SPN Gen Fic: Dark, Yet Lovely 4/5
Mar. 10th, 2009 06:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
superbadgirlTitle: Dark, Yet Lovely
Category: Angst, AU by default
Season/Spoiler: S4, prior to 4.12 Criss Angel is a Douchebag
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4522 this chapter, roughly 20300 total.
Summary: Dean thinks something is killing people in a small Iowa town and surrounding areas, and his need for redemption brings him and an unenthusiastic Sam to the hunt.
1 2 3
It was as if he were a guest in his own body. Sam wanted to fight more than anything, but he could not make himself move in anything but weak thrashes. He experienced everything in a thick fog. Half of the time it was all muted into dull sounds and cool touches, but the other half … the other half of the time it was all too sharp and real. He was too confused to know which was worse, fading out or fading in. The darkness couldn’t be good, but resurfacing only brought him bewildered horror and cold, cold, it was so cold. Sam blinked, eyelids barely coming back up again.
The fine crack on the ceiling. The smell of blood and saliva thick in the air. The chill of exposed skin in an unheated room. The sound of the succubus’ contented moans. The sharp prick of teeth and the unnatural flush of heat that coursed through him, always growing weaker.
In these moments of awareness, Sam became certain almost right away that it would be better to stay trapped in the dark where he didn’t have to know what was happening to him. If he didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt and he wouldn’t have to think about what it would do to Dean. Dean. Thinking of his brother was where he always truly woke up and stayed that way for any length of time. He couldn’t leave Dean simply because the darkness was so compelling. It was an easy out and somewhere deep down he knew that. Sometimes he wanted the easy way out. That was partly what had landed him here. Right.
But where was he? What…
“Mmm.”
Oh, nononono.
The thing was on top of him again, if she had ever left. He didn’t know where she went when he passed out. He was passed out more than not. She hummed softly as she nuzzled his neck. It sounded like a lullaby. Despite the nakedness, what she was doing wasn’t really sexual. Sam hazily thought the idea was to strip him until he was as vulnerable as a newborn. No more, no less, except the fact she was sucking on his collarbone might be … unh. Nuh. Sharp. God, no, this couldn’t happen. A swell of defiance went through him, too weak to be of much good. He was forever going to be too little, too late.
“Ow,” Sam moved, feebly trying to push himself away. His arms were weak, as if muscle had turned to water. His throat was thick and sore with dread. “No, no.”
“Shhh,” the thing whispered. She abandoned his collarbone, taking his face in her hands and brushing her fingers through his hair. Her movements were almost motherly. Except the scent of his blood was strong on her breath. “It won’t be long now. You’re so beautiful. So sweet and dark.”
The lack of obvious malice from the creature confused Sam. Or maybe it was the blood loss that made him so befuddled. A low drone compromised his hearing, like a bee was buzzing around his head. In his ears. It took him longer than it should have to realize it was the sound of his own voice as he groaned.
“Nonono,” he moaned, a string of denial. All he could say or do now.
Sam’s eyes rolled up in his head as he struggled to focus. Darkness tempted him as always, pulling him under as always too. He dreamed of Dean, remembered his brother shouting at him on the phone in desperate fear and it snapped him to the awful present again. Where was he? Everything was fuzzier when he tiptoed so close to giving in. No, no. Dean would find him. But he didn’t know where was. Dean couldn’t find him. It was too late. He had to get away. Phone. He had to call Dean.
He shoved at the creature, god he didn’t even know what it was, vampire, succubus? She fell back an inch, but only because she was caught off guard by his resistance. The reprieve was temporary, her weight pinning him far too easily after just a moment.
“Shhh, now. Sleep for a while. Don’t fight.”
Sam wanted rest more than he wanted to get away or see his brother again. His mind was suddenly filled only with thoughts of sleep and the creature, how she loved him and wanted him to stay with her and be a good, good, good boy. She cooed to him and told him to relax and she wasn’t going to hurt him. It was true. It didn’t hurt, except an occasional prick to his skin and shudder of cold. She kissed his right temple, almost tenderly. Blackness danced at the edge of his blurry vision. Sam floated back to oblivion, relief and shame following him.
He was under for minutes. For hours. Days. Darkness had no means to measure time. It was an eternity.
Sam didn’t know what roused him, only that he came to gasping for breath and flailing without any real strength. His heart raced, working hard to pump what blood he had left in his veins to his limbs. The pieces fell back into place slowly, his brain more sluggish than ever. This wasn’t right. The others hadn’t died of blood loss. No bite marks. Sam tried to sit, but drooped. A sudden, loud screech split the air like the crack in the ceiling threatened to break it apart.
The woman-creature stood above him, her face beautiful but twisted into an enraged mask. He knew, then, what had ripped him from blessed nothing. Fear pumped through him, made his skin tingle and he knew with rare clarity where he was and what was happening. This was it, it was over for him and Dean, Dean, Dean wasn’t there. Instinct that had been buried by this creature’s inexplicable thrall or by his promise to Dean came out of him. He raised his hand just barely off the bed and concentrated his scattered thoughts, willing the succubus away from him. Banish it to Hell. To rest. God, he was tired.
For a second, he believed it was actually working. She stayed in one place, glaring at him with none of the contradictory softness she always had before. If Sam would have thought about it, though, if his brain were actually functioning as it should, he would have known he had no chance of winning by using his psychic abilities. She wasn’t a demon. All he succeeded in doing was taxing his already broken system. His arm shook and fell. He closed his eyes and waited. It went against everything in him, except everything in him had been carved out and he was left a fraction of himself. Inside, there was almost nothing. It had happened so quickly he hadn’t even realized. It had taken forever.
He hoped it would be fast now, no longer an endless game of cat toying with mouse.
But after a moment, still nothing happened. Sam cracked his eyes open, squinting at the succubus. She blinked out, then back in again. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if it was real. He shook his head faintly. The creature let out another shrill cry, leaning so close to him he could not help but see the fury in her eyes. He shrank deeper into the mattress, expecting the worst, a meaningless death.
And then she shimmered, blinking out and in and with a piercing shriek, out again. She stayed gone.
Sam stared at the vacant space the creature had occupied, not sure if he could trust his eyes to tell him the truth. He wasn’t sure if he’d recognize the truth under normal circumstances, but his head, his head was fuzzy. His life was a lie before he got kidnapped by a blood-sucking succubus vampire thing, after all, filled with all the things he was supposed to do and none of what he wanted. He lay there, breath coming in small pants, watching for the succubus to return. He didn’t know how long he stayed that way. He thought maybe he passed out once, confusion heavy. Maybe twice. He felt stronger the longer he stayed still. Good, that was good.
Now. Now he had to get out while he had the chance. Find Dean. Kill that bitch. This one, then Lilith. Phone. He had to get to the phone and get Dean. Or Ruby, Ruby would help him, but he wanted his brother. Sam rolled onto his side and doing so tapped most of his energy. Black spots skittered in across his field of vision, but no creature. It was okay. Okay, okay. He took several shallow gulps of air, shaking with cold and exertion. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet thudded to the floor like cement blocks. He was never going to make it, make it, he had to get out. He sat up, sliding off the bed a millisecond later, his muscles useless.
He lay in a crumpled, naked heap, resting to regain what strength wasn’t oozing out of him into the cold wood floor. Sam saw fuzzy blue right in front of his face, his hands reaching for it automatically. Jeans. His? No clothes on. God, he needed to get dressed. Cold. Where was he? What was he doing? Phone. He had to get out. Dean, Dean. He could to this. He pulled the jeans close, the denim rough against his skin, but warm. Warm. Sleep. No, no. He had to pull it together now, to … what was he supposed to do? Think, think. Phone. Dean. Help.
Half-crawling, half-sliding, Sam searched for his cell. It had to be here, he never left home without it. His fingers bumped into it before his eyes registered the black shape on the floor right next to him. He had the phone to his ringing ear before he thought it through. Couldn’t think. Had to get away.
“Dean, help,” he whispered into it. “It’s dark here.”
Then he realized the cell was in a hundred pieces and all he had in his numb hand was the faceplate. Sam didn’t know how it had happened. He stared at the broken phone in perplexity, finally remembered the creature had taken it from him, smashed it. Severed his ties to Dean. To help. Coming here with her had been a bad decision. No, he hadn’t. Not a decision. Too late. He couldn’t have helped it. Where was he? Crack on the ceiling. Oh. The thing could come back. He had to get away from her. Find Dean. Dean used to know what to do. Maybe he still did. Sam couldn’t think straight.
It took him forever to get his legs into the jeans. His fingers wouldn’t work the buttons or the belt. Cold, it was cold. He needed a jacket. Found a lump of soft material. Shirt. He put it on, fading into semi-consciousness once his arms were tucked in flannel. Savoring the warmth, Sam closed his eyes and rested. When he opened them back up, he was wracked with shivers again. The room was darker. It was always darker. Wait, where was he? He should know.
Sam rolled to his side and onto one elbow, trembling there like a strong wind was trying to blow him over. He squinted into the dimness of the room, not recognizing anything. Bed.
A nightstand he leaned against for support. A massive shape draped in a light sheet, looking like a child’s play of a ghost. Not the motel. He had to pull it together. He got to his hands and knees and began to crawl toward a shadowed rectangle shape on the far wall, hoping it was a door. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he shouldn’t have come. Dark, dangerous dark path.
He made it to the door, pressing against it for a minute or twelve. Sam didn’t remember why he was so weak. He scratched his collarbone and his fingers came away with blackish flecks on them. Oh. What. He knew only one thing, and that was he needed to go away from here. He crawled down a corridor. House, someone’s home. His head smashed into a half-circle table set against a wall, covered in a drape. Not someone’s home anymore. He shook his head. Not important. Sam’s jeans kept falling down, but he couldn’t get his hands to work right to button them.
He moved slowly, vision blurring and graying out in a tunnel. Ice in his veins, so cold. Blind, deaf, dumb. Sam didn’t know where he was, but he crawled. He was sure he was going the right way, until suddenly the floor wasn’t there anymore and he was falling into a black hole. He tumbled, hitting obstructions all the way. Stairs, he thought when he landed at the bottom of them.
Sam couldn’t move anymore. He didn’t want to. He curled into a protective ball and let unconsciousness take him all the way to the dark. He couldn’t even find it in him to care. In fact, he wanted it.
&-&-&
The air was icy against his sweat-slicked skin and his lungs burned, but Dean continued at a frenzied pace. He was trying not to keep a mental tally on how long it was taking, refused to think about how long it had taken him just to find Asha Watkins’ gravesite in the first place. Part of the problem had been panic. He admitted that, and that panic still coursed through him, making his actions inefficient. He was breaking his back digging into hard earth, and it was slow going in spite of his desperation.
Dean was counting on the churel coming to him when he began with the various banishment rituals, which was why he had to dig and then hit the non-invasive techniques first, in case he needed to move onto the more up close and personal ones quickly. He knew he shouldn’t pin all his hopes on it, but if he could draw it to him maybe he could get some answers. Maybe he could find Sam before it was too late. If it wasn’t already. He tossed a heavy blade full of dirt out, gasping from the effort. On the next downswing, the shovel finally hit something solid.
Scraping the rest of the soil off the casket hurriedly, he threw the shovel out and clambered up after it. Dean examined his supplies. He went for the iron nails first, pounding them into each corner of the exhumed grave to see what happened. Nothing. Not a hint of anything supernatural. The hope he had that it would be like pricking the churel’s spirit with needles, irritating it enough to come focus on him, not Sam, started fading. He didn’t slow down, thought. He couldn’t. He tossed mustard seeds and more nails into the hole, still gaining no reaction.
“Damnit, why can’t this ever be fucking easy?” he muttered and began a standard exorcism.
As he finished, a stiff breeze howled through the cemetery. That could mean the exorcism had worked, but the wind didn’t sound inhuman and Dean couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t take the chance. He wished to hell a salt-and-burn would have been on the list. Instead, he jumped back onto the casket, pulling the lid open awkwardly, sharing space with the still-too-fresh corpse.
“Oh, god.” Dean choked back his disgust.
With Sammy, you stay alive in his head, almost the same mantra he’d uttered for thirty endless years in Hell, he picked up some of the strewn nails and pierced the nails on the thumbs and forefingers on both hands of the body. One second he was hunched over Asha Watkins’ dead body, and the next he was in the air. He smashed into a headstone, lower back throbbing instantly from the hit. He rolled onto his hands and knees, looking around blindly. He couldn’t see anything, but didn’t doubt the churel was there with him now. Cautiously, he edged back toward the grave. It had to mean he was on the right track with the banishment techniques.
This time the wail that filled the cemetery wasn’t natural, a drawn out noooooooo. It might have been in his imagination, his ears ringing, except for the appearance of a dark-haired woman wearing a red sari standing at the foot of the open grave. Dean blinked, and she was right next to him with wild, dark eyes and flaring nostrils. Before he could pull out a weapon – iron blade, iron-loaded revolver, whatever – she launched him in the air again. The back of his head cracked against a headstone this time, and for a second he couldn’t see clearly. But then he could and he didn’t like it.
“You can’t have him back,” the churel said, leaning over him with a snarl. “He’s mine, hunter.”
His head cleared instantly. Like hell he is, lady, Dean thought. He pulled out the revolver and got off a lucky shot before she could attack. The very solid ghost disappeared with an angry screech. He didn’t have much time. He scrambled for the grave, clumsily grabbing the iron rings he’d laid out. By the time he got himself situated in the casket at the corpse’s feet, the churel was back from wherever she’d gone. To Sam, probably. He bound the toes of Asha Watkins’ right foot with one of the iron rings. The churel snapped at him, claws literally out and dragging down the side of his neck.
She flashed away though, weaker, like she was almost stuck at the grave. Dean didn’t want to think about anything but ending this, getting the churel away from Sam, Sam, Sammy, you stay alive. He put a second iron ring around the toes of the body’s left foot, bringing the dispossessed spirit to him. It stood in its own place of supposed repose, flickering like a flame about to go out. If he didn’t need her to tell him something, he’d have extinguished her already.
“Where is my brother?” Dean asked, voice rough and weak.
“It is too late for him,” the churel said with a sneer. “He was beautiful, but not enough. I am still as empty as my home.”
Was? It felt like his stomach plummeted to his feet. No, the thing was lying. Dean grabbed the shovel, raising it above the corpse’s legs, just above the ankles.
“Tell me where he is right now and I’ll let you live to suck another day.”
The churel shook her head, sluggish now as it lunged for him.
“Fine.” Dean brought the blade of the shovel down on the legs, sickened by the brutal scrape of bone. The legs didn’t break, his arms too weak from digging and fighting. “Have it your way.”
“Noooooo!” The churel fell to her knees as if in agony, reaching for him in supplication or aggression. “I only wanted my home, my husband, my child.”
“I feel for you,” Dean said, not meaning it. He knew that once perhaps he could have mustered sympathy for this tainted spirit, but that time was long gone. “Go to Hell.”
Using more force than the first attempt, he shattered the corpses’ legs. It was the final blow. The churel vanished with a scream and a burst of light and Dean was left there, leaning on the dirt wall of the hole, trying not to puke from the heartache. Sam was out there somewhere right now, and Dean had just eliminated the only way he had to find him. He put his forehead on cold earth, getting his breathing under control. He’d let this happen and he couldn’t fix it now. It was too late. Hand shaking, he withdrew his flask and drained it. No amount of alcohol would help anyway.
He stood there for a few minutes, unsure what he was supposed to do. He wracked his brain for any remote idea where Sam could be. The other victims had been all over the place, had wandered away without seeming to know they were dooming themselves. His gut told him Sam was different, a break in pattern. Because of what he was.
He pulled himself from the hole, looking back down at the broken remains. They looked like he felt, a mess of bones and rotting flesh. Nudging the lid of the casket with his foot, Dean jumped slightly as it slammed shut with finality. He had to get home, regroup. He could still find Sam. He had to.
“Home,” Dean said aloud, a crazy idea taking root.
It was all he had, and it was a long shot. He left the gaping hole in the ground, taking off for the car at an uneven run. His head and back ached, tension on top of bruises. Dean gunned it, driving too fast for city limits back to the motel. He burst into their room and headed straight for the police files, shuffling through the Watkins folder. Vince Watkins had died in his home, the one his wife’s spirit wanted to regain. It would be too easy for it to be true, but he had no other ideas and his brother had to be there and alive. He found the address and was on his phone surfing for directions in less than a minute.
In the quiet of the early morning, the Impala’s growl was loud as Dean pulled in front of the empty home. There was a tattered, snow-buried for sale sign in the yard, the house still on the market after nearly two years. His heart raced as he cut the engine and ran up the sidewalk, no real thought for stealth. He tried the front door first, finding it locked. He could kick it open, but decided he didn’t need the risk of a neighbor seeing him bust in. The car had probably already woken someone as it was. One side of the house was sheltered by a couple of trees, so he circled around that way in search of a low window to jimmy.
Two minutes later, he stood inside the kitchen. As he moved through it, Dean was surprised the house was still almost fully furnished, old sheets covering the furniture and anything of real value like electronics gone. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it was out, and he guessed whoever had control of the property kept the heat on only high enough to prevent frozen pipes or something. If Sam were trapped in here, he’d probably be well on his way to hypothermic by now. If he were still alive.
Dean resisted the urge to yell his brother’s name, hastily searching every room he came across, squinting into empty closets, bathrooms, a den. He didn’t have a flashlight on him. He’d been too preoccupied with finding Sa…
“Sam,” he hissed, rushing forward to the foot of the stairs situated just off the foyer, the body-sized shape there. Oh, god. “Sammy.”
Dean fell to his knees beside Sam’s crumpled, unmoving frame. Reaching, he carefully turned Sam just enough to get a cold hand to his brother’s neck. He tried not to focus on how pale Sam was, how there was no reaction at all. He pressed his fingers against Sam’s carotid, seeking a pulse. He couldn’t feel anything. Cursing, he withdrew his hand as if it were on fire instead of freezing, shaking it to get his own blood flowing to his swollen, cold fingers. He tried again to find a pulse, at the same time leaning down to gauge Sam’s breathing.
Sam was breathing, shallowly, and there was a pulse.
Relief inundated him, and for a second he allowed himself to feel only that. Then Dean took stock of his little brother, frowning at the disarray of clothing, the gray tinge to Sam’s skin he could see even in the dim light. The dried blood on his bare chest was nearly black. Growling angrily, Dean inspected Sam for wounds and couldn’t find a single one. It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. He pulled Sam’s shirt closed and tugged off his jacket, draping it over Sam in a futile attempt to get his brother warm.
“Sam,” he said, giving Sam a gentle slap. “Hey, you need to help me out here. Wake up, man, I can’t carry your ass.”
He got no reaction, not even a groan. He slapped Sam harder.
“Sam, come on.”
He needed to get Sam out of here now, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage it. The front door was right there, but he’d still have to get them both down the sidewalk and into the car. His back was bruised from the cemetery toss, his head throbbed, and his muscles felt like jelly from relief. His gut was filled with rabid butterflies, because deep down he knew Sam wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. He shoved aside any doubts he had about his physical ability to handle his brother. If he had to carry the heavy weight on his shoulders, then he would simply do it. There was no choice in the matter. He couldn’t let Sam stay in this dark place another minute. It would kill him.
He manhandled Sam’s arms through the sleeves of his jacket, not wanting his brother to lose the protective warmth when he picked him up in a fireman’s carry. Dean grimaced and secured the top button of Sam’s jeans. He took a deep breath and headed for the door, opening it so he’d have one less obstacle to traverse with Sam slung over his shoulder.
As the door opened, a light shone directly in his eyes, followed closely by a, “Don’t move, son.”
The tone was authoritative and annoyingly familiar. Someone had called the goddamned cops after all. Dean took an involuntary step back, more to protect Sam than himself, raising his hands. He didn’t have time for this bullshit.
“Please, you don’t understand. My brother,” Dean said, finding he did not have to bluff his way into a pleading tone. He thumbed toward Sam, and the bright flashlight bobbed off of him for a second. “Someone took him. I found him here.”
“Damn,” the still-faceless deputy whispered. “He looks dead.”
“He’s not dead.” Dean glared at the shadowy figure in the door, scuttling to Sam’s side and crouching down. “But I can’t get him to wake up.”
“It’s okay, son, I believe you. We can help you.” The deputy took a step into the house, no longer in an offensive pose. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with him so I can relay it to the dispatcher?”
He’s not Sam anymore was the first thought to flash through Dean’s head, immediate and wrenching and out of the blue. He stared down at his brother, wondering when the last time was he’d actually had Sam by his side.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Dean said, and it was a lie he needed to believe.
to chapter five
Category: Angst, AU by default
Season/Spoiler: S4, prior to 4.12 Criss Angel is a Douchebag
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4522 this chapter, roughly 20300 total.
Summary: Dean thinks something is killing people in a small Iowa town and surrounding areas, and his need for redemption brings him and an unenthusiastic Sam to the hunt.
1 2 3
It was as if he were a guest in his own body. Sam wanted to fight more than anything, but he could not make himself move in anything but weak thrashes. He experienced everything in a thick fog. Half of the time it was all muted into dull sounds and cool touches, but the other half … the other half of the time it was all too sharp and real. He was too confused to know which was worse, fading out or fading in. The darkness couldn’t be good, but resurfacing only brought him bewildered horror and cold, cold, it was so cold. Sam blinked, eyelids barely coming back up again.
The fine crack on the ceiling. The smell of blood and saliva thick in the air. The chill of exposed skin in an unheated room. The sound of the succubus’ contented moans. The sharp prick of teeth and the unnatural flush of heat that coursed through him, always growing weaker.
In these moments of awareness, Sam became certain almost right away that it would be better to stay trapped in the dark where he didn’t have to know what was happening to him. If he didn’t know, it wouldn’t hurt and he wouldn’t have to think about what it would do to Dean. Dean. Thinking of his brother was where he always truly woke up and stayed that way for any length of time. He couldn’t leave Dean simply because the darkness was so compelling. It was an easy out and somewhere deep down he knew that. Sometimes he wanted the easy way out. That was partly what had landed him here. Right.
But where was he? What…
“Mmm.”
Oh, nononono.
The thing was on top of him again, if she had ever left. He didn’t know where she went when he passed out. He was passed out more than not. She hummed softly as she nuzzled his neck. It sounded like a lullaby. Despite the nakedness, what she was doing wasn’t really sexual. Sam hazily thought the idea was to strip him until he was as vulnerable as a newborn. No more, no less, except the fact she was sucking on his collarbone might be … unh. Nuh. Sharp. God, no, this couldn’t happen. A swell of defiance went through him, too weak to be of much good. He was forever going to be too little, too late.
“Ow,” Sam moved, feebly trying to push himself away. His arms were weak, as if muscle had turned to water. His throat was thick and sore with dread. “No, no.”
“Shhh,” the thing whispered. She abandoned his collarbone, taking his face in her hands and brushing her fingers through his hair. Her movements were almost motherly. Except the scent of his blood was strong on her breath. “It won’t be long now. You’re so beautiful. So sweet and dark.”
The lack of obvious malice from the creature confused Sam. Or maybe it was the blood loss that made him so befuddled. A low drone compromised his hearing, like a bee was buzzing around his head. In his ears. It took him longer than it should have to realize it was the sound of his own voice as he groaned.
“Nonono,” he moaned, a string of denial. All he could say or do now.
Sam’s eyes rolled up in his head as he struggled to focus. Darkness tempted him as always, pulling him under as always too. He dreamed of Dean, remembered his brother shouting at him on the phone in desperate fear and it snapped him to the awful present again. Where was he? Everything was fuzzier when he tiptoed so close to giving in. No, no. Dean would find him. But he didn’t know where was. Dean couldn’t find him. It was too late. He had to get away. Phone. He had to call Dean.
He shoved at the creature, god he didn’t even know what it was, vampire, succubus? She fell back an inch, but only because she was caught off guard by his resistance. The reprieve was temporary, her weight pinning him far too easily after just a moment.
“Shhh, now. Sleep for a while. Don’t fight.”
Sam wanted rest more than he wanted to get away or see his brother again. His mind was suddenly filled only with thoughts of sleep and the creature, how she loved him and wanted him to stay with her and be a good, good, good boy. She cooed to him and told him to relax and she wasn’t going to hurt him. It was true. It didn’t hurt, except an occasional prick to his skin and shudder of cold. She kissed his right temple, almost tenderly. Blackness danced at the edge of his blurry vision. Sam floated back to oblivion, relief and shame following him.
He was under for minutes. For hours. Days. Darkness had no means to measure time. It was an eternity.
Sam didn’t know what roused him, only that he came to gasping for breath and flailing without any real strength. His heart raced, working hard to pump what blood he had left in his veins to his limbs. The pieces fell back into place slowly, his brain more sluggish than ever. This wasn’t right. The others hadn’t died of blood loss. No bite marks. Sam tried to sit, but drooped. A sudden, loud screech split the air like the crack in the ceiling threatened to break it apart.
The woman-creature stood above him, her face beautiful but twisted into an enraged mask. He knew, then, what had ripped him from blessed nothing. Fear pumped through him, made his skin tingle and he knew with rare clarity where he was and what was happening. This was it, it was over for him and Dean, Dean, Dean wasn’t there. Instinct that had been buried by this creature’s inexplicable thrall or by his promise to Dean came out of him. He raised his hand just barely off the bed and concentrated his scattered thoughts, willing the succubus away from him. Banish it to Hell. To rest. God, he was tired.
For a second, he believed it was actually working. She stayed in one place, glaring at him with none of the contradictory softness she always had before. If Sam would have thought about it, though, if his brain were actually functioning as it should, he would have known he had no chance of winning by using his psychic abilities. She wasn’t a demon. All he succeeded in doing was taxing his already broken system. His arm shook and fell. He closed his eyes and waited. It went against everything in him, except everything in him had been carved out and he was left a fraction of himself. Inside, there was almost nothing. It had happened so quickly he hadn’t even realized. It had taken forever.
He hoped it would be fast now, no longer an endless game of cat toying with mouse.
But after a moment, still nothing happened. Sam cracked his eyes open, squinting at the succubus. She blinked out, then back in again. He wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if it was real. He shook his head faintly. The creature let out another shrill cry, leaning so close to him he could not help but see the fury in her eyes. He shrank deeper into the mattress, expecting the worst, a meaningless death.
And then she shimmered, blinking out and in and with a piercing shriek, out again. She stayed gone.
Sam stared at the vacant space the creature had occupied, not sure if he could trust his eyes to tell him the truth. He wasn’t sure if he’d recognize the truth under normal circumstances, but his head, his head was fuzzy. His life was a lie before he got kidnapped by a blood-sucking succubus vampire thing, after all, filled with all the things he was supposed to do and none of what he wanted. He lay there, breath coming in small pants, watching for the succubus to return. He didn’t know how long he stayed that way. He thought maybe he passed out once, confusion heavy. Maybe twice. He felt stronger the longer he stayed still. Good, that was good.
Now. Now he had to get out while he had the chance. Find Dean. Kill that bitch. This one, then Lilith. Phone. He had to get to the phone and get Dean. Or Ruby, Ruby would help him, but he wanted his brother. Sam rolled onto his side and doing so tapped most of his energy. Black spots skittered in across his field of vision, but no creature. It was okay. Okay, okay. He took several shallow gulps of air, shaking with cold and exertion. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet thudded to the floor like cement blocks. He was never going to make it, make it, he had to get out. He sat up, sliding off the bed a millisecond later, his muscles useless.
He lay in a crumpled, naked heap, resting to regain what strength wasn’t oozing out of him into the cold wood floor. Sam saw fuzzy blue right in front of his face, his hands reaching for it automatically. Jeans. His? No clothes on. God, he needed to get dressed. Cold. Where was he? What was he doing? Phone. He had to get out. Dean, Dean. He could to this. He pulled the jeans close, the denim rough against his skin, but warm. Warm. Sleep. No, no. He had to pull it together now, to … what was he supposed to do? Think, think. Phone. Dean. Help.
Half-crawling, half-sliding, Sam searched for his cell. It had to be here, he never left home without it. His fingers bumped into it before his eyes registered the black shape on the floor right next to him. He had the phone to his ringing ear before he thought it through. Couldn’t think. Had to get away.
“Dean, help,” he whispered into it. “It’s dark here.”
Then he realized the cell was in a hundred pieces and all he had in his numb hand was the faceplate. Sam didn’t know how it had happened. He stared at the broken phone in perplexity, finally remembered the creature had taken it from him, smashed it. Severed his ties to Dean. To help. Coming here with her had been a bad decision. No, he hadn’t. Not a decision. Too late. He couldn’t have helped it. Where was he? Crack on the ceiling. Oh. The thing could come back. He had to get away from her. Find Dean. Dean used to know what to do. Maybe he still did. Sam couldn’t think straight.
It took him forever to get his legs into the jeans. His fingers wouldn’t work the buttons or the belt. Cold, it was cold. He needed a jacket. Found a lump of soft material. Shirt. He put it on, fading into semi-consciousness once his arms were tucked in flannel. Savoring the warmth, Sam closed his eyes and rested. When he opened them back up, he was wracked with shivers again. The room was darker. It was always darker. Wait, where was he? He should know.
Sam rolled to his side and onto one elbow, trembling there like a strong wind was trying to blow him over. He squinted into the dimness of the room, not recognizing anything. Bed.
A nightstand he leaned against for support. A massive shape draped in a light sheet, looking like a child’s play of a ghost. Not the motel. He had to pull it together. He got to his hands and knees and began to crawl toward a shadowed rectangle shape on the far wall, hoping it was a door. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he shouldn’t have come. Dark, dangerous dark path.
He made it to the door, pressing against it for a minute or twelve. Sam didn’t remember why he was so weak. He scratched his collarbone and his fingers came away with blackish flecks on them. Oh. What. He knew only one thing, and that was he needed to go away from here. He crawled down a corridor. House, someone’s home. His head smashed into a half-circle table set against a wall, covered in a drape. Not someone’s home anymore. He shook his head. Not important. Sam’s jeans kept falling down, but he couldn’t get his hands to work right to button them.
He moved slowly, vision blurring and graying out in a tunnel. Ice in his veins, so cold. Blind, deaf, dumb. Sam didn’t know where he was, but he crawled. He was sure he was going the right way, until suddenly the floor wasn’t there anymore and he was falling into a black hole. He tumbled, hitting obstructions all the way. Stairs, he thought when he landed at the bottom of them.
Sam couldn’t move anymore. He didn’t want to. He curled into a protective ball and let unconsciousness take him all the way to the dark. He couldn’t even find it in him to care. In fact, he wanted it.
&-&-&
The air was icy against his sweat-slicked skin and his lungs burned, but Dean continued at a frenzied pace. He was trying not to keep a mental tally on how long it was taking, refused to think about how long it had taken him just to find Asha Watkins’ gravesite in the first place. Part of the problem had been panic. He admitted that, and that panic still coursed through him, making his actions inefficient. He was breaking his back digging into hard earth, and it was slow going in spite of his desperation.
Dean was counting on the churel coming to him when he began with the various banishment rituals, which was why he had to dig and then hit the non-invasive techniques first, in case he needed to move onto the more up close and personal ones quickly. He knew he shouldn’t pin all his hopes on it, but if he could draw it to him maybe he could get some answers. Maybe he could find Sam before it was too late. If it wasn’t already. He tossed a heavy blade full of dirt out, gasping from the effort. On the next downswing, the shovel finally hit something solid.
Scraping the rest of the soil off the casket hurriedly, he threw the shovel out and clambered up after it. Dean examined his supplies. He went for the iron nails first, pounding them into each corner of the exhumed grave to see what happened. Nothing. Not a hint of anything supernatural. The hope he had that it would be like pricking the churel’s spirit with needles, irritating it enough to come focus on him, not Sam, started fading. He didn’t slow down, thought. He couldn’t. He tossed mustard seeds and more nails into the hole, still gaining no reaction.
“Damnit, why can’t this ever be fucking easy?” he muttered and began a standard exorcism.
As he finished, a stiff breeze howled through the cemetery. That could mean the exorcism had worked, but the wind didn’t sound inhuman and Dean couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t take the chance. He wished to hell a salt-and-burn would have been on the list. Instead, he jumped back onto the casket, pulling the lid open awkwardly, sharing space with the still-too-fresh corpse.
“Oh, god.” Dean choked back his disgust.
With Sammy, you stay alive in his head, almost the same mantra he’d uttered for thirty endless years in Hell, he picked up some of the strewn nails and pierced the nails on the thumbs and forefingers on both hands of the body. One second he was hunched over Asha Watkins’ dead body, and the next he was in the air. He smashed into a headstone, lower back throbbing instantly from the hit. He rolled onto his hands and knees, looking around blindly. He couldn’t see anything, but didn’t doubt the churel was there with him now. Cautiously, he edged back toward the grave. It had to mean he was on the right track with the banishment techniques.
This time the wail that filled the cemetery wasn’t natural, a drawn out noooooooo. It might have been in his imagination, his ears ringing, except for the appearance of a dark-haired woman wearing a red sari standing at the foot of the open grave. Dean blinked, and she was right next to him with wild, dark eyes and flaring nostrils. Before he could pull out a weapon – iron blade, iron-loaded revolver, whatever – she launched him in the air again. The back of his head cracked against a headstone this time, and for a second he couldn’t see clearly. But then he could and he didn’t like it.
“You can’t have him back,” the churel said, leaning over him with a snarl. “He’s mine, hunter.”
His head cleared instantly. Like hell he is, lady, Dean thought. He pulled out the revolver and got off a lucky shot before she could attack. The very solid ghost disappeared with an angry screech. He didn’t have much time. He scrambled for the grave, clumsily grabbing the iron rings he’d laid out. By the time he got himself situated in the casket at the corpse’s feet, the churel was back from wherever she’d gone. To Sam, probably. He bound the toes of Asha Watkins’ right foot with one of the iron rings. The churel snapped at him, claws literally out and dragging down the side of his neck.
She flashed away though, weaker, like she was almost stuck at the grave. Dean didn’t want to think about anything but ending this, getting the churel away from Sam, Sam, Sammy, you stay alive. He put a second iron ring around the toes of the body’s left foot, bringing the dispossessed spirit to him. It stood in its own place of supposed repose, flickering like a flame about to go out. If he didn’t need her to tell him something, he’d have extinguished her already.
“Where is my brother?” Dean asked, voice rough and weak.
“It is too late for him,” the churel said with a sneer. “He was beautiful, but not enough. I am still as empty as my home.”
Was? It felt like his stomach plummeted to his feet. No, the thing was lying. Dean grabbed the shovel, raising it above the corpse’s legs, just above the ankles.
“Tell me where he is right now and I’ll let you live to suck another day.”
The churel shook her head, sluggish now as it lunged for him.
“Fine.” Dean brought the blade of the shovel down on the legs, sickened by the brutal scrape of bone. The legs didn’t break, his arms too weak from digging and fighting. “Have it your way.”
“Noooooo!” The churel fell to her knees as if in agony, reaching for him in supplication or aggression. “I only wanted my home, my husband, my child.”
“I feel for you,” Dean said, not meaning it. He knew that once perhaps he could have mustered sympathy for this tainted spirit, but that time was long gone. “Go to Hell.”
Using more force than the first attempt, he shattered the corpses’ legs. It was the final blow. The churel vanished with a scream and a burst of light and Dean was left there, leaning on the dirt wall of the hole, trying not to puke from the heartache. Sam was out there somewhere right now, and Dean had just eliminated the only way he had to find him. He put his forehead on cold earth, getting his breathing under control. He’d let this happen and he couldn’t fix it now. It was too late. Hand shaking, he withdrew his flask and drained it. No amount of alcohol would help anyway.
He stood there for a few minutes, unsure what he was supposed to do. He wracked his brain for any remote idea where Sam could be. The other victims had been all over the place, had wandered away without seeming to know they were dooming themselves. His gut told him Sam was different, a break in pattern. Because of what he was.
He pulled himself from the hole, looking back down at the broken remains. They looked like he felt, a mess of bones and rotting flesh. Nudging the lid of the casket with his foot, Dean jumped slightly as it slammed shut with finality. He had to get home, regroup. He could still find Sam. He had to.
“Home,” Dean said aloud, a crazy idea taking root.
It was all he had, and it was a long shot. He left the gaping hole in the ground, taking off for the car at an uneven run. His head and back ached, tension on top of bruises. Dean gunned it, driving too fast for city limits back to the motel. He burst into their room and headed straight for the police files, shuffling through the Watkins folder. Vince Watkins had died in his home, the one his wife’s spirit wanted to regain. It would be too easy for it to be true, but he had no other ideas and his brother had to be there and alive. He found the address and was on his phone surfing for directions in less than a minute.
In the quiet of the early morning, the Impala’s growl was loud as Dean pulled in front of the empty home. There was a tattered, snow-buried for sale sign in the yard, the house still on the market after nearly two years. His heart raced as he cut the engine and ran up the sidewalk, no real thought for stealth. He tried the front door first, finding it locked. He could kick it open, but decided he didn’t need the risk of a neighbor seeing him bust in. The car had probably already woken someone as it was. One side of the house was sheltered by a couple of trees, so he circled around that way in search of a low window to jimmy.
Two minutes later, he stood inside the kitchen. As he moved through it, Dean was surprised the house was still almost fully furnished, old sheets covering the furniture and anything of real value like electronics gone. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it was out, and he guessed whoever had control of the property kept the heat on only high enough to prevent frozen pipes or something. If Sam were trapped in here, he’d probably be well on his way to hypothermic by now. If he were still alive.
Dean resisted the urge to yell his brother’s name, hastily searching every room he came across, squinting into empty closets, bathrooms, a den. He didn’t have a flashlight on him. He’d been too preoccupied with finding Sa…
“Sam,” he hissed, rushing forward to the foot of the stairs situated just off the foyer, the body-sized shape there. Oh, god. “Sammy.”
Dean fell to his knees beside Sam’s crumpled, unmoving frame. Reaching, he carefully turned Sam just enough to get a cold hand to his brother’s neck. He tried not to focus on how pale Sam was, how there was no reaction at all. He pressed his fingers against Sam’s carotid, seeking a pulse. He couldn’t feel anything. Cursing, he withdrew his hand as if it were on fire instead of freezing, shaking it to get his own blood flowing to his swollen, cold fingers. He tried again to find a pulse, at the same time leaning down to gauge Sam’s breathing.
Sam was breathing, shallowly, and there was a pulse.
Relief inundated him, and for a second he allowed himself to feel only that. Then Dean took stock of his little brother, frowning at the disarray of clothing, the gray tinge to Sam’s skin he could see even in the dim light. The dried blood on his bare chest was nearly black. Growling angrily, Dean inspected Sam for wounds and couldn’t find a single one. It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t have time to figure it out. He pulled Sam’s shirt closed and tugged off his jacket, draping it over Sam in a futile attempt to get his brother warm.
“Sam,” he said, giving Sam a gentle slap. “Hey, you need to help me out here. Wake up, man, I can’t carry your ass.”
He got no reaction, not even a groan. He slapped Sam harder.
“Sam, come on.”
He needed to get Sam out of here now, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to manage it. The front door was right there, but he’d still have to get them both down the sidewalk and into the car. His back was bruised from the cemetery toss, his head throbbed, and his muscles felt like jelly from relief. His gut was filled with rabid butterflies, because deep down he knew Sam wasn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. He shoved aside any doubts he had about his physical ability to handle his brother. If he had to carry the heavy weight on his shoulders, then he would simply do it. There was no choice in the matter. He couldn’t let Sam stay in this dark place another minute. It would kill him.
He manhandled Sam’s arms through the sleeves of his jacket, not wanting his brother to lose the protective warmth when he picked him up in a fireman’s carry. Dean grimaced and secured the top button of Sam’s jeans. He took a deep breath and headed for the door, opening it so he’d have one less obstacle to traverse with Sam slung over his shoulder.
As the door opened, a light shone directly in his eyes, followed closely by a, “Don’t move, son.”
The tone was authoritative and annoyingly familiar. Someone had called the goddamned cops after all. Dean took an involuntary step back, more to protect Sam than himself, raising his hands. He didn’t have time for this bullshit.
“Please, you don’t understand. My brother,” Dean said, finding he did not have to bluff his way into a pleading tone. He thumbed toward Sam, and the bright flashlight bobbed off of him for a second. “Someone took him. I found him here.”
“Damn,” the still-faceless deputy whispered. “He looks dead.”
“He’s not dead.” Dean glared at the shadowy figure in the door, scuttling to Sam’s side and crouching down. “But I can’t get him to wake up.”
“It’s okay, son, I believe you. We can help you.” The deputy took a step into the house, no longer in an offensive pose. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with him so I can relay it to the dispatcher?”
He’s not Sam anymore was the first thought to flash through Dean’s head, immediate and wrenching and out of the blue. He stared down at his brother, wondering when the last time was he’d actually had Sam by his side.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Dean said, and it was a lie he needed to believe.
to chapter five
