bollocking: ([tired] [i haven't fucking slept])
malcolm tucker. ([personal profile] bollocking) wrote in [community profile] bakerstreet2013-10-18 04:11 pm

it's going to start raining blood and frogs.

the broken meme.

You may once have been a great hero, or a modest regular person. But something has pushed you past the limit. There's simply no going back to who you used to be. To be seen now, your friends, your family, would they even recognize you? Your savior was too late. The pain was too much. The pleasure was too intense. You've been short-circuited.


You're broken.


A. Post with the usual stuff! Note somewhere if there are any options you aren't okay with.
B. People can reply, with a roll for their characters or ask if you want to roll for yours in that thread.
C. Probably some triggers involved here. Read at your own discretion, etc.

1. Pain.
You've been pushed beyond your limits and become light-headed, 'floaty'. The sight of your own blood doesn't provoke a reaction anymore, and seeing a friend might cause you to smile, or talk strangely. You might not even recognize them. It doesn't hurt anymore. It's alright now.

2. Lust.
No, no, no became yes, yes, yes. Dignity and self-respect have faded, replaced by an insatiable and alien feeling of want. You've reached a point where shame doesn't even occur to you anymore. Your eyes seem out of focus and your smile doesn't look right. Look, I've made so many friends who like me...! Do anything to me if it feels good.

3. Shock.
What has been seen cannot be unseen. A revelation about a friend, a loved one, an enemy- something has shocked you in a way you can never reverse. It may change not only the way you look at someone or something, but also the way you see the rest of your life. I saw nothing, I saw nothing, I saw...

4. Oppressed.
What's it like outside my cage? Your spirit of rebellion or confidence has been cracked, and your rescuers might not be there in time to salvage what's left of your spirits. You've long since accepted that getting away from this oppression is impossible- Perhaps you've even become attached to it as the only way to live life. Yes, sir. No, sir. Sorry, sir.

5. Corruption.
Something has eroded you. You're not like you used to be. You're obsessive, your face is darker. You may even see who you were before as weak or useless. Whether it's a magic ring or Phazon infecting your body, you're going grimdark and it's looking a little too late to pull you out of it. This power is far greater than what I had before! To think I used to believe in justice!

6. Hysteria.
When you talk, you don't make any sense. Pure Charisma Break. Maybe you were a god stripped of your might, or you've suffered a terrible defeat. Either way your ego has snapped, leaving you a total mess and unable to function. But how could this be? How could I lose?!

7. Desperation.
Where before you were airy, confident, in control of yourself, you're now a ragged and fuming pile of hopeless anger. As a fighter you may have been careful or even graceful; now you swing wildly, strike without precision. You simply cannot accept the situation, cannot accept your own fall. It's not over! I'm still in control! I can still fix everything!

8. Choose Your Own.
Mix, add something that hasn't been done! Cause whatever kind of misery you want.
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6695877)

LOTS OF NUMBERS OKAY Season 9 spoilers aw yeah and slap some TW on this for torture and such

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-19 03:40 am (UTC)(link)
Dean wakes up on the floor.

For a fleeting moment, he has no idea where he is or how he got there. He pushes himself up — head heavy and aching, hand smeared with blood — and when he moves, he feels a sharp pain on his chest. With effort and shaking hands, he jerks his shirt back —

and there's a fresh, angry burn where his tattoo was previously.

It comes back to him in snippets, then. Abaddon taking Dean on as a meatsuit and using him to do terrible things — to innocent strangers, to children. And then, to Sam.

Sam.

Dean stands on shaking legs. He's in a warehouse of some kind, broken glass littering and pieces of wood and metal littering the floor. His body doesn't want to obey, and after a struggling moment, Dean stumbles and meets the ground again. Starts climbing through the wreckage.

There are bodies strewn about, Dean realizes once his vision clears. People killed by Abaddon while in his body — killed by him — and demons, too. Demons, because if Abaddon was going to force Ezekiel out of Sam's body, she needed her vessel to be even stronger. She needed Dean hopped up on demon blood.

Upon remembering that, Dean tastes bile and nearly caves into the nausea — but he has to find Sam.

Sam, who was responsible for finally exorcising Abaddon. Sam, who refused to use Ruby's knife on him, because he was still Dean in there, somewhere — and who paid dearly for it. Abaddon's goal was to prime Sam's body for another demon host — a new knight of hell to help take the reigns of the pit — and that meant force-feeding Sam demon blood all over again. That meant binding him and hurting him and making him bend — all while wearing Dean's body.

At first, she had laughed at Sam's attempts to get her out of Dean's body. Even with the demon blood in her system, she believed herself to be stronger, better, free from anything Sam could dish out.

She had been wrong. But it had come too late.

Dean finds him, still bound against the wall, and drops to his knees.

"Sammy." The worst is choked, emotion too close to the forefront, Dean on the verge of losing it, because he can't. He can't hold it in, put it away, pack Sam up and pretend that none of this happened. It was Hell all over again — innocents marred by his hands — except so much worse, because of the children. Because of Sam.

And what the hell is Dean supposed to say? Sorry, Sammy. Guess Abaddon is no match for me. He should have been more careful, should have been strong enough to overcome her, or to at least found a way to off himself.

He unbinds Sam with unsteady fingers, hardly able to stand touching him after everything. Can't meet his eyes, can't say anything else.
Edited 2013-10-19 03:45 (UTC)
collegedropout: (in the panic room)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-19 04:26 am (UTC)(link)
Blood. There's blood, and there's something missing. Maybe it's because Ezekiel had been forced out of his chest cavity, out his eyes and ears and mouth in a blinding burst, a gasp that wasn't his own (right now, he's out there, circling, calling for a body, any body, aching to return to the task at hand). His body supports itself, but it's not much after Abaddon -- Dean -- Abaddon had gotten a hold of him. Started creating something out of him he hadn't tried to be in many, many years. Perhaps she didn't quite expect him to have such a reign on it, having missed those years where he'd faced his addiction. But there are simply some things you cannot scrub away.

His body shivers so hard it's practically convulsing under Dean's grip, slicked with sweat and gore. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want it; get it out, get it out of him, no more blood, no more... His bangs hang in his eyes and he doesn't look up anyway, expression unnaturally blank. His glassy gaze looks beyond everything here as he mumbles haggardly under his breath; closer inspection makes the hushed words clear -- latin. He keeps repeating the words of an exorcism, a broken record restarting and repeating over and over and over. He won't go through withdrawals yet; can't think straight enough right now to feel solace in that.

"-- omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,
omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica --
"

It's hard to say whether he's trying to use it on himself or if he just can't stop. Perhaps a little bit of both. When he's unbound he sags heavily against Dean, blood sticking him to Dean's shirt from raw, angry burn marks and the telltale lines from an angel blade. Sammy, he hears faintly, but doesn't react, just moans low and in pain when his cheek falls into Dean's shoulder. Moans, and then mumbles the same old feverish incantation. Up and down are impossible to distinguish and his thoughts are padded with a thick cotton, hazy under the surface.
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6689430)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-19 04:41 am (UTC)(link)
"Sammy," Dean repeats as Sam slumps against him, as he continues that mantra even now, in the aftermath. "Sammy," again, because Dean can't find any other words, there's nothing he can say to make any of this better. There's no atonement waiting for him, there's nothing he can do. He's killed more people than he has ever saved. Everything for which they have worked, undone. Everything is over.

Finished.

Abaddon will be back. He knows it, because he harbored her inside for long enough to have an understanding of her plans. She'll be back for him, and there's really only one way for Dean to get out of this. For him to end it all.

But Sam comes first. Sam always comes first.

"Sammy, listen." He finally chokes out another word, but it doesn't sound like his voice, and the thought makes him sick because it hasn't been his voice in too long, and what if it is happening again. Dean can't get his bearings for a long minute, just freezes with Sam against him, caught in the throes of panic, chest heaving, trying to take in air, a litany of no's on his mind.

He pulls back from Sam. Gently, always gently, even now — and scrambles across the room until he finds a loose nail.

"I need," he tries to tell Sam, who isn't even listening, who's still trying to exorcise him, and Dean's losing it. Was losing it the whole time Abaddon was inside of him, but now...now Sam is gone, too. He's fucked up, he's lost, Dean lost him, failed him, ruined him, and he can't face that. He can't.

He needs an anti-possession symbol. He needs this. Just to last long enough to get Sam safe, to get him home to the bunker, with Kevin and Charlie and maybe Garth, if he can get Garth there. People who can keep Sam safe. And Dean —

needs to go.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-19 05:08 am (UTC)(link)
A thin string of reddened spit hangs from his lips, fluttered by words still whispered, eyes unseeing in the dim warehouse. He doesn't see the bodies or the blood, some of which is his own splattered haphazardly like paint on discarded plastic tarps. He leans there against the wall breathing lengthy and quiet, scarcely blinking, very slowly feeling colder. Cold like the Cage. He groans again and closes his eyes, the words rushing out from his chapped lips faster now and are almost undecipherable.

He wishes Dean were here. Nobody's here. It's all gray and blue and sometimes bursting, horrible lights. He feels his veins pumping with foreign blood. He staggers, lists sideways, limp hand against his lap and slowly curling on his pants leg.

"Dean," he breathes, and only once says it. Says it because it's the word synonymous with help and scared. He's slipping, literally slipping, needs someone to pull him back up. And yet despite that deeply gnawing desire to come back, there's no fear, panic, or concern in his expression. It's still just an empty gaze from a blood-streaked face, eyes half-lidded. He mumbles more, unintelligible.
Edited (god how do write) 2013-10-19 05:22 (UTC)
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6695886)

one more tw to be safe for self injury oops

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-19 05:40 am (UTC)(link)
He needs to do this because he needs to know that he'll be safe. The idea takes root as an obsession — keep her out, at all costs. Keep her out before she makes him do all of that all over again, before he raises a hand against Sam again.

He uses the nail.

His hands are shaking as he uses it to pierce the flesh of his chest — where the skin is still smooth, where it hasn't been burned away — and it's painful, but it's nothing compared to what he's been through. Painstakingly, with crude, bloody lines, he guards himself against her. The blood starts to color his shirt — mixing with other stains, the proof of what he's done.

He stumbles back to Sam, who's all but non-responsive. Dean checks his tattoo — still there, because Abaddon hadn't been ready to burn it off yet — and once he confirms that it's there he lets go of the nail.

"Sammy. Sammy, please." His hands find Sam's head and Dean tries to make him look him in the eye. He needs Sam to wake up, to come out of this, to be okay, because they don't have much time before they're jonesing, before judgment is even more screwed, and he needs to get Sam safe before that happens. They need to get to the bunker.

He doesn't offer you're okay or it's fine. Neither of them are okay and it's never going to be fine again. Just please. A plead.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-19 05:58 am (UTC)(link)
He looks straight through Dean, wishing his brother were here. Right now it's all swirling colors and a heartbeat, and his face is cold and sticky with perspiration. But he feels the warm touch, reaching to grip the collar of his shirt with long aching fingers, the nails on it chipped and raw. He feels too-hot skin burning against his chilled knuckles, and thinks maybe that's the right direction to go to find himself again. To flee from the aching hole the angel had left, ripped away from him so horribly, leaving a tattered soul half-mended and screaming mutely. If it were possible to feel the seep of internal bleeding, it was how it felt now as his spirit burned and trickled sanity.

But this warmth under his clutched fist. He can get back. He can... try.

He blinks, gaze rolling up toward the ceiling pleadingly. Empty. No life in them, no soul surfacing in the depths of them. Because Sam's barely there, like a soul scaling up from his ribs, yearning to find his mind again.

"Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine.
Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias...
"

His fist is steadfast where it's nestled in Dean's stained shirt.
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-19 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
It isn't working. Sam can't see him, keeps repeating the exorcism like it's some kind of prayer. Dean releases his head, hands moving downward to shoulders — gripping him tightly, his every motion a plead to get Sam back into reality.

If he doesn't come back —

No. That can't be a possibility. He has to be okay. He has to, because Dean's already lost everything. He's lost what shreds of himself were left after Hell, after Purgatory, after everything. Lost his humanity, violated by a demon and made to do things that even tainted by Hell, Dean's mind could not have imaged. He needs Sam to be okay, because if Sam isn't okay —

Then he gives up. Then there's nothing left for which to fight.

And it's his fault. He did this.

"You gotta be okay." It's a whisper, now. Dean is spent — a kind of numb resignation taking hold of his earlier frantic emotion. A distance. "Sammy."
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-19 07:15 am (UTC)(link)
The hands against his shoulders press the raw edges of cuts, until distantly Sam has something else to reach for: pain. Sam wants to flee it at first, horrified by the memory of blades against skin, but then he hears his name. His name so fucking distant, he's not sure he can ever get to it. But he's deep down in there, hands pawing upward. I'm here! I'm here, I'm here — his eyes are closed, bruises under his eyes, but the hand gripping Dean's shirt unfurls as he presses his trembling palm over Dean's heart.

A steady if not slightly too pacing rhythm.

His eyes open slow and he stares at Dean, exhausted. He says nothing, as if he can't remember how to, but he's gazing at him with a twinkle of recognition; he's trying. He's trying so hard. His lips part, but it's silent for a long moment, as if he's struggling to make his vocal chords work. More latin babbles out but he leans his face into his brother's shoulder, hands moving and gripping Dean's biceps.

Warm. Sammy. Thumping beat.

He still has a hard time seeing the world, but there's a bridge he's crossing, slowly, its rickety boards creaking under the too-heavy weight of his spirit.
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-20 09:21 pm (UTC)(link)
It's a response, however minimal, and Dean mentally clings to it — tells himself that Sam's movements mean that he's still in there somewhere, because that's what Dean needs to believe. He grips a little harder as Sam finally looks at him. He's still running through Latin, but this is progress. This is something. Dean stares back at him — his face an open mess of concern and vulnerability all in one. The time for holding anything back is over — he's raw and raised to the surface, broken and undone. There's no point to any kind of pretense. The game is over.

"We gotta go," he tells Sam. Keeps talking because it seems to be helping, has to be helping, and Dean doesn't want to lose him again. "You need to stand up."

Before Abaddon comes back. Before she exploits the weakness in his crappy depiction of the anti-possession symbol. Before Sam leaves again and Dean can't bring him back.
collegedropout: (pic#6856676)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-20 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam just looks down quietly, but he's compliant to whatever Dean needs him to do — it just takes a tug on his arm and he rises up to his feet, though he's unsteady; he's lost plenty of blood. He wouldn't know it, stuck in his own head. Barely feels the lacerations or burn marks carpeting his arms or torso. Go. That's the word that bleeds through the veil of confusion. Go. He can move his legs, automated. One hand curls on Dean's shirt, hooking over his shoulder, and he moves.

He's standing. He's up. Go.

The chanting dies down on his lips and he finally is just silent, save for a rush of breath at the effort of moving. Where are they...? He can't see the bodies or the wreckage. He just sees... moving feet. Hears the crunching of glass and concrete debris, but doesn't associate it with much of anything.

Inside him, there's a war going on. All fire and light and what little Ezekiel had managed to sloppily stitch and sew together before he was ejected from Sam's body. Sam's in the torrent, trying to ride the rushing currents, falling under and drowning until he gets purchase on the frayed edges of his own veins.
ramble_on: fenostol (pic#6865077)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-21 12:09 am (UTC)(link)
Sam's walking. If Sam is walking, then Dean can find the strength to do the same. He can be his strength. Strong for him. Dean follows suit, shakily getting to his feet. His body is going through tremors, still, and he doesn't know if it's because he's in shock or if he's already withdrawing. How long has it been since Abaddon —

Doesn't matter. He needs to get Sam to the car. That's all that matters.

Dean takes his arm. It's as much for Sam's benefit as it is his own. He needs this — the reminder of why he's continuing, why he isn't just taking himself out now, while he has the chance, while Abaddon is gone. He just needs to get Sam to the bunker. That's all. Then he can put all of this to rest.

He talks as they walk to the car. Fills the silence with rambles, because he can't offer reassurances. "I'm gonna get you home, Sammy, and then we're gonna get Cas and Kevin to help. They'll make sure you get through this. They'll help you."

Because Dean can't help, anymore. He's the one who hurt Sam.

"Just a little further, Sammy."

He thinks he'll need to hotwire a car, but there's the Impala. He doesn't know how it got there. Maybe Sam drove it. Dean guides him into the passenger seat, but takes a minute to look in the trunk for his holy water. Finds it, and brings it with him to the driver's seat. Starts the car and starts sipping on the holy water.

Waits to feel the burn. Waits, and nothing happens.

But he keeps sipping it. Over and over again, as he takes off and starts driving. Thinking, This is proof. She's gone. She's gone.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-21 07:43 am (UTC)(link)
Sam sits slouched in the passenger's seat, shivering, sometimes mumbling latin, sometimes dead silent, blankly staring at nothing out the window. "It's okay," he suddenly mumbles, expression still vacant. "It's okay... get you back. Get you back..." Sweat gathers on his forehead, blood smearing against the Impala's seats. "Humiliare sub potenti manu dei... Dean...?" He shifts, breathing heavy from exertion and pain. "Dean — ?"

Is he gone? He's gone. His hand sluggishly scrambles for the door handle, brow pinching as he's dangerously close to opening the door and spilling out on quickly moving asphalt. Is he gone? He can't go without him this time; the Impala shouldn't be going anywhere without him. He's driving away, isn't he? That's why he feels the rumble of the car, deep down into his bones.
ramble_on: fenostol (pic#6865083)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-21 10:38 pm (UTC)(link)
Dean is pretty preoccupied with his repetitious sipping of the holy water and trying to stay calm enough to get them to the bunker, so he doesn't notice what Sam is doing at first. Then he hears the scrambling, looks over —

and grabs Sam out of sudden fear.

"Sam, stop!" He jerks his arm, and it's rough, too rough after everything Sam has been through — that Dean put him through — but Dean's nerves are frayed. He isn't thinking clearly. He just — can't lose Sam. Not now. Not when they're so close to getting to safety.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-21 11:13 pm (UTC)(link)
Sam chokes on a strangled sob of pain, Dean's fingers curling tight over a raw, seeping burn — and then he's wrenched back away from the door and his hair whips as he shakes his head. "Stop, stop, I can't drive away — not again — " But he seems to give up as quickly as he starts, laying down and curling his 6'4" body into a surprisingly small ball, clutching his hair in his fingers. He shakes his head, keeps shaking it. The blood stains follow him down to where he lies as he struggles to find reality. It's hard, though, and he's already exhausted from blood loss, skin pale and eyes hollowed and closed.

He feels the demon blood, distantly, burning holes in his control, in his flesh. It'll still be maybe another four, five hours before a dose that large starts to punch more holes in his unstable world. The top of his head is against Dean's thigh, and he eventually ends up muttering unintelligibly — too quickly to understand, too quiet to hear completely — until he eventually slips into sleep. At least, Sam hopes it's sleep. He doesn't understand what's happening. He just knows he's been quartered and ripped apart, dragging himself to find the missing bits.

Somewhere in his internal struggle, he curls his fingers tightly around the bottom of Dean's jacket.
ramble_on: fenostol (pic#6865077)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-22 09:51 am (UTC)(link)
Dean drives and sips holy water and watches Sam. Those three actions define him for the length of time it takes to get to the bunker. There is nothing but those actions and a distant sort of panic — a hum in the back of his mind.

They reach the bunker.

Dean sits for a minute. Forces himself to set the holy water down, but his fingers can't seem to let it go. He shifts, and they move over it. He shifts again, and they're drawn back. Finally, he makes himself part with it — climbs out of the car and walks around to get Sam.

He helps him inside. Leads him, and as soon as they're through the door, Dean wants to collapse.

They made it, but he feels no triumph.

He yells out for Kevin and Cas — anyone. Anyone who can help Sam.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-24 07:01 am (UTC)(link)
Kevin and Castiel are quick to appear, already anxious for the return of the brothers — and are immediately struck speechless by what they see. Castiel's brow is furrowed deep with paled misery at the sight of his friends, but he's speechless even as Kevin rushes forward to help steady Sam. "Oh my — Dean, what's going on, man? He's covered in blood — you're both — "

"Shut up and help move him to the bedroom," Cas suddenly says, all sharp and serious and full of angelic authority that he no longer truly possesses. Castiel moves to get the medical supplies they keep stored away, as Sam flinches with each step, not quite sure where they are right now, even though he sees everything picture perfect.

"It's okay, guys, we'll figure this out," Kevin says carefully, supportive. He helps slowly deposit Sam back onto his bed, not quite caring about staining the sheets right now. "Are you okay, Dean? You hurt anywhere...?" He's trying his damnedest not to ask what happened. What went wrong. Where he's been for so long. He notices the fact that Sam's hand is fisted still in Dean's jacket, not letting him budge an inch from him. So tightly, his knuckles are shivering and pale.

Sam looks up at him miserably, pleadingly. Actually at him, if only for a moment before the wandering unseeing stare returns.

Stay.

He can't be left alone again. He can't watch them take you again. Please.

Please.
ramble_on: <lj user="iconific"> (Default)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-27 04:41 am (UTC)(link)
He doesn't have the energy for this. Can't look any of them in the eye, can't answer those questions. Cas understands, though, and Dean feels overwhelming gratitude and grief at once. Cas will take care of Sam. Might not be great at it, but he'll learn, because Sam will need him to. Because Dean needs him to.

When they get to Sam's room, Dean shakes his head. It isn't about him, it's fucking stupid that Kevin is even asking about him to begin with. "Sam," is what he says in response. "Help him."

He did this. He ruined Sam.

Dean looks down at Sam's hand in his jacket, confused at first, because why the hell is he clinging? He needs to let go, so Dean can stop this, end it before it starts again, shut out the memory of everything that he did with his own hands, put a stop to it all before the demon blood —

Demon blood.

"Cas," Dean finally looks up and meets Cas' eyes. "Cas, he had — Abaddon —" No — I did it, he thinks. I fed it to him. But he just concludes with, "Demon blood," because Cas would understand. He's been there for it before.

Then his focus is back on Sam's grip. Kevin is saying something else, asking another question, but Dean can't hear him.

"Sam, no," Dean whispers, as though talking to a child, trying to pull his jacket away. "Let go." But he has a vice grip on him, so Dean jerks even harder. Cas puts a tentative hand on his shoulder, says, "Dean," quietly, to try and calm him, but Dean wrenches away from him and jerks his jacket even harder, making himself stumble because he's fucked up and weak and jonesing himself, the world tipping around him briefly, and Dean thinks he can smell blood, both demon and human, and see corpses, and he's yelling but he has no idea what he's saying.

Cas has a grip on his shoulders. Is trying to help him, murmuring his name. Kevin is staring, horrified into silence, and Dean is babbling, "Tell him no, Cas, tell him no."

Because Dean's resolve is breaking, but he can't. He can't be there for Sam, because he's the one who hurt him, and Abaddon is going to be back for him.

Holy water. He needs holy water.
collegedropout: (Default)

[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-27 05:37 am (UTC)(link)
"We will help you — and then you can decide what you wish to do, my friend," Castiel says carefully, but firm, loudly — Sam is not the only one suffering here, and Castiel can see it in Dean's eyes. Not merely mental anguish, either. "You have ingested demonic blood as well; we need to lock the both of you down."

Castiel's hands quickly grip on the sides of Dean's face, and he looks vividly into his wild eyes. "Dean." And because he knows how to re-focus him, he continues quickly, still trying to meet Dean's eye contact, "Sam is in a critical state as well right now — if you let go right now, I don't know how much of Sam will remain."

That much, he knows. Sam's clearly frantic now, and Castiel looks at Kevin. "We need to put them in rooms. Lock them down." He looks back at Dean, shaking his head. He sees it, in Dean's eyes. Finality. Defeat. He's seen it so often in his hopeless stare before, but this is different; he knows it is. He knows if he doesn't do something, he won't have his friend much longer. Perhaps it is selfish, but Castiel can't lose them both in one day. Especially if Sam is truly unreachable...

"Don't make any choices at least until you and Sam are clean — please."

He needs Dean. Not just to reach Sam. He just — needs him here. He supposes he understands now, how complex it is, the brother's bond. Why they've done what they've done. That longing to tape and paste your world back together... his home is shut down, his species converted, his family gone. This is his family now, and... it's falling apart as well.

"I — " Kevin starts, unsure, and then clears his throat, "We need to clear out a room and get something comfortable for Sam to stay on. There's the rooms in the back... Safe rooms with the sigils." The young man turns his attention back to Sam, who's fervently mumbling latin and soft pleas for Dean to come back, rocking himself because nobody else can. Kevin places a hand on his shoulder, careful and calm now.

"Sam..."

"Dean," he keens, making Kevin flinch faintly. "De — Dean."

Sam is alone in his head. he's curled up and He's lost his grip on Dean, lost everything; it's all for naught, and he knows he's alone, well and truly. There's nothing left to fight for. There's nothing to hope for. He curls his fingers in his sweat-soaked hair and breathes like his throat is full of glass. The demon blood is starting to effect him. His entire large frame quakes violently on the bed and he's confused. He gulps for air and feels like none is going through.

Only, Sam can't comprehend why this is happening. He can't understand anything. So he simply suffers in the dark corners of his mind, crying out in confusion — why is this happening? What's wrong with him? He peels open his eyes and stares down at his knees that are slowly curling up into his ribs. Kevin tries to un-pry his posture back to something managable, because he has to be movable, but Sam just shakes his head and keeps doing that horrible breathing cry.

"No no no no no, I don't want to be alone, not again, don't leave me again — I can't do this again, I can't be alone, I don't, I can't, don't make me do this by myself — "

Kevin isn't so sure this is an improvement from the dull, listless stare or the mumbled latin.
Edited 2013-10-27 05:42 (UTC)
ramble_on: boomsticked (pic#6617270)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-28 08:06 pm (UTC)(link)
Dean stares at Cas uncomprehendingly, at first. Blankly — reigned in as Cas stares into his eyes, holding his face, no longer yelling or pleading. But confused, because he's the worst possible solution for Sam. Because Sam doesn't — shouldn't — need this from him. He's bad for Sam, he did this to Sam, and it seems like Cas should be able to understand that.

He hesitates, hearing Sam plead, and then finally, he nods. A slow bobbing motion that almost gets away from him, but an agreement. "After he's clean —" We, he thinks, but he doesn't amend his speech, because Dean can't even wrap his brain around the fact that he needs to detox, too. The thought doesn't take root the way it should. And he trails off, because Cas knows the rest of the deal.

After, and then he's going to go. Has to. They need to understand that, but maybe Dean will be able to explain it better when his mind is clear. Later.

"Okay. Okay."

Satisfied with that answer as a temporary solution, Cas tells Kevin to go ahead and get those rooms set up. Kevin leaves, and Dean sits on the bed next to Sam. His hands are shaking, but he uses one to take Sam's hand and guide it back to his jacket, so Sam can grab it again. Then he moves it to his back and rubs small, jerky circles that probably aren't all that soothing. "Sammy," Dean mumbles, feeling terrible for doing this to him, for not leaving when he should, because that would be so much better. Better for Sam, better for all of them. "I'm still here."

He looks up at Cas, again. "Cas, I need —" He struggles, because it's becoming a little more difficult to think clearly. His hand clenches against Sam's back. "Holy water," he finally manages, still honed in on that compulsion. It makes him feel better, because it's proof that he is himself, that Abaddon is gone. Even if she can't get into the bunker, even if he hasn't felt her since the warehouse.

Cas watches him for a moment, but then says, "I will have Kevin get you some." He doesn't want to leave Sam and Dean unattended yet — not with Sam in his state, and Dean so ready to leave. He lingers, and Dean looks away from him, forcing himself to look at Sam again.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-10-31 03:13 am (UTC)(link)
Sam's hand immediately grips hard, clumping the jacket in his trembling hold. His hair and skin is slick with sweat and sticky with blood, but even with the roughness of Dean's touch he's trying to flip himself back over to look at his brother — it hurts and it dirties the sheets of his bed even worse off, but he manages, burying his face in the side of Dean's leg and wrapping his other arm over his brother's lap.

don't, he wants to start, but nothing happens but a low, miserable sound. Castiel's retrieving the holy water, and Sam's still 'missing', still not sure where he is. He thinks maybe he's six or seven — is he? How old is he? How old should be be? He shivers and shakes, his body already stuttering with the refreshed desire for blood. He doesn't want it. He just wants to wake up. Why is that so hard...?

"S'dark — not bright, can't see where to go..." His voice is a rasping noise, like the air is too heavy and full of splinters. "I can't get out... can't... omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursios'dark — dark —"
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938226)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-10-31 09:14 pm (UTC)(link)
Dean fades for a while.

He doesn't know what happens, except that someone puts holy water in his hands and he takes to sipping it, just like in the car, over and over again. It makes him feel better, makes him feel secure and safe, like he can drape his free hand over Sam's arm and keep it there without being a threat. He's still shaking, still buzzing with the aftereffects of having ingested the blood and killed too many people, but this feels better, somehow.

There's murmuring in his ear, and the next thing he knows, he and Sam are being moved across a hall, down to another room. Rooms. Dean doesn't know, but he won't let himself be separated from Sam, this time. Cas told him — Cas said they had to stick together, so he clings to Sam just as Sam clings to him, and before long, they're locked in a room together — a room free of anything that they can use to hurt themselves.

"Dean." Dean comes to, a little, to recognize Cas' voice, and he blinks and tries to focus on that, on Cas, because he knows it is important, but there's this itch inside of himself, and he feels like he's going to shake himself to death if he keeps going this way.

"Dean, you and Sam need to get clean." Dean tries to focus, he really does, pulling together his grit and determination, but he can't. He can't come to enough to take in Cas as well as Sam, and he promised about Sam, so he's caught with Sam as his focus, Sam's hand grabbing his jacket and his own hand grabbing Sam's. This is what is important.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-11-01 05:08 am (UTC)(link)
Sam hasn't clung to Sam like this in a long time, not even when Lucifer had risen or he was about to be torn apart by the trials. But now he's got his arms around his brother, huddling close and breathing achingly. This is Dean -- Sam knows it's Dean. It's Dean. "It's okay, it's okay... D -- It's dark, Dean. Where are we...? It's dark..." He can't see. He's not sure what's happening. His whole body shakes while a fever sets in, and then he starts to see.

Only, everything is all wrong, all fake. He sees Jess on the ceiling and Dean on the floor, sees the impending laughter of Lucifer before fingers touch his jawline. "Dean... Dean, he's here. He's here... Dean -- "

He pulls at Dean, pale, heart rumbling in his chest.

"Don't look; it'll burn your eyes. Just don't look..."

It'll go away, sooner or later. Sam remembers the other times, even now.
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[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-11-01 06:26 am (UTC)(link)
Dean feels hot and cold at once, and fuck, this is awful. His stomach churns, and he shakes even worse than he did when he was detoxing in Purgatory. That had been bad — DTs and not being able to tell the real monsters from the fake ones — but Dean hadn't made the connection. Hadn't realized that what he went through there was exactly what Sam had been through more than once, bound and screaming. He realizes it now, though, in a far-off part of his brain that still, somehow, is jumping to form connections. That wants to force logic into what is going on, while the rest of his mind is grasping to hang on.

Dean blinks through sweat and closes his eyes and tries to just ride it out. That's all he can do. He doesn't know when Cas leaves. Doesn't hear the door shut.

But Sam is talking. Really talking, this time, not the rambles of Latin and pleading. Dean forces open his eyes, again, and brings his arms around Sam, trying to rub circles again, to be comforting. "Sammy, there's nothing —"

But when he looks, there's something, it just isn't bright light and menacingly angelic. It's dark and bloody and reminscent of time in Hell and time spent as a demon's meatsuit, and Dean has to let go of Sam to find where he put the holy water, because he needs it, because what if she is there again, because what if it's been him who has been demonic all along? He shifts just far away from Sam to squint in the dark, to grope for the bottle.
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[personal profile] collegedropout 2013-11-03 07:44 am (UTC)(link)
Sam clamps his hands over his ears. A mewling, miserable noise forces out of his throat through dry lips; he doesn't feel the burns and slice marks carefully bandaged on his body, just the heat inflicting his muscles and brain, the scream of want in his mind that is quickly turning his stomach into mush in his guts. Lying down on his side against the wall, he curls up and whispers no no no, a pleading repetition. He's not all there enough to battle this with a stiff upper lip; he never was.

He sobs and eventually he's crying hard, so hard he's nearly convulsing, trying desperately to push Lucifer and Dean and Abaddon and Castiel and everyone out of his head, from hurting him again. He screams and cries and begs, pathetically clawing fingers against his ears, faintly gouging at the hairline and jawline there. His face turns red.

"Please don't -- " he croaks, and then his back snaps up, arched high off the floor like something's ripping through his entire body; hands are still on his ears but his head tilts back, mouth opened in a silent wail of pain. It happens again, again, and then the shadows all press around him and he feels Dean's knife listing through his skin, inch by slow inch. Dean smiles, and Sam knows it's not really him. It's too easy to see.

"Stop it, just stop it--" Say it, Sam. Say the truth. "Stop, don't make him, don't make him do this; I'm the bad one. I'm the bad one--" He can move his legs so he suddenly stumbles and crawls away into the furthest corner, face practically pressed into the crease where the walls meet. His breaths come in short gasps, like he's swallowing thick, tangible air. "God, stop... Leave him alone, just stop... Just stop... No more blood -- no more... I don't want it, I was doing good, I stopped..."

He gasps a breath.

"I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't want to drink it... M'sorry -- I didn't want to, I swear I'm not -- using again --" Reality blurs and bends. Is he younger Sam, sucking down poison from Ruby's arm? Is he the Sam locked in the Panic Room, seizing and vomitting and screaming for him? He's not sure. He's so fucking cold, though. So cold...

"It's too bright, I can't see it's too bright; it's too bright..." The room is heavily shadowed, grey and dark, lifeless. He runs his hands over the walls, as if trying to find a door, or perhaps trying to push the very wall away. Instead, he just leaves small smears of blood from places where the small wounds have reopened from his thrashing. He can't see Dean. He's right near him, but he can't see him. No, Sam's detoxing in his own mind, where his conscious hides. "Too bright..."
ramble_on: <lj user="bushyeyebrows"> (pic#6938241)

[personal profile] ramble_on 2013-11-07 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
Dean finds the holy water, and puts it to his lips, but the moment it sloshes against his tongue, he feels like he's going to be violently sick. It takes everything in his power not to vomit, gasping and leaning over, body still shaking. He can't — can't drink it, and that sends a jolt of fear straight through him, because what if.

What if.

His mind is racing through the possibility that he could be wrong all over again, and then all of a sudden it feels like he is wrong. He's wrong, and there's something inside of him that needs out, and there's a reason they would strap down Sam when it came to detoxing. Because Dean wants to rip into himself and pull it out, wants to get free of it once and for all.

He hears Sam, though. Through it all, he hears Sam, and while it doesn't fix anything — while his mind still hums with the panic — it's enough to bring Dean into the present. Allow him to crawl over to Sam, into that corner, mumbling, "Sammy. Sammy." Over and over again, because words are hard to force out right now, but that one comes easy. It's the only one that's ever come easy, even back then, after Mom, when Dean didn't want to talk.

He touches Sam on the chest, moves his hand to his shoulder, grips it and repeats Sam's name. He wants to tell him that nothing is wrong, but everything is wrong.

But they're here. They're together.

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ugh my heart

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cas pov leave me alone

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timeskip?

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