soul, is futile. This, he already knows. But shit, he has to try something. “Come on. You don’t want to do this. We can- If you just let me-”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I want.” His voice darkens, all good humour, all pretence of ease, now completely void. He grips tighter, leans closer, his breath hot on Sam’s ear. For a brief moment, Sam’s afraid he’ll bite it off. Rabid, like a beaten dog. “As if you care. As if you’ve ever cared what I want.”
He draws back and lifts the hammer, begins slowly trailing the claws along his face. Not quite so hard to hurt, to tear skin, but not exactly gentle, either. That strange in-between, like tucking in a child’s blanket a touch too tight, or the kind of hug two kids are forced to give each other after an argument that neither has truly forgiven. The metal is smooth and heavy and cold, and cold, and- something about this feels so familiar.
“I’ve already told you. Over and over… I want this.”
Dean drags it down further, takes His time. It slithers past his eye, far too close; grazes the bone above his too-hollow cheeks. Then lower, hooking onto his bottom lip and pulling it down to expose grit-tight teeth. Twin daggers digging into soft flesh like snakebites, holding it taut. He’s so sick of hooks.
It’s gone so chilly. Icy sharp. All his skin is gooseflesh: prickly, raised, prime for peeling - like he’s allergic to the air. Was it this cold before? Has it always been? That doesn’t- There’s something not quite right about that, he thinks, but he’s not sure why.
And something hurts. Hot and cold, bright and dim. Something about pebbles, somehow. He can’t pinpoint where; it might be everywhere, probably is.
He should… he should smile, right? That’s what He wants. Always wanted. Come on, Sam, show me them pearly whites I love so much. Show them off, prove he’s enjoying it, complacent, and if he’s lucky, He will only tear them out, one by one. Smash them in. If not, then-
Someone’s saying something. Speaking to him, maybe. But it’s - hazy, indistinct. Can’t hear over the distant creaking of age-old iron, the broken bells and lonely choir, the relentless pounding of his heart as that forked tongue runs over his shattered, chattering teeth.
Could it be Adam? Is he begging again? Cursing God, fate, the no-good half-brother who damned him? He hasn’t heard anything from him in- in… but who else could it be?
Whoever it is, whatever they’re saying, it doesn’t matter. He’s not meant to pay any attention to anyone else. He’s the only thing that matters in here; for all of eternity, it’s only ever Sam and-
Crack. Something smashes beside his ear, and the world becomes clear. Too much, too bright, too sudden - but real. There’s a difference; Dean taught him that.
Instinctively, he turns his head to the right - marvels in the fact that he can do that, he can, because it’s not… - and there in the corner of his vision, the source of the sound, his liberator: shattered tile, glinting; a hammer, wedged deep.
Again, he considers gratitude.
Inside, he’s a mess: chest flipping, head rushing, acid rising. The air feels too thin, insubstantial. Lungs left half inflated and desperate. His palms are slick with sweat and jerking, blindly searching for a weapon that’s halfway across the floor, unreachable. His own fault. How fucking stupid.
Still, even now, his lips are twitching upwards. All muscle memory. And he’d feel shame if there were time for it, but Dean’s already talking.
“You think I didn’t see what was happening there? You checking out like that?” He dislodges the hammer. “You’re not with him, Sammy. This is all me.”
That’s not a reassurance. That’s a threat.
Dean readjusts his grip, taking his hand from chest to throat, clamping tight and angling his head forward. He’s unsure whether the effort it takes to keep from crying out is worth it, considering what’s coming next. There’s no choice now but to look right into his eyes. They’re forest green, bright, cloudless. Same eyes he’s known all his life.
“I want you to remember that.” Dean raises the hammer high, poised to strike. He looks so proud. “That this is all me.”
Without hesitation, without remorse - oh, God, no, stop, that’s his brother - he swings it down and-
The angle’s all wrong.
His eyes are heavy, sleep-gooey. He thinks of an antique cabinet in a forgotten room. Like a thick dust blanket has settled over them and weighed them down for years and years. How long they were shut, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think it was years and years, but he can’t think very much of anything right now for whatever reason. Can’t say why they were shut either. Maybe it has something to do with - ouch - why his head hurts so damn bad.
Everything is all grainy. Like there’s a swarm of those little flies- what are they called? Midges. Yeah. Or no-see-ums - Dad used to call them that, he thinks. Someone did. Anyway, a swarm of those just buzzing about right in front of his face.
Or, no, like, uh… like the picture of an old TV - the boxy kind, with dials and an antenna. Bobby used to have one like that, and he’d sit right up close, face to the screen, even though Dean told him his eyes’d go square, and he’d see every little pixel, every grain. Just like that.
But that’s not the point. The point is, the angle’s all wrong. Focus.
He’s on the floor; that’s why. Wasn’t before, he’s sure, but now he is. The corridor - so that’s where he is (but why was he sleeping in the corridor?) - is slanted now, flipped sideways, world gone vertical to horizontal. His body’s lying down on its side, twitching, aching. Ow. One cheek is smushed on a concrete pillow, the other facing the sky. Ceiling.
And before him, big boots crunching over scattered shards of blue.
Right. The wall, the hammer, the eyes. A hand on his throat and a knock to his head. It all makes sense now. Well, most of it does, kind of.
Everything is sticky: the floor, his head, his thoughts. He flicks his eyes down to the ground, ouch, fuck, and sees beneath him a pool of blood, thick and clumpy. Way too much, like, an absurd amount. Hard to believe there was ever that much in there. Hard to believe he’s awake now that it’s not.
Dean’s laughing. He has been for a while now. Laughing hard. A real belly laugh, breathless. Like, there’s something real funny going on, but Sam can’t figure out what. Nothing about this feels funny. Floaty, yeah, and dizzy, spinny, but mostly bad.
He should tell him that. He should, he tries. But the words are too slippery, oil-slick and wriggling, and his head is all jumbled up, and his mouth isn’t working right. So his Please, this isn’t funny, no, please, it hurts, I don’t understand sounds a lot more like puh, puh, pleassse and ‘s nuh, ‘snot funny, all mixed in with these nasty gasps and whimpers and sobs he doesn’t mean to make.
“Listen to you,” Dean says, full of mirth, voice so distant it’s like they’re on opposite ends of a tunnel. Worlds apart. “Babbling like a baby. Takes me back.”
He crouches down, knees replacing boots. His jeans become saturated in seconds, bloodied, ruined. They were his favourites, too. At least his shirt was already red.
The hammer is still in his hand, also bloodied, but it’s older, gone tacky. A few stray hairs - his hairs, so he guesses they haven’t exactly strayed very far - are stuck to the face of it, swaying gently as he lowers. A little like leaves in the fall, or that sundress of Jess’ - the lacy white one with the little pink flowers (or were they blue? And was that even Jess?) - blowing in the breeze. He’d rather think of that. Be there.
(He might soon. Depends on where he’s gonna end up at the end. He doesn’t feel so sure about his chances, but God, please, let it be there.)
“Your first steps were towards me, you know. Little Sammy. Stubby legs in a motel room.” A hand comes to rest in his hair. The good side, not the open one. The other adjusts his grip on the hammer, again and again and again. Just hurry it up. “Be funny if your last were away… but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen, huh?”
All he can taste is copper and acid. Pennies and batteries. Everything is going dim, the grain getting worse, more flies, square eyes, but that hand feels so crisp, so clear. He can feel the thrum inside Dean through his palm; that agitation, that need. Pulsing and pulsing, building up. So why is he- why hasn’t he-
Then there’s a noise - a thumping, fast and heavy, desperate. Vibrations on the floor, brain rocking. Someone shouts - far away, then closer, then too close - and it makes his ears ring. One note violin, screeching. He closed his eyes at some point. Let the dust resettle. He can’t remember when, can’t tell what’s going on, but he does feel when his head goes lighter, colder. No more thrum. And he knows he’s all alone.
Alone for a while. Just him and the dark and the empty and the pain, and is this it?
But it isn’t, for better or worse. Because now there’s a hand forcing open his eyelids.
The touch is softer, but not nicer. It’s emotionless, practical, clinical; nothing behind it. No thrum. Somehow, the other touch felt better, even though it hurt. Wasn’t right. This feels more like he’s at the doctor's or something. Always hated the hospital, ‘specially after Dad. Preferred when Dean’d stitch him up, wrap him in band-aids, make him all better again.
Was that the problem? Did he want too much? Suck the life out of his life?
His eye, open, can’t focus for shit. Looking hurts. Feels like a knife twisting inside, scooping, severing connections. Not an exaggeration, either. He knows how that feels. But. But he does see blue. Holy light, bright and good.
Must be an angel. A nice one, like the ones he used to pray for. He tries to smile but finds he already is. Still is. Twitchy and embarrassing, and now there’s time for it, shameful.
When It speaks, It sounds like a backcountry road; all gravel. “Can you hear me, Sam?”
That’s his name: Sam. One of them, at least. He’s sure he’s been called another at some point - a few more, even - but this one sounds the most right. His alone.
Yes, he wants to say, but can only groan, wheeze. Which is rude. It isn’t fair on the angel who came all this way just for him, and he thinks if he could see anything but electric blue and far-off flames, It would be frowning. Tight lips, furrowed brow.
There’s a sigh - whoever knew angels sighed? - and then: “Look, I can… I’m going to heal you, okay, Sam? I’m sorry this ever happened.”
And that’s- No. Not okay, actually. He doesn't want that.
Not a whole lot makes sense right now, but he knows that heal means… heal means he’s gotta keep going. Means that he’s gotta get through another however many years pretending this didn’t happen. Means he’s gotta sit in the car next to him and eat breakfast beside him and fix this whole mess because we don't get to quit in this family.
This, right now, is bad, real bad. Terrifying and painful and demeaning. But God, it’s better than that. He can’t. Please. He’s already well past his due date. Brain dried up, soul overripe. Just let it end here.
The fingers prying open his eyelids are gone, and he wants so badly to close them, sink into the soft dark and let himself sleep, just for a little, just rest his eyes. But he doesn’t. Can’t. Because he needs to get away. Needs to. Can’t let It do this to him.
His head is heavy, full of stones and bullets and wrought iron. Lifting it hurts, makes the world white, cage-bright, and he thinks he screams, hears it far away - but he gets it done. Just about. Half an inch, maybe, though he reckons that’s good enough, all things considered.
He swings a lazy arm over, in front, and tries to pull the ground towards him. Army crawl the best he can with one working limb. Dad taught him how to do that - well, with all four - back when he was eight- no, uh, seven. Seven. Before he even knew why Dad wanted him to learn.
Only he can’t get very far at all. He’s too weak, too tired, and the rest of his body is uncooperative, deadweight. His brain- what’s left of it - wills, begs, his broken legs to move, get going, but they won’t listen. And his hand keeps slipping, too. Can’t get a good grip, not on a floor so covered in his fluids: blood and bile and snot and tears and piss. Insides gone out.
He's… everywhere. Made a mess.
The angel catches up so easily. It’s not fair. Felt like hours, years, but he only counts two steps before It gets to him. One, two. Did he even move at all?
It reaches It’s hands towards his head, and he can’t- no. Stop. Please. But his mouth is clumsy, drooling and dripping, and the no keeps dying on his tongue, no matter how hard he tries, like so many times before. Lost somewhere in between. Locked in his throat. (Yes is final, He had said. You’ve got no use for no; it doesn’t mean a thing anymore.)
“This will be over soon,” It says, but it’s wrong. Lying. He should be thankful, he knows - an angel, healing hands, here for him! - but this touch isn’t mercy, isn’t salvation, it just means more.
It lays It’s hands on his temples, one on either side. He feels Its fingers go in, graze the grey stuff. Doesn’t even hurt anymore, just numb, dull. So very nearly there.
There’s a sudden wave of cool air, a strange stitching sensation all over, tiny needles and thread, and then - perfect clarity. Once again, high definition.
Cas offers a hand, and he takes it, rises to his feet, no effort required at all. Barely even a thought. Breathing is easier now, too - by a margin. Still tight, just in a different way. He raises a hand to his head - bloody, all the same, but no longer concave, leaking. (It’ll take weeks to wash all this mess from his hair. He’s not looking forward to it.)
He’s done a fine job patching him up. No marks, no bruises. Head whole, good as new, factory standard. All that’s left are minor aches and pains, the dull throbbing of an oncoming migraine, and the evidence on the floor.
And the memory, too - which he finds counts for a lot.
Cas asks if he’s alright, and he says, “Yeah. Yeah, fine. Uh, thanks.”
Even though alright feels like more than a stretch, and he can still feel phantom fingers suturing his scalp. Even though Cas’ hand - now on his shoulder, there to keep him steady despite the fact that he doesn’t need it - is putting him on edge, filling him with that same need to run, escape, get away. But it still feels good to have his words back, even if he doesn’t mean them.
Anyway. No need to linger on that. No time, even. Because he has a job to finish.
There’s a brother to save, a mark to cure, and two holes in the wall to fix.