Blood On My Hands
Characters: Sam (internal), Meg, Dean, Jo
Prompt: 2.14- Born Under A Bad Sign
Warning: violence, gore, language
Disclaimer: Sadly enough, I still don't own them. I'm just borrowing them to keep us warm over a long hiatus, and to keep our Thursday super!
Summary: Excruciating pain engulfed his entire body then. Like his skin was too tight, too little skin stretched over too large a frame. He screamed silently, needing a release for this terrible pain that seemed to go on forever. Then as quickly as it came, everything faded to black.
It started out so simply.
"I'll play ya for it," Dean said, grinning from ear to ear, lying back on his bed with a magazine on his chest.
Sam, enjoying the rare moment of peace, grinned back as he swung his legs over the side of his bed to face Dean. A split second later Dean was mirroring him, one fist held out in front of him.
"Best two out of three. Loser goes for dinner, winner gets the first shower."
Rock, paper, scissors. It had been he and Dean's way of settling disputes quietly when they were kids. Guess they never really grew out if it, Sam mused as he shook his first. Rock beats scissors, Sam grinned. Dean always chose scissors.
But he hadn't been so lucky the other two times, Dean beating his rock with paper and his paper with scissors. Sam frowned at Dean but stood up anyway. It probably was fair since Dean had gotten them dinner a few days in a row.
"Burgers from the diner?" he asked, pulling on his jacket and pocketing his cell.
Dean nodded disinterestedly as he pulled off his boots and outer shirt. "Get me ext-"
"Extra onions. Yeah, got it. Anything else?"
Dean just grinned as he made his way to the bathroom. "Yeah, don't take forever. I wanna eat some time this week." With a cheeky grin, Dean closed the door and started humming loudly.
Looking back, it was just another typical moment in their lives, a quiet lull in the midst of a storm perhaps. Or the quiet before the storm.
Sam had walked three blocks down to the nearest diner, the late afternoon Texas sun shining down. He didn't notice anything unusual at first. The town was a little quiet for 4:30 in the afternoon but it was a small town. The diner was quiet as well, just a waitress at the front counter and the cook in the back. But Sam just shrugged it off.
He sat on a stool, back leaning against the counter as he looked out the windows. It was peaceful one moment and chaotic the next. It hit him so fast, blinding. He felt a chill race up his spine a second before something thick and black was hovering in front of his face. Sam had no time to react as it moved closer, rushing up his nostrils and in his mouth.
He coughed and sputtered and choked but it kept forcing its way down. Excruciating pain engulfed his entire body then. Like his skin was too tight, too little skin stretched over too large a frame. And his bones, they felt as if they were cracking, shattering, dislocating and rearranging. Each and every one of them. His organs too, shifting and sliding, rubbing and grating. His heart pounded in his chest and his lungs burned and his head felt like it was going to explode.
He screamed silently, needing a release for this terrible pain that seemed to go on forever.
Then as quickly as it came, everything faded to black.
The next thing he knew, Sam was opening his eyes, faced smashed against the tiled floor of the diner. He could hear two worried voices before two feet came into his line of vision. Sam wanted to roll over and see who was standing over him but his body wasn't listening to his commands. Something was definitely wrong.
He tried to roll over, tried to reach his hand down to grab his cell and call for Dean, but instead his hands planted themselves firmly on the floor and pushed him upright. 'No. No, no, no. Stay down, you're gonna get dizzy.' Sam pleaded but his body kept moving until he was standing on his own two fee again, coming face to face with the cook from the back of the diner.
"You all right kid?"
'No. No I'm not! What's happening to me?! Please, call Dean.' But his voice didn't come out saying that. In fact, his lips weren't moving at all. Sam, frightened, tried again to reach for his phone, to sit down on the stool, to do anything, but his body just wouldn't follow. 'What's going on? Why can't I move?! Why can't I talk?!'
"Yeah, I'm fine. Sugar must be getting low, happens all the time."
It took Sam a moment to recognize his own voice spilling from his now moving lips. Only … that's not what he wanted to say. Not even close. Then his hands started moving, reaching out to grab the bag sitting on the counter.
Then he was heading out the door. Sam willed his body to stop but it kept moving of its own acccord. It was as if his limbs didn't belong to him, or he was in the wrong body. Something.
He remembered the pain, pain like he'd never felt before in his life. And the black cloud hovering in front of his face just before … 'Oh my god. Am I possessed?' Was that what it felt like?
He felt and heard a chuckle inside his head. "My, my Sammy. You are the smart one, aren't you?"
'Who are you?!'
"Oh, now I'm hurt Sammy. Don't you remember me? We had some fun times before your family decided to interrupt us. Don't worry though. You and me? We'll have a good ride this time, I promise you that."
It took a moment for it all to sink in. The lilt of the words and the attitude behind them felt familiar, the anger burning in his belly felt the same. Then it all fell into place. 'Meg.'
He was constantly in and out the whole week. Sometimes riding shotgun, watching as Meg directed his body around, eating greasy food and drinking way too much hard liquor, smoking packs and packs of cigarettes and stealing cars at every turn. It made him sick and scream in frustration that he couldn't stop it.
And then there were times where it was all hazy, like he was watching a movie and the things that were happening weren't real. He would black out and come back and still not feel a thing.
But she was always talking to him, telling him her plans for Dean, for Bobby, for all the hunters he ever knew. She spoke of hell and the tortures waiting for him, of the things she personally couldn't wait to do to him. She told tales of his father's torture and how the demons fantasized about what they would do to Dean once he was thrown in as well. It was all a constant stream of chatter in the back of his mind that he could never tune out or turn off.
He remembered the feel of Steve Wandell's blood on his hands and the thick choking bite of cigarette smoke. He remembered the grief when Dean came to his 'aid' and couldn't even recognize that there was something wrong. He remembered the way Dean's flesh felt on his knuckles as he knocked Dean out and the warm weight of Jo's body struggling beneath him and the way the gun retorted when he shot Dean in the chest. Those were things she wanted him to know, things she wanted him to remember so Meg made sure he was close to the surface when it all happened.
He even remembered the pain of the holy water when Meg chugged down the beer Bobby gave her. Her pain was his pain and Sam screamed in agony as it shredded like glass and burned like acid as it slid down his throat.
He felt each and every bit of torture then inflicted upon Meg. The way the exorcism sizzled his blood and cracked his bones, the crushing weight of the Devil's Trap keeping him still, the pure acidic burn of the holy water when it touched his skin. And with each new torture, Meg shifted in his body, the agony of the possession coming anew as his body tried to adjust to the invasion.
But what was worse than all of that was when Meg fled his body. It felt like she were tearing out his organs as she went, as if she were a force pulling up on each and every bone in his body, starting at his toes and never ending. His body burned and his heart stopped beating, his head was filled with static, memories becoming fuzzy and muted until the tales of torture where a distant memory, at least for the time being. He screamed in pain, his whole body quaking with the force with which it expelled the demon.
And then it was over.
Dean and Bobby, after a few minutes of unnerving silence, looked him over and deemed him healthy enough. But Sam just couldn't help but feel wrong. He itched and fidgeted and plucked and pulled but still he couldn't feel comfortable in his own skin. Physically he hadn't changed at all, but inside … he was all kinds of messed up.
Even if he told them what he remembered they would never fully understand. Dean would never know what it was like to feel his own fist pounding into his brother's face and not being able to stop it. He would never understand that Sam still felt like he had blood on his hands even after he washed them a dozen times. He would never understand that he could still feel Jo struggling against him and fearing how far the demon in his body would go. They could never comprehend the things, the tortures, he endured over the passed week.
And Sam … would never tell them.
It had all started out so simply, but had gotten all fucked to hell along the way. Such is the Winchester way.