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hybridshade <<-- back to part one
=///=
It was taking longer than expected.
The first batch Sam completed, having waded through the entire file collecting every semi-evident partial-instruction he could find, had been unstable nearly from the start. The blue-tinged mixture had ended up all over the bench and in puddles on the floor, damaging a lot of equipment – it was just a good thing it wasn't flammable. The second lot, however, Sam was more sure about. He made a few tweaks of his own design where some of the original notes had been unclear, and was pleased to find the resulting liquid to be both uniform and stable. He wasn't about to go throwing it back like some diesel-fuel whiskey, though. He had a mind to run several tests first; just to be sure the mixture was what he supposed it was. The only downside being that it would take some time.
In the meantime he continued his study of Paradise's biocompatible materials and all the horrible, ingenious things that had been inelegantly shoved inside his brother.
Access to Dean had been even more restricted since his first escape attempt-slash-attack, and Sam had only put eyes on him the once since then. He'd only gotten as far as the corridor – enough to have seen Dean's sleeping form through the large glass windows – before he'd been ushered back out by one of the guards. The doctors had apparently been trialling Dean on various doses of the sedative Sam had reconstructed, but he'd received no word on whether it was working as they'd hoped.
Out of the blue another alarm sounded. He'd ignored the last two but had decided there wouldn't be a third. Sam hurried along to the restricted area and pushed through the doors without a second thought, following the sounds of chaos until he came upon the guards trying to hold Dean's attacks at bay. They'd seemingly developed a bit of a routine by then, but Dean's mind had cottoned on to what they were doing – their hand gestures and formations were textbook – and Sam watched as his brother slipped easily out of the fray and began edging down the opposite direction. Towards Sam.
It gave him a chance to give Dean the once-over, a chance to note the complete lack of bandages or tell-tale signs of how bruised and beaten he'd been hardly two weeks before. He wore sweats with the HUNT logo on them – oversized, though it didn't seem to hinder his movements – and while his feet were bare, his hands were covered in what looked like cotton gloves. He'd seen at least one of Dean's hands ungloved the other day, so Sam had to wonder if there was something the matter with his circulation or his skin.
Moments later the guards turned and charged after him, and Dean motioned as if to break into a run, but suddenly caught sight of Sam and it stopped him dead in his tracks. They both remained still and staring at each other as the guards gathered around – preparing for a fight, but thankfully not instigating one.
Dean didn't even blink.
“Do you know who I am?” Sam dared to ask.
Dean’s head ticked slightly to the side as if contemplating the possibility that he did. The corners of his lips slid downward and his brow-line curled into a deep furrow, thinking hard. But apparently the memory refused to come to the fore, and Sam could pinpoint the precise moment when the frustration hit and the rage took over again, Dean lashing out with his fists. Thankfully the guards were at the ready and were able to sedate and relocate Dean in a matter of moments.
“Interesting.”
Sam whipped around to find Castiel standing a few steps behind him.
"Usually once he's raging the only thing that will stop him like that is the tranquiliser."
"So that was new behaviour, then."
"Yes, indeed."
"Good."
"You should be careful, though. Making yourself known to him could make you a target in is mind. And you probably shouldn't call him Dean. Last time someone called him that it did not end well - but whatever memory or emotion the name itself triggers in not yet clear."
"Is that what they called him there, maybe?"
Cas shook his head regretfully. "Not that I ever heard. Azazel was fond of 'Dean-o', but I hear it was Lilith that started calling him 'Pin-pin', as in short for 'pincushion'."
Sam grit his teeth, feeling angry on his brother's behalf. Dean had always hated cute nicknames. Only ever tolerated them from their father or Bobby. Likely Lilith had figured that out and had called Dean names just to antagonise him - she seemed an evil enough person to do such a thing.
He felt his fists squeeze tight with anger, his nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. "Well it seems they had a grand ole time sticking as many needles and scalpels in him as possible."
"Sam," Castiel said with a placating tone, "You can't blame yourself for what has been done to him. And you wont be able to fight this if all you feel is hatred and thirst for revenge. If anything, Dean needs calm, not violence."
Sam knew Cas was right. but he was too close to boiling-point to process the words at that moment. So he turned and walked away. Once Dean came back to some semblance of himself, no doubt he'd have enough thirst for revenge for the both of them.
=///=
He woke slowly to a room of muted greys and the smell of stale bleach.
Everything ached. Felt Heavy. And cold. Everything inside him was cold as ice.
But his skin was warm. Whatever he was dressed in was soft. And the sheets were crisp but thick.
He didn't know where he was, didn't know if it should feel familiar or not. He tried to remember something, anything, that came before, but it was like slamming into a big, black brick wall. That is, if a brick wall were as barren and frightening as a canoe floating alone in the middle of the ocean. But how could there be so much of nothing? He was. He was not nothing.
Gritting his teeth he tried again, tried to remember.
And there. There he got a flash of something. Hazy, perhaps, and unfocussed, but there was a moment (maybe two) where there was light and a vague notion of a bed and a hard floor and dark shapes. People. Lots of people. Inspiring fear.
He forced his eyes wider and looked around as much as he could without moving his head. The bed he was in was pushed right against the wall, there was a table and two chairs, and a toilet and shower partially concealed by a thin barrier. For some reason the word 'hospital' came to mind. But was he sick? He didn't feel sick. Although the 'no memory' thing might have been a clue.
But no. He didn't know how he knew, but there were too many things at odds with a hospital scenario. A hospital would have a sharp, clean smell. A hospital would have him hooked up to those machines that beeped. A hospital wouldn't have security cameras at each end of the room capturing his every move.
The ache wouldn't let him keep still, so with great effort he pushed himself upright, shoulders sagging back against the wall with a dull 'thud'. He kicked the covers away to find his feet the only part of his body not covered – even his hands had gloves on them. With trepidation he tugged the fabric away. His right hand had some pronounced ridges along the back of it, but was otherwise fine. His left… stopped him breathing.
Three of his fingers were missing.
Or not missing. Because there were fingers there. Just not his. Not ones made of bone and flesh.
He stared blankly at the metal digits in their place. He bent them. Flexed them. Curled them into a fist. And they responded as though they weren't metal at all.
Following the raised seam of flesh they were embedded in brought him to a sectioned plate that covered most of his hand, almost as far as the wrist. It, too, seemed to move almost as fluidly as muscle. He pulled at the edges, but it barely shifted. Too deeply implanted into the skin.
He forced himself to blink. To inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Slow the racing heart rate.
Who? Where? When? How long?
There were too many questions.
He put the gloves back on so he didn't have to look. Then started patting all over every reachable part of his body from the neck down. There was something solid covering part of his left shoulder and upper arm. And in the middle of his lower back. And along the length of his left thigh. And knee.
How much of him was not him anymore?
Voices drifted toward him and he protectively pulled the sheets back over his lower body. A man and a woman, both dressed in suits, came to a stop outside the glass walls of his 'room'. Their conversation was low and too muffled to make out. Then suddenly another man walked into view. A taller man. With messy hair down past his ears. Not in a suit. The man looked straight at him. And he couldn't help the distinct feeling that he knew this man. Despite that it was impossible. He couldn't know someone he didn't remember. His head hurt.
The suited man and woman walked over to him. Started talking to the man in clipped tones. The man frowned and answered back as if he were angry about something.
The man stayed where he was as the suited couple moved to the door and entered into his secure room with a third man in tow – dressed all in black and wearing a utility belt around his waist. He didn't dare move as the man in black came closer and closer, kneeling at his bedside and then moving his hands so quick he missed the purpose of the action completely.
He felt the after effects, though. Immediately his limbs seemed to go limp, muscles failing to respond, and he had a hard time holding his head up straight.
"I'm Dr Masters. But you can call me Meg if that's more comfortable."
The woman took hold of one of the two chairs in the room and tugged it closer to his bedside.
"I'm hoping we might be able to have a chat. Nothing too serious. I'm supposed to try and get inside your head, but I think that's a little too much too fast, don't you?"
She took a small device from her pocket and pressed a button.
"There are better ways to get a feel for someone's mindset than just burrowing your way inside. Subtler ways. Subtle seems like it might be a good fit for you."
She leaned closer.
The man outside was watching him intently through the glass. Eyes earnest and pleading.
He liked the feeling of those eyes on him.
He would have reached for him if he could.
"So. Why don't we start with something easy."
The woman smiled.
"Why don't you tell me your name, hmm?"
The fire spilled up out of nowhere, raging and hot.
Suddenly the bindings were gone from his limbs and he was reaching.
For her throat.
=///=
Another night. Another nightmare. Another failed night's sleep.
Sam looked to his laptop, to the 'secure' feed of Dean's room that he'd finally managed to hack into. His brother was still out cold. Sedated. He could almost have laughed when Dean had lunged at that Masters woman earlier in the day (and maybe he would have if Dean were closer to being in his right mind). She was some fancy shrink HUNT had brought in, supposed to be able to coax victims of trauma out of their shell. She'd done a real bang up job, there. Sam had to wonder if she were a crock. Or maybe she'd been there for a whole other reason than what she'd said. Working in the spy business, it paid to ask the question.
Either way, Sam was determined to get himself into that room somehow. He had no idea what might get Dean to react, but he thought he'd do a damn sight better than dear Dr Masters had.
Certain there was no more sleep to be had, Sam pushed himself wearily to his feet and pulled on a jacket and shoes. He wandered down the hall, down into his lab, and stopped in front of his vaccine fridge.
He stared through the glass, stared at the half-dozen pre-prepared syringes sitting there. Mocking him.
He quickly pulled one out, jabbed it into the crook of his arm, and depressed the plunger before he could think better of it.
=///=
He went the very next day.
Sam wasn't so rusty that he'd forgotten how to watch his periphery, so it was matter of moments for him to walk up to the door of the containment room, key in the code Dr Masters had used the day before, and take his first step towards his brother without a single obstacle in his way.
Dean didn't appear scared of him, only wary, and he watched with interest as Sam took careful paces across the room until he met the wall and slid down to the floor, leaning against it. For several long minutes they simply stared at one another – Dean completely still, and Sam failing miserably at his attempt to not fidget. He couldn't hold back the anticipation, the eagerness to get some sort of acknowledgement from Dean. But Sam also knew that he was unlikely to get the reaction he subconsciously so desired. Trying to be rational about the situation was already a failed endeavour, because there was simply nothing rational about the entire situation whatsoever.
Maybe his brother was in there, inside that shell of a man curled in the corner of the bed and wrapped in blankets. He was just buried so deep down, locked up behind so many door's worth of brainwashing and experimental drugs and torture and fear.
Dean had never been the type to scare easy. Or, at least, he'd been an expert at hiding it. Whenever Sam had been on the verge of a freakout, Dean had always been the one to punch him in the arm, giving him a gruff 'stop being a pansy and suckitup!' All those cases from their youth – the breaking and entering, the data hacking, the espionage, the guns the knives the explosives – all of it had come so naturally to Dean. That wasn't to say that Sam hadn't been good at it, because that would have been a lie, but he did have to work at it harder to bring himself up to Dean's level. He'd had to prepare himself mentally and physically before each mission, go over every schematic, every personnel file, and consider the likelihood of every probable outcome. Dean was more the sort to fly by the seat of his pants. Not that he didn't do his research. He absolutely did. It was just that he was more content to compromise, to make things up as he went, play it by ear. And he was a pro at stalling for time.
That was what made him a natural fit at his job. And part of the reason why Sam had wanted out of the life for so long. That and the constant threat of death - of Dean's death - had been something he could only stomach to a point.
It had been Sam's dirty little secret. And he'd had enough of those as it was.
But the idea that he might have wanted a 'normal' life? A life where he could have a backyard with a dog, and neighbours and friends and a career that he didn't have to lie about? That was about as big a sin as he could possibly have committed according to one John Winchester. Sam had never told his dad, not in a million years, but he'd heard enough of his father's impassioned rants about the ignorance of the people, about the 'pretty little lives' they lived, to know better than to say anything.
And now look at them.
They were wanted men. Hunted by some cult organisation that had probably been on their trail for as long as Sam had been alive.
The notion held Sam's heart in its icy grip for an extended moment.
The spell was broken by the sound of shifting blankets and the creaking of metal. Dean had moved to the opposite corner of the bed, closer to where Sam was perched against the wall. He said nothing – far as Sam knew he hadn't said anything coherent the entire time he'd been back at HUNT – but the curiosity in his eyes was enough to bring Sam out of his thoughts a little.
He and Dean had always had a knack for 'reading' each other, for not needing to exchange words to know what the other was thinking.
The Dean there in that room, his body language was not the same as the one he'd once been so familiar with. And yet, Sam didn't believe that deciphering it was beyond him. He had to believe there was still a sliver of his brother in there somewhere. As soon as he stopped believing that? It was all over.
"I shouldn't be in here," Sam said suddenly, his voice sounding strangely loud in the confined space.
Dean didn't react.
"I think – I hope - that they're just doing their job. Trying to protect us. You. They have to keep everything contained until they know everything that was done to you. I mean… it's all precautionary, mostly. And diagnostic. The whole isolation thing is… protocol. They need to moderate what happens and when. And who. They'll probably have to come and drag me out of here soon since I'm not on the short list."
He glanced back up at Dean from where he'd been staring at the floor. Dean just blinked.
"I don't want to go, though. I mean, they weren't letting me in here at all, which is why I had to sneak in. They don't get that I need to be in here. With you. Not that I can blame them. You can't blame someone for not knowing, right? They all know me as Agent Sam Campbell. Only that's not my real name. And they don't know that. I don't know what they'd think if they did know who I really was. Maybe they'd let me stay… but I'm not sure. My name has… connotations. It's a dangerous name. I want to tell it to you, but I don't want to hurt you."
The ensuing silence was pronounced. Maybe a little expectant. And definitely tense.
Sam breathed out audibly.
"I know a lot about you," he said, much more quietly this time. Sharing a secret. "I know nearly everything about you actually. I've… been a coward in a lot of ways. I need to make amends for that. Dunno how. I'd say 'I'll do anything' but somehow I don't know if 'anything' would really mean all that much… But what I'm saying is that I'm not leaving you, okay? I'm going to watch out for you and I don't care what they think about it. They already think I'm a nutcase as it is. But I also think the most important thing here is that… when you're ready, when you tell me to, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I promise."
Dean's eyes were watching him intently by then. Sharp.
It shook Sam. Prompting him to think back to the original scans he'd looked at, and the swell of fear they'd stirred within him. The MRI scan they'd done of Dean's brain had been incomplete. Supposedly he'd been sedated through the whole process, but Dean had somehow woken slightly and had become too agitated for them to continue. Still, there'd been enough slices to see the majority of the damage that had been done. And again, Sam was no expert when it came to brain physiology, but he knew enough to know that Dean should not have been able to follow his conversation as he had been. Sure he hadn't said anything, but Sam just knew that he'd understood every word. There was no doubt in his mind.
Sam scrolled quickly through the possibilities of what might have been going on. He decided that the sedation mixture he'd recreated was partly to blame. But also… was it possible that Dean's brain was healing itself? Was his enhanced healing ability trying to fight back somehow?
He'd been about to say something more when there came the slam of a door from somewhere outside.
Immediately Dean's body tensed, eyes darting towards the door of his room, likely in anticipation of an attack. And he wasn't too far wrong.
"Just stay there and stay calm, okay?" Sam urged as three guards entered the room looking all-business. One kept his focus trained on Dean as the other two approached Sam's sides and hauled him bodily to his feet. Sam pleaded to Dean with his eyes, and thankfully he did as Sam had asked. But it didn't stop the guard from being a bit rough with Sam. Any attempt he made to reclaim his limbs was met with resistance. So he gave in. Let them all but carry him down the hall and up in the elevator, right to Bobby's door.
And Bobby was not pleased.
"I want unrestricted access," Sam cut in before his pseudo-uncle could speak, "Somehow he's healing himself. He was listening to every word I said down there. Understanding every word. This despite all the scarred brain tissue. And I think that sedation formula needs to be altered. I think it's poisoning him. I won't take no for an answer, Bobby."
Bobby slumped back in his chair and scratched at his beard.
"Whatever. It's not like anything I say is gonna stop ya anyhow. I'll put yer name on the list tomorrow, y' goddamn idjit."
=///=
The first injection had been all anxiety, no aftermath.
The fear of what it might do had far outweighed any effects that actually came to pass – which was strangely none at all.
The second… was like ribbons of ice skittering through his veins.
The third had him reaching depths of pain he'd never known.
His body all but demanded he stay in bed in the dark, at world's end. But Dean was still out there, in need. And that was enough of a motivation to have him fighting mind over body any day of the week. He felt like an old man as he forced himself upright – hunched over and shuffling, barely able to lift a foot off the ground. But the longer he was moving the better he felt.
Castiel found him at some point and started fussing like an overprotective parent. But somewhere around lunchtime Sam finally managed to brush the guy off. He had things to achieve of a sort that Castiel unfortunately could not help him with. Or more to the point, things that Castiel would not approve of.
It took Sam four days to realise that he'd gone those same four days with barely the threat of a migraine.
=///=
Now that his memory had started to be a memory again, he almost wished it hadn't.
It meant he was remembering that there existed periods of light and dark, periods of awareness and non-awareness. He remembered that there were good days where the people in white coats left him alone, and there were bad days where they would poke and prod him until he snapped. Then the cold sting of a needle would be the only thing pushing him back to earth again.
He also remembered about the dreams. The dreams themselves were nothing but a blackened blur that hovered over him like a cloud on a string. But he would wake from that blackness with a dying scream in his throat and his limbs tied up in knots amongst the sheets. That is, if the sheets were even still intact and not merely shreds. The feeling of despair would linger for a long time after he woke and pulled himself together. An oppressiveness that plagued those punched-out holes of his memory, taunting him with the heavy secrets it held and all the time he'd lost.
The drugs that they gave him were good for numbing the pain. Several times he'd started kicking and screaming, throwing things, just so the guards would race in to pin him down and dose him. Then he'd be there on the bed, maybe on the floor, lying still for hours on a floating sea of nothingness.
He thought sometimes that the drug sliced even more holes in the bare scraps of his brain. But the problem with that was that he could never be completely sure.
There was one thing he did learn to be sure about, though: Agent Sam Campbell.
The Agent always made sure to introduce himself and make sure he was at ease before he came into the room and sat down. He had even managed to respond with a nod on several occasions, to which Sam had replied with a wide smile – a sad smile, he thought, but still a smile. They never smiled much at all. Never a real smile.
From the beginning he'd begun to associate Sam with a level of calm he only wished he could maintain.
Sam would ramble on about anything and everything – even those things that made him angry or upset. But he never found himself feeling angry or upset in turn. Only a sense of closeness that took root and grew to fill him completely. It made him want to be a part of those words. A part of those rambling, immaterial stories.
And one day he dared to make a change.
Sam had his head propped back against the wall, his knees bent up against his chest, his eyes closed. He reached out with a finger, slowly, carefully, and brushed it across Sam's cheek.
The words stopped and Sam's eyes opened. Shocked.
He retreated.
"No, no. Don't hide again."
Sam leaned forward but then stopped himself.
"You…I—You can touch me, y'know? If you want. You can poke me or tickle me or… how about you touch my hand?"
He drew forth his courage and placed the flat of his right hand atop Sam's. And Sam laughed.
"This is so amazing. You're so amazing."
It played out in similar ways over the next few visits. Holding hands, patting shoulders… And Sam was never cross if he retreated again.
The scars. The metal. His secrets were exposed eventually.
It was his foot (of all things) that gave it away. His left ankle had a mess of scarring all over one side. Something in the back of his mind supplied the word 'explosion', but of course he couldn't really be sure.
Sam didn't shy away, though, only tugged back parts of his clothing so that he could show him his own scars.
"We all get hurt sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed about." Sam bit his bottom lip between his teeth. "And I… I know about the other stuff. About the metal implants. I've seen the x-rays and things. You can show me if you ever want to, but you don't have to."
He did want to. So he pulled the cotton glove from his left hand and shoved it in Sam's face. If he wanted to look, stare, condemn, then so be it.
Yet he did none of those things. Instead, Sam took his hand between his own larger ones and held him gently. He stroked around the edges of the scar tissue. Smoothed his thumb over the metal plates until they warmed to body temperature.
"You'll never change my mind, jerk," Sam whispered under his breath, almost so soft that he didn't catch it at all. And maybe he wasn't supposed to. But while it at once confused him, it also reminded him of what Sam had said back in that first time he'd stolen in to his room.
I know nearly everything about you.
Eventually Sam would get up to leave.
And he would reach out to grab Sam by the wrist before he could get too far.
His voice would be hoarse from lack of use, but he'd force it out.
"Thank you, Sam."
A squeeze.
"Come back, Sam."
=///=
Sam couldn't get the images, the feelings, out of the forefront of his mind. It was right there and so strong that he almost couldn't put one foot in front of the other, almost couldn't put the right button in the right button hole, almost couldn't feed himself a bowl of cereal without nearly missing his mouth completely.
Dean might not have been the same Dean, but it was still the same flesh on his bones, and still the warmth of his touch against Sam's hands, despite the frequent interruption of metal. Sam was a sad and desperate man, and he would take what he could get. Anything to conjure those memories – the ones where Dean was writhing against him, calling his name in that husky tone he was so familiar with, clawing at his body to pull it closer. He recalled the sting of Dean's nails cutting into his back, and that tight heat clenching around him…
True arousal coiled in his stomach for the first time in weeks. He gripped it tight and held it close, like a whisp of smoke clutched against his chest.
Sam felt himself drifting into thoughts of days gone by, the clandestine heat of the nights in between, and he abandoned himself to it.
Through corridors and stairwells, he wandered aimlessly. Only stopping when he reached what otherwise looked like a dead end.
Except it wasn't.
Sam broke from his thoughts through a flash of recognition, remembering the couple of times he had been guided down this way when he was much younger. He found the concealed latch and pried open the long-closed door, revealing what looked like a flight of emergency stairs. He followed them down as far as they went, pushing through one more door to find himself in a storage room the size of an Olympic swimming pool. It smelled musty and stale, probably having remained untouched for a decade or more. He wouldn't be surprised if Bobby were the only remaining agent to know of its existence.
There were so many things down there he would've loved to have found if he'd had the time. But with the state of the world – Sam's world – as it was, there really was only one matter worth searching for.
=///=
"Agent Campbell, is it?"
Sam turned to face the man approaching him. He was fit, dark haired, with an angular face. Handsome. It was the white coat he wore that had Sam's hackles rising, however. "Who're you?"
"Dr Michael. Pleasure to meet you. I've been watching your interactions with Agent Winchester recently and I must say, he seems to be quite taken with you. Opening up where the rest of us have only failed."
"Oh. So you're Dr Masters two-point-oh."
He barely managed to hold back a smirk when he caught the irritated twitch of Dr Michael's eye.
"I suppose you could say that. But unlike Dr Masters, I'm more than willing to work with you. I want to help Agent Winchester as much as anyone, but at present the only microphones in his room are up high and they miss most of the conversation between you two. I'd like to ask you to wear a mic next time you go in with him so that we can properly analyse what you say to him and how it affects—"
"Sorry. Dr Michael, was it?"
"Yes?"
"Fuck off."
=///=
Sam began to visit even more often.
For some reason it bothered him that all his 'visitors' usually wore either some sort of suit or a lab coat, but Sam always came in wearing denim and flannel. He was supposed to be an Agent but somehow got away with not acting like any of the other Agents he'd encountered. It was just another reason to single out the man from the rest of the pack.
It wasn't the only odd thing about him, either. Lately, every time he arrived at his door, the first thing he would do was throw an item of clothing or a pillowcase over the two cameras situated in the corners. Then he would fold his long legs beneath him and sit on the floor by his bed, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him down onto the floor to Sam's side. That was where he was warmest. The solid ice beneath the layers of his flesh would thaw just for those short whiles. The impeding cold that gripped him through all his waking moments let him breathe a little easier.
Their fingers would tangle together – flesh and flesh and metal and flesh – and with the cameras covered it was as though it were their little secret. They existed in some small bubble apart from the rest of the universe, just the two of them. At the time it was breathtaking, but it wasn't until Sam had gone that it would hit him how frightening and strong his desire was. Sam was the sole string keeping him from falling into the abyss below. And it was a precarious position.
Indeed, the need became so great that he almost allowed it to cloud his judgment altogether. But one moment, hearing the sound of Sam coughing, cleared the fog.
Sam was sick.
He had a hard time reconciling what that meant, precisely, but his head told him he was right. That there was something very wrong. He brushed his fingers along the dark smudges under Sam's eyes.
"Yeah, I know. Not sleeping well."
He nodded. He could relate.
"You as well? Mm. Maybe you get nightmares like me, sometimes, too? I keep dreaming about shit that happened in the past but I keep remembering it differently every time. It's weird and it freaks me out, y'know?"
He squeezed Sam's hand and dropped his head on Sam's shoulder. And they remained in silent repose until Sam had to leave.
But just. One more thing.
A most important thing that couldn't wait anymore.
"Sam. You know me. Right?"
So many nods and so many touches.
"Tell me my name. Please."
=///=
Another injection.
He had to do at least six for it to take, going by the Paradise files.
The pain was a monster. And his migraines had come back with a vengeance.
The pain, he could take. It was a punishment. And a catharsis. And an incentive.
But the storm raging in his head?
He didn't know what he was doing anymore. Except that he knew more clearly than ever.
He pressed the plunger down.
=///=
His vision was shadowed and fuzzy as he wandered through the corridors.
Had he been a stubborn fool again? Knowing what was in his body… Did it make it better? Was he somehow more in control? Or had he played right into their fucking trap?
Yes, it was hard to think with his body, his head, behaving the way it was. But he was doing a lot of thinking all the same.
Through the fog, his theory was taking shape. The reasoning seemed sound. He could just about prove it. But would anyone believe him?
Sam stumbled suddenly and braced himself against the wall. It wasn't the first time he'd done that of late. But when the second wave rocked the floor beneath him where he stood, he realised he wasn't the one at fault this time.
As fast as he dared he was stumbling down the stairs and pushing his way onto the restricted floor. The fire alarm was blaring, and Sam felt the cold wetness seeping into his clothes as the overhead water sprinklers sprayed down. Heading towards Dean's room he was met with the sight of walls caved in, collapsed ceilings, and vents and wires draping down to the ground like glittering vines.
It only made him move all the faster.
Someone from Paradise must have found them.
Someone had figured out where they were holding Dean and they wanted him back.
This time they'd have to go through Sam first.
He was ready for a fight when he rounded the corner and stalked towards Dean's room. But there was a figure in the way. A familiar one.
No.
"Well, looky here. It's my boy, all big and grown up."
"…Dad? What… How."
John only grinned and clenched his fists together.
"I've been looking for you, boy. Abandoned your daddy, didn't you? But now you've come crawling back… I'd say a punishment's in order. There's no prodigal son business allowed here."
Sam watched in horror as his father stalked around him in a circle, eyeing him like he was prey strung up and ready for the slaughter. But Sam eyed him back. Because the man in front of him was not the father he'd once known. This was… his mind playing tricks. TYes, his John had been heavy-handed and determined to the point of his own detriment, but the man in front of him was crazed and unstable, his eyes sparking from an insane fire that burned away inside. And more shocking than all of that was the state of his body. Where once there had been a right leg, there was now a completely mechanised prosthesis. As well as some kind of armour peeking out from under his shirt.
"Yeah, I got a few extra features now, kiddo. But you been gone a while. You missed out on all the fun."
Sam wheeled back as John came for him. His training kicked in as the first punch was thrown, but John was too amped-up. He was moving too fast. And when his fist connected with the side of Sam's head, he went down like a ton of bricks.
"Sam!"
His heart skipped a beat when he caught the sound of Dean's voice. He dared not look over for fear of drawing John's attention. But it was already too late.
"What have we here… Is that my Dean-o?"
"You stay away from him!"
Sam leapt onto John's back, hands around his throat, but a single punch sent him flying. His head connected with a wall somewhere and Sam heard the shattering of glass from nearby. He tried to move – he had to get to Dean – but his limbs simply refused to cooperate. Guards sprinted by, some coming, some getting the fuck out of dodge, but none dared interfere. Sam strained to listen, lying there with dire hopelessness building in his chest.
And then came the shot. A scream.
Fuck, no.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to see.
A warm, trembling body dropped at his side.
Dean with a smoking gun.
=///=
One last injection.
He was done. Complete.
And nothing.
No change.
No gain from the poison that plagued him. That he'd put inside himself.
What had he done?
=///=
"Jesus Christ, kid, you look like hell."
Sam forced a smile, wincing when the action pulled on the fresh stitches on the side of his scalp. "Good to see you, too, Bobby."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'd'a seen you yesterday 'cept the whole goddamn day went to shit no thanks to yer daddy. Who's batshit insane nowadays, in case you didn't get the memo."
"That's one way to put it," Sam said with a wry smile, "Least we know he's alive now, right?"
"So far as we know."
"What do you—"
"I mean yer daddy managed to escape early this morning. Son of a bitch could be Swiss cheese and he'd probably still crawl his way out somehow. Like a frickin' roach."
"Yeah, probably."
"So."
"So?"
"Out with it."
When Sam only blinked questioningly Bobby simply rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in disbelief.
"Ain't no way you traipsed all the way up here just to stare at my pretty face, so start talkin'."
"Fine," Sam huffed, "Tryin' to figure a few things out, actually. Like why my family are being targeted."
"You know why. The Winchester name is almost synonymous with the HUNT Corps and has been for decades. Anyone out there who's on our radar would be more than happy to take a bite outta any one o' you without bothering to ask questions. Not to mention that between Mary and John and you boys, there's a whole lot of families and factions and cults and whatever else out there that's probably still thirsting for revenge."
"Maybe. But…"
"What? Somethin' smells different this time?"
Sam bit his lip pensively. "Do you think there's any way to know for certain how many times we've come into contact with Paradise before?"
"So you… You think that Paradise might have been after you lot this whole time?"
"Why not? I dug up some old case files the other day, looked into what went on around the time Mary got killed. She wasn't the only HUNT agent infiltrating their ranks at the time, as you'd know, but she did make the biggest mess. She brought the whole of Lilith's perfect little scheme crashing down. And in my mind she's the one driving this thing to begin with. I'd bet she's got Azazel and Uriel wrapped around her pinky finger. I also think their world domination plot is actually secondary to their main objective – which is to make us suffer."
Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Sam for a long time.
"Sam, I don't want you to think I don't believe you 'cause that's not what I'm sayin', but I want you to eat something and then get some rest. Alright? I wasn't kidding when I said you look like hell. I just want you to rest up and then come back to me with a clear head - preferably one without stitches in it. Then we can talk."
The sound of his chair scraping back on the floor was obnoxiously loud, but Sam paid it no mind as got to his feet and left the room without turning back. It was already late – after the insanity that was the day before, he'd slept much of the current day away. That was what Bobby seemingly didn't understand. He was sleeping, he was eating (when he got around to it), it was bad science and separation that were killing him.
Knowing and dreading the next step, he took himself down to Medical and slipped into one of the empty radiology rooms. He booted up the computers and the lone x-ray machine, thankful that he was familiar with the process from back at RANSID. He draped the protective cloak around his shoulders and moved the control panel closer so he could operate it from the bed. He took pictures from several different angles and then returned the computer desk. And held his breath.
Just as he'd suspected – and feared – there it was. So small, yet so menacing. His proof.
=///=
Sam's eyes were glossy and bloodshot, his skin a shade of pale that looked bordering on green. Leaning against him he could hear the effort behind every one of Sam's breaths.
Whatever was afflicting him was getting worse.
Sam refused to talk about it, though, despite Dean's incessant worry. Sam just looked at him for a long while, a half-smile half-grimace on his face, and then changed the subject.
The fear of death was in his eyes, though. Sam could change the subject, but he couldn't change that.
Dean sighed.
Everything had changed over the previous few days.
Sam telling him his name had settled something secure yet foreboding in Dean's stomach. The beginning of the end. Before his name he'd just been 'him' and 'you' and 'subject', and he'd thought of himself in much the same way. Now there was something of substance to connect himself to, something that was all his own. And 'Dean' sat around his shoulders like a favourite t-shirt – well-worn and comfortable. It frightened him just how easily he suddenly associated himself with that name. It convinced him just that little bit more that Sam was everything Dean hoped he was. That Dean really was his real name. And it was so ingrained in him that it just felt right, no matter that he couldn't remember much of anything from before a few weeks ago.
Then there had been the crazed man two days before, who had broken into the building they were in, destroying everything in his path. And he'd known him. Had called him Dean. Had called Sam 'my boy'. That alone had stirred Dean's thoughts into an unrecognisable stew. But of course, he couldn't forget about the leg. The man's leg, all metal and mechanical, just like Dean, only more. All he could figure was that they had been created in the same sort of place. He needed to know if that maniac had been made just like himself. But it wasn't as if just anyone was going to answer his questions. Not with Sam being the only one in the entire place who talked to him like a real person.
He looked out the windows and watched the men and women working to clean up the mess outside and put it back into some semblance of order. It was going to take a long time by the looks of it. And it wasn't as if you could just ask any old handyman to come in and help fix your top secret facility.
"Agent Campbell!"
They both startled as Sam's name was called. And Sam quickly picked himself up and hurried out into the hallway.
Dean leaned over to watch, noting that Sam had quite obviously left the door open behind him, but Dean made no move to try and escape this time. For Sam's sake, he wasn't going to do that again.
He listened to the conversation between Sam and the other man, but couldn't make out many of the words. The other man was angry, though. Not quite 'throw your fists' angry, but he was definitely not happy. The man pulled on Sam's shoulder, bidding him to follow, but Sam turned back to Dean in distress. No, Dean didn't want to be parted from him, either.
The man yanked on Sam again, and this time it was hard enough to trip Sam up. Some men were working just behind them and a mop and bucket went toppling over. Sam slipped in the soapy water and Dean watched in slow motion as Sam's body went horizontal in the air, also sending one of the workers stumbling to his knees.
Sam came down with a hard thump, and suddenly the roof above seemed to give. Dean leapt to his feet, sprinting out into the hallway, but even with his extra strength he wasn't able to reach Sam in time to push him out of the way. Plasterboard and plastic and loose cables dropped down from above, landing on Sam and in the puddle he was lying in. The air around them seemed to snap, and Dean watched as the puddle – with Sam in it – became electrified.
Sam was out cold, yet his body still spasmed and jumped.
Dean knew he shouldn't get near, but he did it anyway. He threw himself on top of Sam and picked him up into his arms. The electricity surged into him through Sam's wet clothing and skin, and Dean was pulled down in kind, limbs shuddering and shaking beyond his control.
The lights went out. The whole grid going down.
Sam came to with a gasp.
"Sammy?"
"Oh, shit, Dean. It hurts. Hurts so bad." Sam's body was holding taut like a guitar string, and still shaking. "I should've… I can feel it… I... I'm sorry. I've been dosing myself. Made more of the serum they put in you. Put it in me. Can feel it. It hurts, Dean. I'm sorry."
Their hands clasped together, sending a zap through both their arms. And then Sam was out cold again, his whole body now limp and heavy.
Dozens of guards appeared to surround them from out of nowhere, and Dean watched with dismay as they pulled Sam from his arms and moved him away and out of sight.
"Gonna be fine, Sammy."
=///=
"Where is he?"
"Gone."
"What do you mean gone—"
"I mean, last night he somehow got out of his cage and crawled through a goddamn air vent until he found a way out. Out out. Outside, out."
Sam pursed his lips. "Then I guess I've got somewhere to be."
"Oh, no," Bobby warned as Sam turned back out the door to his office, "I've already got Agents on this. Good Agents. You are grounded, you stubborn little bastard. You're sick and injured. Not only a head wound, but you got electrocuted for crying out loud. Most people wouldn't have survived that, let alone being up and about a day later and desperate to go hunting down their crazy cyborg brother who doesn't even know who he is anymore. I am not letting you risk your life like this when we have no idea how dangerous Dean is right now. Just no."
Sam began moving again and Bobby swore, slamming his hand against a button under his desk.
Immediately a wall of steel dropped down in the hallway outside. And another further along. And another. It was a lockdown.
"Just try and stop me," Sam seethed, slamming his hands against the nearest barricade and forcing his energy into its core.
Sparks flew from the edges, and after a moment of stillness, all the visible barricades started to rise straight back up again. Sam scowled as he threw a look back over his shoulder, inwardly revelling in Bobby's surprise. Bobby was a good guy, with experience on his side, and he would do anything to protect those he cared about. Sam got that. But he also had no option where Dean was concerned.
He headed towards his room to grab his stuff and found Castiel by his door.
"I had been intending to ask if you needed any help… But apparently not."
"Thanks, Cas. But I got this one."
"Whatever you say, Agent. Give me a call if you need anything."
=///=
Sam took one step into the house and was immediately tackled to the ground. He threw his own weight into it and sent himself and his assailant rolling across the floor, crashing into walls and tables and chairs.
They split and quickly bounced back onto their feet. There was barely enough light to see, so a lot of their punches were near-misses, knuckles just grazing across the surface. But Sam thought he had it when he swiftly kicked out at a leg and sent the other guy sprawling.
Oh, how wrong he'd been.
Two smooth, clean chops of the hand and Sam was grasping at his side as he tumbled to the floor. His opponent sent them rolling again, landing himself on top of Sam's chest.
It was eerily reminiscent of a time long ago.
"Dean?"
His opponent snorted.
"Gotcha."
"So it…" Sam had to pause to swallow the tears, "It’s really you? Like, you you?"
"The one and only."
"Oh... Oh, god, Dean. Thank fuck."
Sam reached out to touch, to pull his brother into his arms, but Dean reeled back too quickly.
"You came back, then."
It took a moment to get where Dean was coming from, then mentally slapped himself. But of course his being gone for ten years was an elephant they were going to have to live with one way or another. "I'm so fucking sorry, Dean. I hate myself for leaving like I did, although maybe I would've hated myself more if I didn't… I don't know. It… doesn't matter. I mean, it does. But I'm here now… Look. I'll-... I'll go if you want me to. Just say so, and I'll leave."
"Don't," was all he said.
Extracting himself from their tangle on the floor, Dean rolled away but remained within reach, only facing in the opposite direction. Dean had always had a hard time staying face to face when he had something serious to say.
"Not gonna change my mind this time, bitch."
The words were soft and barely audible, and Sam gasped when he remembered his own words from several weeks prior.
"You remember that…"
"Amongst other things."
"Jesus."
"Ain't gonna save us now."
Dean heaved a long sigh in the following silence, raking notably ungloved fingers through his own hair.
"So. Lots of crap has apparently gone down since you got back. Start talking."
"You sure you're up for that right now—"
"I can handle myself. Not gonna fall apart. But I gotta know, 'cause for a moment there you looked about to die in my arms. What's going on with you, Sam?"
"The real truth?" Sam grit his teeth, hating that Dean was diverting the attention, making it all about Sam when he should have been the one seeking solace. Comfort that he more than deserved. "Is that Paradise – those motherfuckers who took you – have been after us since we were kids. Kids, Dean. Thirty years ago they were killing babies and our mother died to stop them. Then they sent assault after half-assed assault, only to be put down by Bobby and Dad. And when we were kidnapped that last time. Do you remember?"
Dean's jaw clenched. "I remember enough. What's your point."
"That was them, Dean. Different lackeys but still under the domain of Heaven's Paradise. They'd been trying to get back at our family and HUNT the whole time. But do you know why they won that particular round? They put fucking chips in our heads. Microchips! In our heads!"
"Sam, you're—"
"I'm not losing it, Dean. I did the x-rays myself, and there it was. Right where my head wound was. For ten years I've been getting debilitating migraines because of that tiny thing! And I'd bet my soul that you've got one, too. I don't know what they were planning with it. To control us, or track us maybe. But they're there, I swear it."
"But they…" Dean sucked in a breath and looked down at his hands. Metallic fingers flashing in the near-dark. "They didn't finish my head scan, did they? I don't remember much, but I remember the pressure. Made my arms go crazy and I couldn't control it."
"The MRI machine probably interfered with whatever electrical signals are running through your body."
"Right. Microchips. Probably got fried by the electric shock, though, right? So now what?"
"You kidding me? We get revenge, that's what."
Even in the low light, Dean's smile lit up the room.
"Full of good ideas these days, ain't ya, Sammy?"
He turned his body and crawled slowly back over to where Sam sat on his knees. His hands curling around Sam's neck.
"Well," Sam gulped, "Your ideas aren't all bad?"
"You gonna let me kiss you? If I wait any longer I might just die."
Sam skipped a step and dove straight in for his brother's mouth, sucking at his lips almost violently. Dean gave as good as he got, though, pulling Sam roughly against him and tangling his fingers through Sam's hair. Their tongues warred and embraced in equal measure, sliding between their mouths and urging them in deeper.
"C'mon, more."
He had no idea who voiced the thought, but clearly they were both thinking it as Dean sent them both sprawling to the ground, arms flying everywhere as they scrambled to pull off their shirts. Dean got there first, throwing his shirt to the side and moving to straddle Sam's hips so he could help. They both groaned aloud as their groins rubbed together, but Dean held Sam at bay when he moved to tug at the waistband of Dean's sweat pants.
"You're…" Dean swallowed nervously, "Okay with this? With me?"
Sam made a point of running his hands over Dean's back and shoulder where the metal plating was exposed. He knew Dean must have felt pretty self-conscious about it all. He often was when it came to his looks. But it was always something he would angst over in secret, never letting anyone in on his true insecurity. Sam could only hope Dean might just let him in this time around.
"You're as much you as you ever were. And I know it's going to take time to adjust - for both of us - but I've never wanted you more."
"As long as it doesn't weird you out too much. 'Cause if we keep going and you freak out when it counts, I will never ever—"
"Dean, are you trying to tell me you've got a chrome dick, now?"
"No!" Dean spat, "What the fuck?"
"Well, then it's no big deal. So chill. It's just me, okay? Think about how much shit we've been through together, and yet here we are."
"Such a girl, Sammy."
Dean relented and allowed Sam to peel away his pants, Dean helping him to kick off his own. Then they rolled together, just skin on skin, hard cocks pressed close between their stomachs.
"Been dreaming of this for ten years," Sam gasped.
"Yeah. I've been waiting for you."
Dean's body buzzed like static every instance Sam's fingers brushed across his armour. Whatever had been making Sam sick, and whatever had been holding Dean's memory captive, it had all crumbled away when they'd been struck by that electric charge. And as well as Sam's new affinity for electricity, it had also made Dean all the more sensitive wherever he had the metal plates on the surface. Somehow they were a perfect match.
"C'mon, Dean, touch me."
Eager to push to the finish line, Dean reached down, only to be stopped by Sam's intense gaze.
"No. The other one."
Groaning with want, he switched hands, slipping his left down between their bodies and looping his fingers around both their cocks, squeezing them together. Sam throbbed in his grasp, hips reflexively thrusting forward and further against the metal of Dean's fingers, searching for more. Happy to oblige, he kept his fist tight and strokes firm as he jerked them off together, Sam's hands keeping a tight grip on his thighs. It tingled with every sweeping touch across the thick plating over his left thigh, and he had to look away from his brother's face, finding himself too close to the edge, too soon.
"Don't hold it in, Dean. Wanna see you."
Even when they'd done it before, back when they'd been the greatest HUNT team ever but barely more than teenagers, and yet so sure of what their bodies wanted, Sam had always known what to say to him. He'd always had the right words, always known just the right places to touch. Dean still hadn't forgiven him for leaving – that was going to take some time and extreme patience and probably some breathing exercises – but it didn't mean he wasn't going to throw himself back into Sam's embrace. Dean was quite aware he was selfish and stupid in a lot of ways, but even though the resentment was still there, he'd been too long without his brother to make himself suffer any longer than he had to.
More to the point, he knew what he wanted.
And Sam was just as well-aware. His hands were restless, his cock so close to blowing it all, but he just had to get inside Dean. Just a little bit. Just the tip of a finger as he smoothed his hands over the perfect curve of Dean's ass, and his fingertips circled over the furl of his entrance, clinging tight when Dean jolted in surprise. He knew how Dean loved to be played with like that, and true to form, Sam had barely pushed in to the second joint before Dean was coming. Pearly drops spilling over both their torsos.
The sight alone was probably enough for Sam, but Dean's hand kept moving, and his head dropped back as he let go. He added to the mess, and a heavily-panting Dean bent down for a non-serious attempt at clean up.
"Still taste good, little bro."
After, Dean fell back onto the floor and tried to stop the oncoming freakout from bowling him over. He'd needed that. Had needed his brother close like that. But Dean still had a lot on his mind and a lot of shit he had to sort through. Not the least of which was that his body was no longer completely the body he'd always known. He wasn't really sure how he was supposed to go about getting over that sort of thing – he was pretty sure the HUNT Medical team didn't have a textbook on that one – but all he could think was that blowing some crap up would probably help. Destruction was always a winner.
"Dean?"
"Man, don't you be thinking that I ain't gonna bust your ass to hell when this second-honeymoon phase is over. You've got ten years to atone for."
Sam was silent for a long moment.
"I know. I figure I'll be playing catch up for probably the next ten years, too. But I think I'm okay with that."
"Yeah, you better."
=///=
Dean stood back and propped his hands on his hips. Yeah, his handwriting was still as shitty as it'd always been, but just so long as it got the job done, right?
"So this is all of it?" Sam gestured to the mess of paper and string and red marker pen tacked to the cork-board.
"As much as I can remember. I'd reckon it's maybe ninety, ninety-five percent?"
"Good enough for me."
Sam bent down to get a better look, committing all the marked sites to memory. There were over fifty of them, dotted all across the country.
They'd decided that as part of their self-appointed therapy, they were going to tear Heaven's Paradise to shreds, one underground bunker at a time.
Sure they had stuff to work through together, and more issues than National Geographic, but Dean was right for once – blowing crap up was a nice temporary reprieve from the pain.
~end.
=///=
It was taking longer than expected.
The first batch Sam completed, having waded through the entire file collecting every semi-evident partial-instruction he could find, had been unstable nearly from the start. The blue-tinged mixture had ended up all over the bench and in puddles on the floor, damaging a lot of equipment – it was just a good thing it wasn't flammable. The second lot, however, Sam was more sure about. He made a few tweaks of his own design where some of the original notes had been unclear, and was pleased to find the resulting liquid to be both uniform and stable. He wasn't about to go throwing it back like some diesel-fuel whiskey, though. He had a mind to run several tests first; just to be sure the mixture was what he supposed it was. The only downside being that it would take some time.
In the meantime he continued his study of Paradise's biocompatible materials and all the horrible, ingenious things that had been inelegantly shoved inside his brother.
Access to Dean had been even more restricted since his first escape attempt-slash-attack, and Sam had only put eyes on him the once since then. He'd only gotten as far as the corridor – enough to have seen Dean's sleeping form through the large glass windows – before he'd been ushered back out by one of the guards. The doctors had apparently been trialling Dean on various doses of the sedative Sam had reconstructed, but he'd received no word on whether it was working as they'd hoped.
Out of the blue another alarm sounded. He'd ignored the last two but had decided there wouldn't be a third. Sam hurried along to the restricted area and pushed through the doors without a second thought, following the sounds of chaos until he came upon the guards trying to hold Dean's attacks at bay. They'd seemingly developed a bit of a routine by then, but Dean's mind had cottoned on to what they were doing – their hand gestures and formations were textbook – and Sam watched as his brother slipped easily out of the fray and began edging down the opposite direction. Towards Sam.
It gave him a chance to give Dean the once-over, a chance to note the complete lack of bandages or tell-tale signs of how bruised and beaten he'd been hardly two weeks before. He wore sweats with the HUNT logo on them – oversized, though it didn't seem to hinder his movements – and while his feet were bare, his hands were covered in what looked like cotton gloves. He'd seen at least one of Dean's hands ungloved the other day, so Sam had to wonder if there was something the matter with his circulation or his skin.
Moments later the guards turned and charged after him, and Dean motioned as if to break into a run, but suddenly caught sight of Sam and it stopped him dead in his tracks. They both remained still and staring at each other as the guards gathered around – preparing for a fight, but thankfully not instigating one.
Dean didn't even blink.
“Do you know who I am?” Sam dared to ask.
Dean’s head ticked slightly to the side as if contemplating the possibility that he did. The corners of his lips slid downward and his brow-line curled into a deep furrow, thinking hard. But apparently the memory refused to come to the fore, and Sam could pinpoint the precise moment when the frustration hit and the rage took over again, Dean lashing out with his fists. Thankfully the guards were at the ready and were able to sedate and relocate Dean in a matter of moments.
“Interesting.”
Sam whipped around to find Castiel standing a few steps behind him.
"Usually once he's raging the only thing that will stop him like that is the tranquiliser."
"So that was new behaviour, then."
"Yes, indeed."
"Good."
"You should be careful, though. Making yourself known to him could make you a target in is mind. And you probably shouldn't call him Dean. Last time someone called him that it did not end well - but whatever memory or emotion the name itself triggers in not yet clear."
"Is that what they called him there, maybe?"
Cas shook his head regretfully. "Not that I ever heard. Azazel was fond of 'Dean-o', but I hear it was Lilith that started calling him 'Pin-pin', as in short for 'pincushion'."
Sam grit his teeth, feeling angry on his brother's behalf. Dean had always hated cute nicknames. Only ever tolerated them from their father or Bobby. Likely Lilith had figured that out and had called Dean names just to antagonise him - she seemed an evil enough person to do such a thing.
He felt his fists squeeze tight with anger, his nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. "Well it seems they had a grand ole time sticking as many needles and scalpels in him as possible."
"Sam," Castiel said with a placating tone, "You can't blame yourself for what has been done to him. And you wont be able to fight this if all you feel is hatred and thirst for revenge. If anything, Dean needs calm, not violence."
Sam knew Cas was right. but he was too close to boiling-point to process the words at that moment. So he turned and walked away. Once Dean came back to some semblance of himself, no doubt he'd have enough thirst for revenge for the both of them.
=///=
He woke slowly to a room of muted greys and the smell of stale bleach.
Everything ached. Felt Heavy. And cold. Everything inside him was cold as ice.
But his skin was warm. Whatever he was dressed in was soft. And the sheets were crisp but thick.
He didn't know where he was, didn't know if it should feel familiar or not. He tried to remember something, anything, that came before, but it was like slamming into a big, black brick wall. That is, if a brick wall were as barren and frightening as a canoe floating alone in the middle of the ocean. But how could there be so much of nothing? He was. He was not nothing.
Gritting his teeth he tried again, tried to remember.
And there. There he got a flash of something. Hazy, perhaps, and unfocussed, but there was a moment (maybe two) where there was light and a vague notion of a bed and a hard floor and dark shapes. People. Lots of people. Inspiring fear.
He forced his eyes wider and looked around as much as he could without moving his head. The bed he was in was pushed right against the wall, there was a table and two chairs, and a toilet and shower partially concealed by a thin barrier. For some reason the word 'hospital' came to mind. But was he sick? He didn't feel sick. Although the 'no memory' thing might have been a clue.
But no. He didn't know how he knew, but there were too many things at odds with a hospital scenario. A hospital would have a sharp, clean smell. A hospital would have him hooked up to those machines that beeped. A hospital wouldn't have security cameras at each end of the room capturing his every move.
The ache wouldn't let him keep still, so with great effort he pushed himself upright, shoulders sagging back against the wall with a dull 'thud'. He kicked the covers away to find his feet the only part of his body not covered – even his hands had gloves on them. With trepidation he tugged the fabric away. His right hand had some pronounced ridges along the back of it, but was otherwise fine. His left… stopped him breathing.
Three of his fingers were missing.
Or not missing. Because there were fingers there. Just not his. Not ones made of bone and flesh.
He stared blankly at the metal digits in their place. He bent them. Flexed them. Curled them into a fist. And they responded as though they weren't metal at all.
Following the raised seam of flesh they were embedded in brought him to a sectioned plate that covered most of his hand, almost as far as the wrist. It, too, seemed to move almost as fluidly as muscle. He pulled at the edges, but it barely shifted. Too deeply implanted into the skin.
He forced himself to blink. To inhale. Exhale. Inhale again. Slow the racing heart rate.
Who? Where? When? How long?
There were too many questions.
He put the gloves back on so he didn't have to look. Then started patting all over every reachable part of his body from the neck down. There was something solid covering part of his left shoulder and upper arm. And in the middle of his lower back. And along the length of his left thigh. And knee.
How much of him was not him anymore?
Voices drifted toward him and he protectively pulled the sheets back over his lower body. A man and a woman, both dressed in suits, came to a stop outside the glass walls of his 'room'. Their conversation was low and too muffled to make out. Then suddenly another man walked into view. A taller man. With messy hair down past his ears. Not in a suit. The man looked straight at him. And he couldn't help the distinct feeling that he knew this man. Despite that it was impossible. He couldn't know someone he didn't remember. His head hurt.
The suited man and woman walked over to him. Started talking to the man in clipped tones. The man frowned and answered back as if he were angry about something.
The man stayed where he was as the suited couple moved to the door and entered into his secure room with a third man in tow – dressed all in black and wearing a utility belt around his waist. He didn't dare move as the man in black came closer and closer, kneeling at his bedside and then moving his hands so quick he missed the purpose of the action completely.
He felt the after effects, though. Immediately his limbs seemed to go limp, muscles failing to respond, and he had a hard time holding his head up straight.
"I'm Dr Masters. But you can call me Meg if that's more comfortable."
The woman took hold of one of the two chairs in the room and tugged it closer to his bedside.
"I'm hoping we might be able to have a chat. Nothing too serious. I'm supposed to try and get inside your head, but I think that's a little too much too fast, don't you?"
She took a small device from her pocket and pressed a button.
"There are better ways to get a feel for someone's mindset than just burrowing your way inside. Subtler ways. Subtle seems like it might be a good fit for you."
She leaned closer.
The man outside was watching him intently through the glass. Eyes earnest and pleading.
He liked the feeling of those eyes on him.
He would have reached for him if he could.
"So. Why don't we start with something easy."
The woman smiled.
"Why don't you tell me your name, hmm?"
The fire spilled up out of nowhere, raging and hot.
Suddenly the bindings were gone from his limbs and he was reaching.
For her throat.
=///=
Another night. Another nightmare. Another failed night's sleep.
Sam looked to his laptop, to the 'secure' feed of Dean's room that he'd finally managed to hack into. His brother was still out cold. Sedated. He could almost have laughed when Dean had lunged at that Masters woman earlier in the day (and maybe he would have if Dean were closer to being in his right mind). She was some fancy shrink HUNT had brought in, supposed to be able to coax victims of trauma out of their shell. She'd done a real bang up job, there. Sam had to wonder if she were a crock. Or maybe she'd been there for a whole other reason than what she'd said. Working in the spy business, it paid to ask the question.
Either way, Sam was determined to get himself into that room somehow. He had no idea what might get Dean to react, but he thought he'd do a damn sight better than dear Dr Masters had.
Certain there was no more sleep to be had, Sam pushed himself wearily to his feet and pulled on a jacket and shoes. He wandered down the hall, down into his lab, and stopped in front of his vaccine fridge.
He stared through the glass, stared at the half-dozen pre-prepared syringes sitting there. Mocking him.
He quickly pulled one out, jabbed it into the crook of his arm, and depressed the plunger before he could think better of it.
=///=
He went the very next day.
Sam wasn't so rusty that he'd forgotten how to watch his periphery, so it was matter of moments for him to walk up to the door of the containment room, key in the code Dr Masters had used the day before, and take his first step towards his brother without a single obstacle in his way.
Dean didn't appear scared of him, only wary, and he watched with interest as Sam took careful paces across the room until he met the wall and slid down to the floor, leaning against it. For several long minutes they simply stared at one another – Dean completely still, and Sam failing miserably at his attempt to not fidget. He couldn't hold back the anticipation, the eagerness to get some sort of acknowledgement from Dean. But Sam also knew that he was unlikely to get the reaction he subconsciously so desired. Trying to be rational about the situation was already a failed endeavour, because there was simply nothing rational about the entire situation whatsoever.
Maybe his brother was in there, inside that shell of a man curled in the corner of the bed and wrapped in blankets. He was just buried so deep down, locked up behind so many door's worth of brainwashing and experimental drugs and torture and fear.
Dean had never been the type to scare easy. Or, at least, he'd been an expert at hiding it. Whenever Sam had been on the verge of a freakout, Dean had always been the one to punch him in the arm, giving him a gruff 'stop being a pansy and suckitup!' All those cases from their youth – the breaking and entering, the data hacking, the espionage, the guns the knives the explosives – all of it had come so naturally to Dean. That wasn't to say that Sam hadn't been good at it, because that would have been a lie, but he did have to work at it harder to bring himself up to Dean's level. He'd had to prepare himself mentally and physically before each mission, go over every schematic, every personnel file, and consider the likelihood of every probable outcome. Dean was more the sort to fly by the seat of his pants. Not that he didn't do his research. He absolutely did. It was just that he was more content to compromise, to make things up as he went, play it by ear. And he was a pro at stalling for time.
That was what made him a natural fit at his job. And part of the reason why Sam had wanted out of the life for so long. That and the constant threat of death - of Dean's death - had been something he could only stomach to a point.
It had been Sam's dirty little secret. And he'd had enough of those as it was.
But the idea that he might have wanted a 'normal' life? A life where he could have a backyard with a dog, and neighbours and friends and a career that he didn't have to lie about? That was about as big a sin as he could possibly have committed according to one John Winchester. Sam had never told his dad, not in a million years, but he'd heard enough of his father's impassioned rants about the ignorance of the people, about the 'pretty little lives' they lived, to know better than to say anything.
And now look at them.
They were wanted men. Hunted by some cult organisation that had probably been on their trail for as long as Sam had been alive.
The notion held Sam's heart in its icy grip for an extended moment.
The spell was broken by the sound of shifting blankets and the creaking of metal. Dean had moved to the opposite corner of the bed, closer to where Sam was perched against the wall. He said nothing – far as Sam knew he hadn't said anything coherent the entire time he'd been back at HUNT – but the curiosity in his eyes was enough to bring Sam out of his thoughts a little.
He and Dean had always had a knack for 'reading' each other, for not needing to exchange words to know what the other was thinking.
The Dean there in that room, his body language was not the same as the one he'd once been so familiar with. And yet, Sam didn't believe that deciphering it was beyond him. He had to believe there was still a sliver of his brother in there somewhere. As soon as he stopped believing that? It was all over.
"I shouldn't be in here," Sam said suddenly, his voice sounding strangely loud in the confined space.
Dean didn't react.
"I think – I hope - that they're just doing their job. Trying to protect us. You. They have to keep everything contained until they know everything that was done to you. I mean… it's all precautionary, mostly. And diagnostic. The whole isolation thing is… protocol. They need to moderate what happens and when. And who. They'll probably have to come and drag me out of here soon since I'm not on the short list."
He glanced back up at Dean from where he'd been staring at the floor. Dean just blinked.
"I don't want to go, though. I mean, they weren't letting me in here at all, which is why I had to sneak in. They don't get that I need to be in here. With you. Not that I can blame them. You can't blame someone for not knowing, right? They all know me as Agent Sam Campbell. Only that's not my real name. And they don't know that. I don't know what they'd think if they did know who I really was. Maybe they'd let me stay… but I'm not sure. My name has… connotations. It's a dangerous name. I want to tell it to you, but I don't want to hurt you."
The ensuing silence was pronounced. Maybe a little expectant. And definitely tense.
Sam breathed out audibly.
"I know a lot about you," he said, much more quietly this time. Sharing a secret. "I know nearly everything about you actually. I've… been a coward in a lot of ways. I need to make amends for that. Dunno how. I'd say 'I'll do anything' but somehow I don't know if 'anything' would really mean all that much… But what I'm saying is that I'm not leaving you, okay? I'm going to watch out for you and I don't care what they think about it. They already think I'm a nutcase as it is. But I also think the most important thing here is that… when you're ready, when you tell me to, I'll tell you whatever you want to know. I promise."
Dean's eyes were watching him intently by then. Sharp.
It shook Sam. Prompting him to think back to the original scans he'd looked at, and the swell of fear they'd stirred within him. The MRI scan they'd done of Dean's brain had been incomplete. Supposedly he'd been sedated through the whole process, but Dean had somehow woken slightly and had become too agitated for them to continue. Still, there'd been enough slices to see the majority of the damage that had been done. And again, Sam was no expert when it came to brain physiology, but he knew enough to know that Dean should not have been able to follow his conversation as he had been. Sure he hadn't said anything, but Sam just knew that he'd understood every word. There was no doubt in his mind.
Sam scrolled quickly through the possibilities of what might have been going on. He decided that the sedation mixture he'd recreated was partly to blame. But also… was it possible that Dean's brain was healing itself? Was his enhanced healing ability trying to fight back somehow?
He'd been about to say something more when there came the slam of a door from somewhere outside.
Immediately Dean's body tensed, eyes darting towards the door of his room, likely in anticipation of an attack. And he wasn't too far wrong.
"Just stay there and stay calm, okay?" Sam urged as three guards entered the room looking all-business. One kept his focus trained on Dean as the other two approached Sam's sides and hauled him bodily to his feet. Sam pleaded to Dean with his eyes, and thankfully he did as Sam had asked. But it didn't stop the guard from being a bit rough with Sam. Any attempt he made to reclaim his limbs was met with resistance. So he gave in. Let them all but carry him down the hall and up in the elevator, right to Bobby's door.
And Bobby was not pleased.
"I want unrestricted access," Sam cut in before his pseudo-uncle could speak, "Somehow he's healing himself. He was listening to every word I said down there. Understanding every word. This despite all the scarred brain tissue. And I think that sedation formula needs to be altered. I think it's poisoning him. I won't take no for an answer, Bobby."
Bobby slumped back in his chair and scratched at his beard.
"Whatever. It's not like anything I say is gonna stop ya anyhow. I'll put yer name on the list tomorrow, y' goddamn idjit."
=///=
The first injection had been all anxiety, no aftermath.
The fear of what it might do had far outweighed any effects that actually came to pass – which was strangely none at all.
The second… was like ribbons of ice skittering through his veins.
The third had him reaching depths of pain he'd never known.
His body all but demanded he stay in bed in the dark, at world's end. But Dean was still out there, in need. And that was enough of a motivation to have him fighting mind over body any day of the week. He felt like an old man as he forced himself upright – hunched over and shuffling, barely able to lift a foot off the ground. But the longer he was moving the better he felt.
Castiel found him at some point and started fussing like an overprotective parent. But somewhere around lunchtime Sam finally managed to brush the guy off. He had things to achieve of a sort that Castiel unfortunately could not help him with. Or more to the point, things that Castiel would not approve of.
It took Sam four days to realise that he'd gone those same four days with barely the threat of a migraine.
=///=
Now that his memory had started to be a memory again, he almost wished it hadn't.
It meant he was remembering that there existed periods of light and dark, periods of awareness and non-awareness. He remembered that there were good days where the people in white coats left him alone, and there were bad days where they would poke and prod him until he snapped. Then the cold sting of a needle would be the only thing pushing him back to earth again.
He also remembered about the dreams. The dreams themselves were nothing but a blackened blur that hovered over him like a cloud on a string. But he would wake from that blackness with a dying scream in his throat and his limbs tied up in knots amongst the sheets. That is, if the sheets were even still intact and not merely shreds. The feeling of despair would linger for a long time after he woke and pulled himself together. An oppressiveness that plagued those punched-out holes of his memory, taunting him with the heavy secrets it held and all the time he'd lost.
The drugs that they gave him were good for numbing the pain. Several times he'd started kicking and screaming, throwing things, just so the guards would race in to pin him down and dose him. Then he'd be there on the bed, maybe on the floor, lying still for hours on a floating sea of nothingness.
He thought sometimes that the drug sliced even more holes in the bare scraps of his brain. But the problem with that was that he could never be completely sure.
There was one thing he did learn to be sure about, though: Agent Sam Campbell.
The Agent always made sure to introduce himself and make sure he was at ease before he came into the room and sat down. He had even managed to respond with a nod on several occasions, to which Sam had replied with a wide smile – a sad smile, he thought, but still a smile. They never smiled much at all. Never a real smile.
From the beginning he'd begun to associate Sam with a level of calm he only wished he could maintain.
Sam would ramble on about anything and everything – even those things that made him angry or upset. But he never found himself feeling angry or upset in turn. Only a sense of closeness that took root and grew to fill him completely. It made him want to be a part of those words. A part of those rambling, immaterial stories.
And one day he dared to make a change.
Sam had his head propped back against the wall, his knees bent up against his chest, his eyes closed. He reached out with a finger, slowly, carefully, and brushed it across Sam's cheek.
The words stopped and Sam's eyes opened. Shocked.
He retreated.
"No, no. Don't hide again."
Sam leaned forward but then stopped himself.
"You…I—You can touch me, y'know? If you want. You can poke me or tickle me or… how about you touch my hand?"
He drew forth his courage and placed the flat of his right hand atop Sam's. And Sam laughed.
"This is so amazing. You're so amazing."
It played out in similar ways over the next few visits. Holding hands, patting shoulders… And Sam was never cross if he retreated again.
The scars. The metal. His secrets were exposed eventually.
It was his foot (of all things) that gave it away. His left ankle had a mess of scarring all over one side. Something in the back of his mind supplied the word 'explosion', but of course he couldn't really be sure.
Sam didn't shy away, though, only tugged back parts of his clothing so that he could show him his own scars.
"We all get hurt sometimes. Nothing to be ashamed about." Sam bit his bottom lip between his teeth. "And I… I know about the other stuff. About the metal implants. I've seen the x-rays and things. You can show me if you ever want to, but you don't have to."
He did want to. So he pulled the cotton glove from his left hand and shoved it in Sam's face. If he wanted to look, stare, condemn, then so be it.
Yet he did none of those things. Instead, Sam took his hand between his own larger ones and held him gently. He stroked around the edges of the scar tissue. Smoothed his thumb over the metal plates until they warmed to body temperature.
"You'll never change my mind, jerk," Sam whispered under his breath, almost so soft that he didn't catch it at all. And maybe he wasn't supposed to. But while it at once confused him, it also reminded him of what Sam had said back in that first time he'd stolen in to his room.
I know nearly everything about you.
Eventually Sam would get up to leave.
And he would reach out to grab Sam by the wrist before he could get too far.
His voice would be hoarse from lack of use, but he'd force it out.
"Thank you, Sam."
A squeeze.
"Come back, Sam."
=///=
Sam couldn't get the images, the feelings, out of the forefront of his mind. It was right there and so strong that he almost couldn't put one foot in front of the other, almost couldn't put the right button in the right button hole, almost couldn't feed himself a bowl of cereal without nearly missing his mouth completely.
Dean might not have been the same Dean, but it was still the same flesh on his bones, and still the warmth of his touch against Sam's hands, despite the frequent interruption of metal. Sam was a sad and desperate man, and he would take what he could get. Anything to conjure those memories – the ones where Dean was writhing against him, calling his name in that husky tone he was so familiar with, clawing at his body to pull it closer. He recalled the sting of Dean's nails cutting into his back, and that tight heat clenching around him…
True arousal coiled in his stomach for the first time in weeks. He gripped it tight and held it close, like a whisp of smoke clutched against his chest.
Sam felt himself drifting into thoughts of days gone by, the clandestine heat of the nights in between, and he abandoned himself to it.
Through corridors and stairwells, he wandered aimlessly. Only stopping when he reached what otherwise looked like a dead end.
Except it wasn't.
Sam broke from his thoughts through a flash of recognition, remembering the couple of times he had been guided down this way when he was much younger. He found the concealed latch and pried open the long-closed door, revealing what looked like a flight of emergency stairs. He followed them down as far as they went, pushing through one more door to find himself in a storage room the size of an Olympic swimming pool. It smelled musty and stale, probably having remained untouched for a decade or more. He wouldn't be surprised if Bobby were the only remaining agent to know of its existence.
There were so many things down there he would've loved to have found if he'd had the time. But with the state of the world – Sam's world – as it was, there really was only one matter worth searching for.
=///=
"Agent Campbell, is it?"
Sam turned to face the man approaching him. He was fit, dark haired, with an angular face. Handsome. It was the white coat he wore that had Sam's hackles rising, however. "Who're you?"
"Dr Michael. Pleasure to meet you. I've been watching your interactions with Agent Winchester recently and I must say, he seems to be quite taken with you. Opening up where the rest of us have only failed."
"Oh. So you're Dr Masters two-point-oh."
He barely managed to hold back a smirk when he caught the irritated twitch of Dr Michael's eye.
"I suppose you could say that. But unlike Dr Masters, I'm more than willing to work with you. I want to help Agent Winchester as much as anyone, but at present the only microphones in his room are up high and they miss most of the conversation between you two. I'd like to ask you to wear a mic next time you go in with him so that we can properly analyse what you say to him and how it affects—"
"Sorry. Dr Michael, was it?"
"Yes?"
"Fuck off."
=///=
Sam began to visit even more often.
For some reason it bothered him that all his 'visitors' usually wore either some sort of suit or a lab coat, but Sam always came in wearing denim and flannel. He was supposed to be an Agent but somehow got away with not acting like any of the other Agents he'd encountered. It was just another reason to single out the man from the rest of the pack.
It wasn't the only odd thing about him, either. Lately, every time he arrived at his door, the first thing he would do was throw an item of clothing or a pillowcase over the two cameras situated in the corners. Then he would fold his long legs beneath him and sit on the floor by his bed, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him down onto the floor to Sam's side. That was where he was warmest. The solid ice beneath the layers of his flesh would thaw just for those short whiles. The impeding cold that gripped him through all his waking moments let him breathe a little easier.
Their fingers would tangle together – flesh and flesh and metal and flesh – and with the cameras covered it was as though it were their little secret. They existed in some small bubble apart from the rest of the universe, just the two of them. At the time it was breathtaking, but it wasn't until Sam had gone that it would hit him how frightening and strong his desire was. Sam was the sole string keeping him from falling into the abyss below. And it was a precarious position.
Indeed, the need became so great that he almost allowed it to cloud his judgment altogether. But one moment, hearing the sound of Sam coughing, cleared the fog.
Sam was sick.
He had a hard time reconciling what that meant, precisely, but his head told him he was right. That there was something very wrong. He brushed his fingers along the dark smudges under Sam's eyes.
"Yeah, I know. Not sleeping well."
He nodded. He could relate.
"You as well? Mm. Maybe you get nightmares like me, sometimes, too? I keep dreaming about shit that happened in the past but I keep remembering it differently every time. It's weird and it freaks me out, y'know?"
He squeezed Sam's hand and dropped his head on Sam's shoulder. And they remained in silent repose until Sam had to leave.
But just. One more thing.
A most important thing that couldn't wait anymore.
"Sam. You know me. Right?"
So many nods and so many touches.
"Tell me my name. Please."
=///=
Another injection.
He had to do at least six for it to take, going by the Paradise files.
The pain was a monster. And his migraines had come back with a vengeance.
The pain, he could take. It was a punishment. And a catharsis. And an incentive.
But the storm raging in his head?
He didn't know what he was doing anymore. Except that he knew more clearly than ever.
He pressed the plunger down.
=///=
His vision was shadowed and fuzzy as he wandered through the corridors.
Had he been a stubborn fool again? Knowing what was in his body… Did it make it better? Was he somehow more in control? Or had he played right into their fucking trap?
Yes, it was hard to think with his body, his head, behaving the way it was. But he was doing a lot of thinking all the same.
Through the fog, his theory was taking shape. The reasoning seemed sound. He could just about prove it. But would anyone believe him?
Sam stumbled suddenly and braced himself against the wall. It wasn't the first time he'd done that of late. But when the second wave rocked the floor beneath him where he stood, he realised he wasn't the one at fault this time.
As fast as he dared he was stumbling down the stairs and pushing his way onto the restricted floor. The fire alarm was blaring, and Sam felt the cold wetness seeping into his clothes as the overhead water sprinklers sprayed down. Heading towards Dean's room he was met with the sight of walls caved in, collapsed ceilings, and vents and wires draping down to the ground like glittering vines.
It only made him move all the faster.
Someone from Paradise must have found them.
Someone had figured out where they were holding Dean and they wanted him back.
This time they'd have to go through Sam first.
He was ready for a fight when he rounded the corner and stalked towards Dean's room. But there was a figure in the way. A familiar one.
No.
"Well, looky here. It's my boy, all big and grown up."
"…Dad? What… How."
John only grinned and clenched his fists together.
"I've been looking for you, boy. Abandoned your daddy, didn't you? But now you've come crawling back… I'd say a punishment's in order. There's no prodigal son business allowed here."
Sam watched in horror as his father stalked around him in a circle, eyeing him like he was prey strung up and ready for the slaughter. But Sam eyed him back. Because the man in front of him was not the father he'd once known. This was… his mind playing tricks. TYes, his John had been heavy-handed and determined to the point of his own detriment, but the man in front of him was crazed and unstable, his eyes sparking from an insane fire that burned away inside. And more shocking than all of that was the state of his body. Where once there had been a right leg, there was now a completely mechanised prosthesis. As well as some kind of armour peeking out from under his shirt.
"Yeah, I got a few extra features now, kiddo. But you been gone a while. You missed out on all the fun."
Sam wheeled back as John came for him. His training kicked in as the first punch was thrown, but John was too amped-up. He was moving too fast. And when his fist connected with the side of Sam's head, he went down like a ton of bricks.
"Sam!"
His heart skipped a beat when he caught the sound of Dean's voice. He dared not look over for fear of drawing John's attention. But it was already too late.
"What have we here… Is that my Dean-o?"
"You stay away from him!"
Sam leapt onto John's back, hands around his throat, but a single punch sent him flying. His head connected with a wall somewhere and Sam heard the shattering of glass from nearby. He tried to move – he had to get to Dean – but his limbs simply refused to cooperate. Guards sprinted by, some coming, some getting the fuck out of dodge, but none dared interfere. Sam strained to listen, lying there with dire hopelessness building in his chest.
And then came the shot. A scream.
Fuck, no.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to see.
A warm, trembling body dropped at his side.
Dean with a smoking gun.
=///=
One last injection.
He was done. Complete.
And nothing.
No change.
No gain from the poison that plagued him. That he'd put inside himself.
What had he done?
=///=
"Jesus Christ, kid, you look like hell."
Sam forced a smile, wincing when the action pulled on the fresh stitches on the side of his scalp. "Good to see you, too, Bobby."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'd'a seen you yesterday 'cept the whole goddamn day went to shit no thanks to yer daddy. Who's batshit insane nowadays, in case you didn't get the memo."
"That's one way to put it," Sam said with a wry smile, "Least we know he's alive now, right?"
"So far as we know."
"What do you—"
"I mean yer daddy managed to escape early this morning. Son of a bitch could be Swiss cheese and he'd probably still crawl his way out somehow. Like a frickin' roach."
"Yeah, probably."
"So."
"So?"
"Out with it."
When Sam only blinked questioningly Bobby simply rolled his eyes and threw his hands up in disbelief.
"Ain't no way you traipsed all the way up here just to stare at my pretty face, so start talkin'."
"Fine," Sam huffed, "Tryin' to figure a few things out, actually. Like why my family are being targeted."
"You know why. The Winchester name is almost synonymous with the HUNT Corps and has been for decades. Anyone out there who's on our radar would be more than happy to take a bite outta any one o' you without bothering to ask questions. Not to mention that between Mary and John and you boys, there's a whole lot of families and factions and cults and whatever else out there that's probably still thirsting for revenge."
"Maybe. But…"
"What? Somethin' smells different this time?"
Sam bit his lip pensively. "Do you think there's any way to know for certain how many times we've come into contact with Paradise before?"
"So you… You think that Paradise might have been after you lot this whole time?"
"Why not? I dug up some old case files the other day, looked into what went on around the time Mary got killed. She wasn't the only HUNT agent infiltrating their ranks at the time, as you'd know, but she did make the biggest mess. She brought the whole of Lilith's perfect little scheme crashing down. And in my mind she's the one driving this thing to begin with. I'd bet she's got Azazel and Uriel wrapped around her pinky finger. I also think their world domination plot is actually secondary to their main objective – which is to make us suffer."
Bobby crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Sam for a long time.
"Sam, I don't want you to think I don't believe you 'cause that's not what I'm sayin', but I want you to eat something and then get some rest. Alright? I wasn't kidding when I said you look like hell. I just want you to rest up and then come back to me with a clear head - preferably one without stitches in it. Then we can talk."
The sound of his chair scraping back on the floor was obnoxiously loud, but Sam paid it no mind as got to his feet and left the room without turning back. It was already late – after the insanity that was the day before, he'd slept much of the current day away. That was what Bobby seemingly didn't understand. He was sleeping, he was eating (when he got around to it), it was bad science and separation that were killing him.
Knowing and dreading the next step, he took himself down to Medical and slipped into one of the empty radiology rooms. He booted up the computers and the lone x-ray machine, thankful that he was familiar with the process from back at RANSID. He draped the protective cloak around his shoulders and moved the control panel closer so he could operate it from the bed. He took pictures from several different angles and then returned the computer desk. And held his breath.
Just as he'd suspected – and feared – there it was. So small, yet so menacing. His proof.
=///=
Sam's eyes were glossy and bloodshot, his skin a shade of pale that looked bordering on green. Leaning against him he could hear the effort behind every one of Sam's breaths.
Whatever was afflicting him was getting worse.
Sam refused to talk about it, though, despite Dean's incessant worry. Sam just looked at him for a long while, a half-smile half-grimace on his face, and then changed the subject.
The fear of death was in his eyes, though. Sam could change the subject, but he couldn't change that.
Dean sighed.
Everything had changed over the previous few days.
Sam telling him his name had settled something secure yet foreboding in Dean's stomach. The beginning of the end. Before his name he'd just been 'him' and 'you' and 'subject', and he'd thought of himself in much the same way. Now there was something of substance to connect himself to, something that was all his own. And 'Dean' sat around his shoulders like a favourite t-shirt – well-worn and comfortable. It frightened him just how easily he suddenly associated himself with that name. It convinced him just that little bit more that Sam was everything Dean hoped he was. That Dean really was his real name. And it was so ingrained in him that it just felt right, no matter that he couldn't remember much of anything from before a few weeks ago.
Then there had been the crazed man two days before, who had broken into the building they were in, destroying everything in his path. And he'd known him. Had called him Dean. Had called Sam 'my boy'. That alone had stirred Dean's thoughts into an unrecognisable stew. But of course, he couldn't forget about the leg. The man's leg, all metal and mechanical, just like Dean, only more. All he could figure was that they had been created in the same sort of place. He needed to know if that maniac had been made just like himself. But it wasn't as if just anyone was going to answer his questions. Not with Sam being the only one in the entire place who talked to him like a real person.
He looked out the windows and watched the men and women working to clean up the mess outside and put it back into some semblance of order. It was going to take a long time by the looks of it. And it wasn't as if you could just ask any old handyman to come in and help fix your top secret facility.
"Agent Campbell!"
They both startled as Sam's name was called. And Sam quickly picked himself up and hurried out into the hallway.
Dean leaned over to watch, noting that Sam had quite obviously left the door open behind him, but Dean made no move to try and escape this time. For Sam's sake, he wasn't going to do that again.
He listened to the conversation between Sam and the other man, but couldn't make out many of the words. The other man was angry, though. Not quite 'throw your fists' angry, but he was definitely not happy. The man pulled on Sam's shoulder, bidding him to follow, but Sam turned back to Dean in distress. No, Dean didn't want to be parted from him, either.
The man yanked on Sam again, and this time it was hard enough to trip Sam up. Some men were working just behind them and a mop and bucket went toppling over. Sam slipped in the soapy water and Dean watched in slow motion as Sam's body went horizontal in the air, also sending one of the workers stumbling to his knees.
Sam came down with a hard thump, and suddenly the roof above seemed to give. Dean leapt to his feet, sprinting out into the hallway, but even with his extra strength he wasn't able to reach Sam in time to push him out of the way. Plasterboard and plastic and loose cables dropped down from above, landing on Sam and in the puddle he was lying in. The air around them seemed to snap, and Dean watched as the puddle – with Sam in it – became electrified.
Sam was out cold, yet his body still spasmed and jumped.
Dean knew he shouldn't get near, but he did it anyway. He threw himself on top of Sam and picked him up into his arms. The electricity surged into him through Sam's wet clothing and skin, and Dean was pulled down in kind, limbs shuddering and shaking beyond his control.
The lights went out. The whole grid going down.
Sam came to with a gasp.
"Sammy?"
"Oh, shit, Dean. It hurts. Hurts so bad." Sam's body was holding taut like a guitar string, and still shaking. "I should've… I can feel it… I... I'm sorry. I've been dosing myself. Made more of the serum they put in you. Put it in me. Can feel it. It hurts, Dean. I'm sorry."
Their hands clasped together, sending a zap through both their arms. And then Sam was out cold again, his whole body now limp and heavy.
Dozens of guards appeared to surround them from out of nowhere, and Dean watched with dismay as they pulled Sam from his arms and moved him away and out of sight.
"Gonna be fine, Sammy."
=///=
"Where is he?"
"Gone."
"What do you mean gone—"
"I mean, last night he somehow got out of his cage and crawled through a goddamn air vent until he found a way out. Out out. Outside, out."
Sam pursed his lips. "Then I guess I've got somewhere to be."
"Oh, no," Bobby warned as Sam turned back out the door to his office, "I've already got Agents on this. Good Agents. You are grounded, you stubborn little bastard. You're sick and injured. Not only a head wound, but you got electrocuted for crying out loud. Most people wouldn't have survived that, let alone being up and about a day later and desperate to go hunting down their crazy cyborg brother who doesn't even know who he is anymore. I am not letting you risk your life like this when we have no idea how dangerous Dean is right now. Just no."
Sam began moving again and Bobby swore, slamming his hand against a button under his desk.
Immediately a wall of steel dropped down in the hallway outside. And another further along. And another. It was a lockdown.
"Just try and stop me," Sam seethed, slamming his hands against the nearest barricade and forcing his energy into its core.
Sparks flew from the edges, and after a moment of stillness, all the visible barricades started to rise straight back up again. Sam scowled as he threw a look back over his shoulder, inwardly revelling in Bobby's surprise. Bobby was a good guy, with experience on his side, and he would do anything to protect those he cared about. Sam got that. But he also had no option where Dean was concerned.
He headed towards his room to grab his stuff and found Castiel by his door.
"I had been intending to ask if you needed any help… But apparently not."
"Thanks, Cas. But I got this one."
"Whatever you say, Agent. Give me a call if you need anything."
=///=
Sam took one step into the house and was immediately tackled to the ground. He threw his own weight into it and sent himself and his assailant rolling across the floor, crashing into walls and tables and chairs.
They split and quickly bounced back onto their feet. There was barely enough light to see, so a lot of their punches were near-misses, knuckles just grazing across the surface. But Sam thought he had it when he swiftly kicked out at a leg and sent the other guy sprawling.
Oh, how wrong he'd been.
Two smooth, clean chops of the hand and Sam was grasping at his side as he tumbled to the floor. His opponent sent them rolling again, landing himself on top of Sam's chest.
It was eerily reminiscent of a time long ago.
"Dean?"
His opponent snorted.
"Gotcha."
"So it…" Sam had to pause to swallow the tears, "It’s really you? Like, you you?"
"The one and only."
"Oh... Oh, god, Dean. Thank fuck."
Sam reached out to touch, to pull his brother into his arms, but Dean reeled back too quickly.
"You came back, then."
It took a moment to get where Dean was coming from, then mentally slapped himself. But of course his being gone for ten years was an elephant they were going to have to live with one way or another. "I'm so fucking sorry, Dean. I hate myself for leaving like I did, although maybe I would've hated myself more if I didn't… I don't know. It… doesn't matter. I mean, it does. But I'm here now… Look. I'll-... I'll go if you want me to. Just say so, and I'll leave."
"Don't," was all he said.
Extracting himself from their tangle on the floor, Dean rolled away but remained within reach, only facing in the opposite direction. Dean had always had a hard time staying face to face when he had something serious to say.
"Not gonna change my mind this time, bitch."
The words were soft and barely audible, and Sam gasped when he remembered his own words from several weeks prior.
"You remember that…"
"Amongst other things."
"Jesus."
"Ain't gonna save us now."
Dean heaved a long sigh in the following silence, raking notably ungloved fingers through his own hair.
"So. Lots of crap has apparently gone down since you got back. Start talking."
"You sure you're up for that right now—"
"I can handle myself. Not gonna fall apart. But I gotta know, 'cause for a moment there you looked about to die in my arms. What's going on with you, Sam?"
"The real truth?" Sam grit his teeth, hating that Dean was diverting the attention, making it all about Sam when he should have been the one seeking solace. Comfort that he more than deserved. "Is that Paradise – those motherfuckers who took you – have been after us since we were kids. Kids, Dean. Thirty years ago they were killing babies and our mother died to stop them. Then they sent assault after half-assed assault, only to be put down by Bobby and Dad. And when we were kidnapped that last time. Do you remember?"
Dean's jaw clenched. "I remember enough. What's your point."
"That was them, Dean. Different lackeys but still under the domain of Heaven's Paradise. They'd been trying to get back at our family and HUNT the whole time. But do you know why they won that particular round? They put fucking chips in our heads. Microchips! In our heads!"
"Sam, you're—"
"I'm not losing it, Dean. I did the x-rays myself, and there it was. Right where my head wound was. For ten years I've been getting debilitating migraines because of that tiny thing! And I'd bet my soul that you've got one, too. I don't know what they were planning with it. To control us, or track us maybe. But they're there, I swear it."
"But they…" Dean sucked in a breath and looked down at his hands. Metallic fingers flashing in the near-dark. "They didn't finish my head scan, did they? I don't remember much, but I remember the pressure. Made my arms go crazy and I couldn't control it."
"The MRI machine probably interfered with whatever electrical signals are running through your body."
"Right. Microchips. Probably got fried by the electric shock, though, right? So now what?"
"You kidding me? We get revenge, that's what."
Even in the low light, Dean's smile lit up the room.
"Full of good ideas these days, ain't ya, Sammy?"
He turned his body and crawled slowly back over to where Sam sat on his knees. His hands curling around Sam's neck.
"Well," Sam gulped, "Your ideas aren't all bad?"
"You gonna let me kiss you? If I wait any longer I might just die."
Sam skipped a step and dove straight in for his brother's mouth, sucking at his lips almost violently. Dean gave as good as he got, though, pulling Sam roughly against him and tangling his fingers through Sam's hair. Their tongues warred and embraced in equal measure, sliding between their mouths and urging them in deeper.
"C'mon, more."
He had no idea who voiced the thought, but clearly they were both thinking it as Dean sent them both sprawling to the ground, arms flying everywhere as they scrambled to pull off their shirts. Dean got there first, throwing his shirt to the side and moving to straddle Sam's hips so he could help. They both groaned aloud as their groins rubbed together, but Dean held Sam at bay when he moved to tug at the waistband of Dean's sweat pants.
"You're…" Dean swallowed nervously, "Okay with this? With me?"
Sam made a point of running his hands over Dean's back and shoulder where the metal plating was exposed. He knew Dean must have felt pretty self-conscious about it all. He often was when it came to his looks. But it was always something he would angst over in secret, never letting anyone in on his true insecurity. Sam could only hope Dean might just let him in this time around.
"You're as much you as you ever were. And I know it's going to take time to adjust - for both of us - but I've never wanted you more."
"As long as it doesn't weird you out too much. 'Cause if we keep going and you freak out when it counts, I will never ever—"
"Dean, are you trying to tell me you've got a chrome dick, now?"
"No!" Dean spat, "What the fuck?"
"Well, then it's no big deal. So chill. It's just me, okay? Think about how much shit we've been through together, and yet here we are."
"Such a girl, Sammy."
Dean relented and allowed Sam to peel away his pants, Dean helping him to kick off his own. Then they rolled together, just skin on skin, hard cocks pressed close between their stomachs.
"Been dreaming of this for ten years," Sam gasped.
"Yeah. I've been waiting for you."
Dean's body buzzed like static every instance Sam's fingers brushed across his armour. Whatever had been making Sam sick, and whatever had been holding Dean's memory captive, it had all crumbled away when they'd been struck by that electric charge. And as well as Sam's new affinity for electricity, it had also made Dean all the more sensitive wherever he had the metal plates on the surface. Somehow they were a perfect match.
"C'mon, Dean, touch me."
Eager to push to the finish line, Dean reached down, only to be stopped by Sam's intense gaze.
"No. The other one."
Groaning with want, he switched hands, slipping his left down between their bodies and looping his fingers around both their cocks, squeezing them together. Sam throbbed in his grasp, hips reflexively thrusting forward and further against the metal of Dean's fingers, searching for more. Happy to oblige, he kept his fist tight and strokes firm as he jerked them off together, Sam's hands keeping a tight grip on his thighs. It tingled with every sweeping touch across the thick plating over his left thigh, and he had to look away from his brother's face, finding himself too close to the edge, too soon.
"Don't hold it in, Dean. Wanna see you."
Even when they'd done it before, back when they'd been the greatest HUNT team ever but barely more than teenagers, and yet so sure of what their bodies wanted, Sam had always known what to say to him. He'd always had the right words, always known just the right places to touch. Dean still hadn't forgiven him for leaving – that was going to take some time and extreme patience and probably some breathing exercises – but it didn't mean he wasn't going to throw himself back into Sam's embrace. Dean was quite aware he was selfish and stupid in a lot of ways, but even though the resentment was still there, he'd been too long without his brother to make himself suffer any longer than he had to.
More to the point, he knew what he wanted.
And Sam was just as well-aware. His hands were restless, his cock so close to blowing it all, but he just had to get inside Dean. Just a little bit. Just the tip of a finger as he smoothed his hands over the perfect curve of Dean's ass, and his fingertips circled over the furl of his entrance, clinging tight when Dean jolted in surprise. He knew how Dean loved to be played with like that, and true to form, Sam had barely pushed in to the second joint before Dean was coming. Pearly drops spilling over both their torsos.
The sight alone was probably enough for Sam, but Dean's hand kept moving, and his head dropped back as he let go. He added to the mess, and a heavily-panting Dean bent down for a non-serious attempt at clean up.
"Still taste good, little bro."
After, Dean fell back onto the floor and tried to stop the oncoming freakout from bowling him over. He'd needed that. Had needed his brother close like that. But Dean still had a lot on his mind and a lot of shit he had to sort through. Not the least of which was that his body was no longer completely the body he'd always known. He wasn't really sure how he was supposed to go about getting over that sort of thing – he was pretty sure the HUNT Medical team didn't have a textbook on that one – but all he could think was that blowing some crap up would probably help. Destruction was always a winner.
"Dean?"
"Man, don't you be thinking that I ain't gonna bust your ass to hell when this second-honeymoon phase is over. You've got ten years to atone for."
Sam was silent for a long moment.
"I know. I figure I'll be playing catch up for probably the next ten years, too. But I think I'm okay with that."
"Yeah, you better."
=///=
Dean stood back and propped his hands on his hips. Yeah, his handwriting was still as shitty as it'd always been, but just so long as it got the job done, right?
"So this is all of it?" Sam gestured to the mess of paper and string and red marker pen tacked to the cork-board.
"As much as I can remember. I'd reckon it's maybe ninety, ninety-five percent?"
"Good enough for me."
Sam bent down to get a better look, committing all the marked sites to memory. There were over fifty of them, dotted all across the country.
They'd decided that as part of their self-appointed therapy, they were going to tear Heaven's Paradise to shreds, one underground bunker at a time.
Sure they had stuff to work through together, and more issues than National Geographic, but Dean was right for once – blowing crap up was a nice temporary reprieve from the pain.
~end.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2014-10-31 12:23 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-01 03:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-01 03:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-01 03:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-11-01 07:21 pm (UTC)Tell me my name. Please.
He reached out with a finger, slowly, carefully, and brushed it across Sam's cheek.
I've never seen the Winter Soldier, so I really didn't know what would happen, in the slightest. I LOVED WHAT YOU CREATED! Poor kidnapped, modified Dean, slowly coming back to Sam. And Sam doing everything!! THIS WAS AWESOME:D
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Date: 2014-11-03 11:48 am (UTC)OMG you should see it! (Have you watched the other Marvel movies? It probably makes slightly more sense if you've seen at least the first Captain America movie and Avengers...) but seriously, the Winter Soldier basically has no agency, no memory, and is little more than a (mostly-)human gun to his masters. That is until.... SPOILER. *cackles evilly* But listen, regardless of the plot going on, you'd like it if only for the badass leather costume and the GLORIOUS MANPAIN. Ahem. Ireallylikesuperheromoviesokay?
But you're the bestest cheerleader, bb, and I'm glad you're in my corner~ ...and if ever you might need someone to babble at you about comic book movies for a few hours, my door is always open. :DDD
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Date: 2014-11-03 06:34 pm (UTC)No, seriously, you actually made me curious. I have to investigate ;)
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Date: 2014-11-04 02:08 am (UTC)the outside could be a totally different story...
DDD:
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Date: 2014-11-04 06:05 pm (UTC)And yes, *hangs head in shame* I watched none if them. So, what? I start with the first Captain America movie? I am confused. Just went over to Amazon. What's the first one? Captain America or Captain America - The First Avenger? It's probably the same, huh? Don't laugh at me!!
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Date: 2014-11-05 11:13 am (UTC)Well, it depends if you can be bothered watching everything everything? (in which case, the first Iron Man movie is your best bet) Or if you just want the preface to Winter Soldier, lol. The first Cap movie is indeed called The First Avenger, so it's probably the same thing you're looking at. And it's kind of a good idea to watch that one, followed by the Avengers (at the very least), so you can get the necessary backstory to fully appreciate the Winter Soldier. No laughing here, bb! I take all this very seriously!! *puts on serious face* :3
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Date: 2014-11-05 08:50 pm (UTC)OKAY, I'M GOING TO DO IT! I'm gonna start with Captain America - The First Avenger!! AND THEN I COME BACK TO YOU AND TELL YOU HOW IT WAS!! :D
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Date: 2014-11-06 12:27 am (UTC)OKAY, BB! HAVE FUN! Although don't expect too much from that one... I found the first Cap movie pretty 'meh' for the most part... and lol I'm a terrible fan. Don't listen to me and go watch and report! :'D
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Date: 2014-11-15 05:32 am (UTC)♥ you
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Date: 2014-11-18 05:33 am (UTC)And my brain is a cesspool with the occasional gold nugget floating around... but I'm glad you liked it, bb! :'D
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Date: 2015-01-10 04:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-01-11 12:17 pm (UTC)