Oktoberfest '09 - The End is the Beginning is the End [Part II]
Title: The End is the Beginning is the End [PART II]
Authors: continuum, famira
Beta: None
Word Count: 7124/15,500
Rating: R
Character(s): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby, "Alexander"/Alistair, Martin Landel, Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (namedrop), Genjo Sanzo (namedrop), Euphemia li Britannia (unnamed cameo)
Pairing(s): Sam/Ruby, possible one-sided Alistair/Dean
Summary: Dean expects dying to be a get-out-of-jail-free card and Sam expects to be left alone, but really: they should both know better by now
Notes: FST here + Photoshopin' madness both by famira. Title shamelessly stolen from The Smashing Pumpkins.
Part I
10.
There are two things Sam has never been able to do: he has never been able to save Dean, and he has never been able to forget him.
He thinks that this is rather unfair. He should be able to do one, if not the other.
But he can't and this is why he's here. This is why he's taken on the one case he's spent the past two months swearing he'd never take. He'd blame Ruby, but he knows she's not responsible, that he would've ended up here even if she never came along and opened doors she had no business opening. He'd be here, anyway.
(He blames her.)
Ruby didn't give him a lot to go on-he got a location and the fact that two months and three days ago, something changed-but the ambiguity is no surprise considering who he's dealing with, and Sam's worked with less. He's got a place to start; that's all he needs. Sam's never had a problem starting. It's knowing where to end that's the real issue.
What's supposedly changed, that part's not clear, but he realizes as soon as he steps inside the morgue that Ruby hasn't lied. He can tell. It's the same feeling he's gotten recently every time Ruby's nearby, only stronger. A lingering hint that digs under his skin. He knows what it means, technically, but he doesn't know what it means for Dean.
What it means for him.
He should stop now. He never should've gone this far in the first place. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, quietly, with a click only he can hear.
The morgue is never empty these days. Not that Sam's come around to check; he just knows from common sense. People keep dying every night, so obviously the morgue can't ever run out of bodies to store. It's pretty simple.
So he's not surprised when there are neat labels on almost all of the drawers. There are columns of threes, running left to right. The last five are empty, and it looks out of place. An unconscious part of him seeks out Dean, but of course Dean's corpse isn't here. It's been too long. Besides, what the hell would he do with Dean's body, anyway? He already knows how Dean died and he knows how Dean looks dead. He doesn't need a live demonstration to jog his memory.
Which is why he doesn't open the drawers to look at the other bodies. He figures he's seen them all.
His flashlight sweeps idly over the first drawer at the bottom and he wonders, briefly, how these people died. Did somebody screw it up for them, too, or was it just some bad luck? Maybe they should've stepped left instead of right. Maybe they'd bled out all over someone's arms or maybe they died alone.
Maybe, somewhere, someone's still trying to save them, too.
Sam doesn't know what he's looking for. He's been in here a few times and he remembers clipboards. Notes on the other patients. They are never readable, but they're always neat and organized and they're always there. For some reason, though, it's all cleaned out. Not a trace.
Which is maybe why the only file in the entire room catches his immediate attention. Unlike everything else in the institute, these papers are scattered and haphazardly stacked on the single file cabinet pushed into the corner of the room. They don't look like someone left them there by accident, but they do look like they were grabbed in a hurry.
Not that anything ever occurs by accident. If you trace it far enough, there will always be someone to blame.
The deliberate placement of the files should bother him-make him feel as if nothing should come this easy, that it is, in all likelihood, a trap. But it doesn't. He can't think of what there's left to even trap him for, and he doesn't care where he finds what he does or how. It's what he can get that's the point.
He flicks through one page, and then the next. A thin powder coats his finger as he does. He assumes it's dust, so he just brushes it off against the thigh of his jeans, but a second later, he realizes that he's wrong. It's not dust. It's sulfur.
His eyes narrow. Why would a demon be involved in providing him information? Still, nothing makes less sense than it did before, so he puts it away for now. He can't think about this here; he needs time. He knows better than to get sloppy about it. That was his mistake, where he went wrong. Part of where he went wrong, anyway. The list of how he fucked up is too long to be numbered. He knows-he's tried.
He gathers up the scattered papers, stacking them without hurry. He pauses to unfold a dog-eared corner of one. For the first time, he feels like this might not be a complete waste of his time, that he might be getting somewhere. He recognizes that this is a dangerous way to be. That this is how he got them both to where they are in the first place.
Deep down, he understands: he will only save Dean when he forgets him.
But that's a fantasy.
11.
Tell me everything you know about Sam Winchester.
He can do this one.
Dean resists the homework. Sam's still out there, safe. Alive. What doesn't he know about Sammy? Okay, maybe some of it's getting hazy around the edges, but he's spent so many nights thinking about Sam that most of it's still there in one piece, one of the few things White-Eyes hasn't been able to slice outta him. It's been hammered into him that he's gotta answer, gotta try for White-Eyes, this impulse that's seems as natural as bracing himself when he sees any sign of water in the same room as him. The incident with Martin Landel isn't ever mentioned again: he hears about him from the staff sometimes, but it's just that one visit and the next morning, White-Eyes is back to his usual. In fact, he gives him even more attention, like in some sick way he's trying to make it up to Dean.
The worst part is Dean feels somehow better about that. Like going back to the norm of screaming himself hoarse for hours was fine so long as there weren't any more surprise visits from Landel.
Dean would've felt sick at himself if he wasn't busy trying to work out the blood from his mouth. Seriously, where the hell was all this stuff coming from? How was he even producing it still?
"Tell me about Sam Winchester," White-Eyes drops to be eye level with Dean. Dean can see the individual curls of white smoke in those eyes, as dead as his. "Tell me everything. If you can tell me something about Sam Winchester you'd never tell anyone else, I'll help free you. I'm on your side, Dean."
Dean almost blabs about his brother's abilities right there on the spot. Somehow he manages to reign that shit in, eyes sliding past White-Eyes to the machine beeping over his head. Still flatlined.
White-Eyes is patient like always despite the silent refusal.
"We can do something different today, to show you I want what's best for you. I won't use this," White-Eyes holds up the bowie knife, glistening red, "on you today. No tests."
Dean's attention turns back to White-Eyes. "Why?"
"Because when we're done, you'll need to know this, Dean," says White-Eyes. "You won't be on this table forever, you know. Try to get out."
Dean's not sure what he means, but when White-Eyes taps the edge of his blood-stained bowie knife encouragingly against his cheek, he tries. It takes several attempts before he gets anywhere, his lips parting, naked back arching against the table. His eyes roll back. It's one of the weirdest experiences in his life, both dead or alive, being in two places at once. There's a brief glimpse of starting to look down on himself, floating, struggling to get loose when he's tied down, before he's suddenly sucked back in with a snap, like a bungie cord. Dean gags - something that hasn't happened in, well, ever since dying - and coughs on himself. It's a start, but it's not good enough. Dean braces himself for White-Eyes to go back to work...only it never comes. White-Eyes just sits there, a hand on his upper arm as Dean twists in the restraints and tries to do it again.
That night, Dean almost doesn't hurt. He's still alone, trying to fend off White-Eye's instructions drilled into his head like a broken record, but he doesn't hurt.
The scary part is he's starting to believe White-Eyes now. He's a monster of his word.
12.
There are thirteen (thirteen and a half, to be exact) pages total. They are all out of order, some turned around upside down or flipped the wrong way, and it takes him a few minutes to shuffle them back into place. None of them tell him anything about Dean. At least, not on the surface.
Sam can't actually read any of this straight off the pages. Like everything except for the useless so-called patient files, the handwriting is illegible. Even the typed labels that tell you what to fill into which blank, the print looks like it came out of a typewriter and was badly photocopied ten times over. It's almost as bad as the handwriting.
What he recognizes as an autopsy report, peculiarly, contains neither a photograph of the body or a name. The box is struck through, as is the box for time of death. There is only a case number. Stranger still is that the entire report has been struck through. Not destroyed, just crossed off, a thick line the size of a fat Sharpie going diagonal from left to right.
Crossed off or illegible or whatever, though, this is not a dead end. He can count how many letters are in each word. Beginning and end letters are easier to decipher and he can read most of the capitals. It's not that hard to recognize the more common words by their placement in the sentence. The handwriting is consistent, if crap, so he starts going through, searching out letters that look like the ones he's already identified from words he's managed to read.
There's no way this is gonna take anything but awhile, but he's stopped putting himself on a timer. Dean's already in Hell and though it's not like he thinks leaving his brother to burn just that much longer is a good thing, he's also fairly certain:
It's way too late to save him.
No, this isn't about saving Dean. He wishes he still has that option, but he's blown the two chances he had and he knows he won't get a third. This is about making sense again of what once did. Because Dean was dead, dragged to hell, and that made sense. He knows why it happened; he knows what mistakes he made. He knows exactly who took his brother and he knows exactly when and where it went down.
But that's all fallen apart and now he's uncertain all over again. The uncertainty bothers him. He needs to know what's happening with Dean now. He needs to know what this means, whether Dean's still dead and in Hell or somewhere else or if Lilith no longer has a hold on his soul and what demon's gotten involved with this and why they've decided to leave him a paper trail. He needs to know if...Dean's here.
No, that's ridiculous. That's the one thing he doesn't need to know. It's not true; Dean's not here. That'd be stupid and he doesn't know why it's even crosses his mind. Dean can't be here. This is not about saving Dean.
This is not about saving Dean.
Sam has thirteen (and one half) pages to decipher. It is seven weeks and five days before he will realize the world is ending, and he will believe what he tells himself for exactly twelve minutes and fourteen seconds.
It's a record.
13.
I don't know how long I've been here, Dean says. Can't even hear his voice 'cause White-Eyes blew out his ear-drums first thing this morning before taking brunch with his staff. Dean thinks they'll heal, since he can see a vial of that blue-black drug sitting on the tray next to him, but for now, he's gotta get used to being deaf all of a sudden. Blood still leaks from his ears, pooling into a congealing little puddle underneath his head. I really don't know.
Dean has to watch White-Eyes hard to understand him, eyes on his mouth, his eyes, any body language that can help them communicate. It's not helped when right now, he's got at least six iron stakes shoved into his chest, and if he doesn't know better, they almost look like a star to him. Sorta. Talking at all makes them jiggle, and a few times he feels them brush up against his ribs, choking off any answers he makes. White-Eyes made it clear he has to keep talking, and Dean's stopped wondering what that "or else" was. He's stopped wondering about a lot of things now.
How long do you think you'll be here?
Dean can talk almost like normal now. It's not hard anymore to move his corpse's mouth, even if it's hard to concentrate in general. His eyelashes flutter. Tired.
Tired, he repeats, feeling his voice reverberating in his chest and throat, head still tilted to rest against his shoulder, half-lidded eyes on the monster.
I know you are. Answer me.
He tries again to rouse himself. I don't know.
Do you think anyone's coming for you?
Dean's confused by the question. He jolts when suddenly he's getting another stake shoved into him as a wake-up call, and while he knows he screams, it's just this buzzing white noise to him. He thinks he says "No", but he's surprised when "Yes" pops out instead.
White-Eyes steeples his blood-stained fingers together, leaning back in his chair at Dean's side - always at his side, Dean can't imagine him anywhere else - and crossing one leg over his other.
Sam Winchester, White-Eyes says. It's not a question. Dean keeps silent. He said too much and he has no idea why: things just pop outta him when he keeps telling himself he's gotta lie. Gotta protect Sam, no matter what. He didn't matter anymore, being in this lab makes sure he knows he's nothing. It's just Sammy that exists to him now. It's a mantra every night, to the point where it's just words and he can't even remember why he's saying them, only that they're important. White-Eyes asks about Sam more than once, and several times, Dean almost slips.
White-Eyes is a fast one, throwing in a random question while Dean's trying to read his mouth, concentrating hard, and Dean barely fights off the automatic, instinctive compulsion to answer.
Dean, my boy, White-Eyes says, I'm not the one holding you back. You could've started to free yourself, you know, if you weren't being so selfish. You just have to tell me everything about your brother and I'll help you. I can't hold off Martin Landel forever: you have to help yourself too. I can't hold your hand through this nor be your crutch. This has to be your choice.
Dean's eyes wander, not focusing on anything in particular. After getting trained to get used to screams, having a conversation is like trying to ride a bike again, and he just barely remembers what one of those is. He's been fumbling his way through all this talking, and all the smartass things he would've had to say are buried too deep for him to get at. Dean wants to be free, he wants that cuff off more than anything. He has to be there for Sam, and he can't do that while he's here, it's just as simple at that. Dean might've forgot a lot of things over the past month, but he can't forget That Man coming in here, barging in, pissing off White-Eyes and threatening to take his brother.
Anyone but Sam, Dean thinks. He looks at the nurses, the staff, and sees them for what they really are. He's just meat but so are they. They don't matter to him, not even the woman with the panties that change color every day. White-Eyes showed him his priorities, and Dean's torn on if he's thankful or not. He's telling the truth, either way.
He can't imagine a time when White-Eyes wasn't there. It just seems like it's how it's supposed to be, that White-Eyes hurts him - for his own good? White-Eyes says it is - and it's his job to keep on hating him, to answer his questions anyway, and if White-Eyes wants him to scream, he screams. If he has to choke it back, he can do that too.
White-Eyes is right, though. He's always right 'cause he keeps his word, Dean's seen it over and over again. Eyes on the monster's face, it feels like everything just tunnels down around him, that white noise humming in his ears as he thinks over what White-Eyes just said.
It's true. Dean has to free himself, has to get to Sam no matter what it takes or what it does to him. Sammy's worth it, he tells himself, but how is he gonna help him when he's still chained to the table?
It's several more days before White-Eyes brings up Sam again. Dean's still deaf, the blood from his ears dry, when White-Eyes leans over him.
I can help you, Dean. You just have to let me.
Dean hurts again.
After injecting him with a lot more of that blue-black drug, they've coated everything iron in that white powder and the water, and it's a whole new level of pain even he's not used to. Can't concentrate. Every time he starts trying to focus himself into thinking, White-Eyes reaches over and twists that knife in his chest or pours more of that water into the wounds, jerking him away from half-formed thoughts as clouds of steam violently hisses off him. Dean would've thought he was delirious except for the part where he's dead and dead people don't get delirious.
He has no idea what he's saying anymore.
Sammy's still out there. He needs you.
White-Eye's beard tickles his skin and there's no breath, either. Looking up, he sees his own dead eyes reflected in the monster's, and Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. They're not his eyes anymore.
He grunts when in goes another stake, feeling every little grain of that white powder boiling his corpse's blood away.
There's nothing wrong with saving yourself to save Sam.
He doesn't know who said that, if it was White-Eyes or not. Was his mouth moving?
Tell me everything, White-Eyes purrs.
When the lights flick off, Dean Winchester's down one cuff.
14.
In two weeks, Sam runs out of batteries twice while he's going through the pages and pages of notes, which annoys him briefly, but as the monsters that crawl the institute still choose to do nothing more than stare at him-never curious, always with recognition-it's not that difficult for him to just walk up the stairs and find what he needs. The first time he goes into the storage closet, there's a thin trail of blood beneath the door. It's starting to congeal, but it's fresh enough that he's not surprised when he can hear something chewing.
The door's broken in, so a flick of a finger against the edge is all it takes to swing it wide open. It's still eating when he casts his light over it. Whatever it is. It seems to just be made up of teeth and six large eyes that don't blink. Blood drips in a slow slide down its canines. He doesn't recognize the body; there's not much left to see, though enough that he figures she can't be older than eighteen. He's remembers seeing someone shot in the face before with a .22, and that's pretty much what it looks like here. The only thing he's got is a swirl of blood-stained hair, pink. It's an odd shade that makes him stop for a few seconds to consider. That she's even still here is rare enough; most of the kids have disappeared weeks ago. He can't decide if she's just one of those who hang on for the sake of it or if she had a reason to stick around.
Either way, he doubts her soul minds booking it out of here.
The thing skitters beneath his legs. It jolts him out of his thoughts and he remembers what he's doing here: it's not to contemplate another statistic.
There is only one set of batteries remaining, among a few scattered items. It's early in the night, so it's odd a significant number of items are gone, but he dismisses the thought and reaches for the batteries. He stops to shut the door before he leaves. He's not entirely certain why. It's not as if it'll change anything, whether he leaves her in the open or hides her away. It doesn't change that he knows he should burn the body. But he doesn't have the time or means to put everyone to rest, and he doesn't quite think it fair to give one soul that opportunity and leave another to potentially wander around, lost, so he does nothing.
When he comes back five days later, there's no sign that anything's ever been amiss in here. He knows, from experience, you can't clean off that much blood in such tight quarters, but he's stopped questioning the smaller details. Things come and go; that's nothing new.
Again, though, there's not much left in the closet. Even less than last time. There can't be that many people grabbing stuff that quick, can there?
Sam sits on his bed and props up his flashlight. He remembers that Dean is gone and forgets that people are dying without leaving a trace not days later. He forgets that he could probably stop it if he tried. He forgets even considering trying in the first place. He forgets that he should care. There are plenty of people who care, he's sure. There are plenty of people willing to put their life on the line for a complete stranger and mourn the deaths of people they don't even know. But he's the only one who will ever bother with a dead man who has already cheated death twice, the only one deluded enough to keep looking despite knowing that what he'll find is going to break everything further, that-
The door opens without warning. It startles him, though he knows who it is before he sees her. He hasn't seen Ruby in weeks. Or-that's not true. He's seen her, but she hasn't approached and he hasn't, either. There's been no reason to. He's been busy.
He wonders if she's going to crack something else open, but that's a ludicrous thought-there's not much more she can do after bringing up Dean. She's already played her trump card. There's nothing left, so he doesn't really mind that she's here beyond the fact that she's interrupting his work.
She's got her hand behind her back, but before he can ask, she displays a large manila envelope with a flourish like it's a bouquet of flowers.
"Something you missed," she says.
He takes it from her. At the corner is an abnormally shaped lump, the size of a small rock. He knows he didn't miss it. He doesn't miss things, not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to Dean. There's no way he could've not seen an envelope this size. He doesn't say anything, though, because it's not worth getting into it with her. He already knows she has something to do with this. To what extent, he can always figure it out later. After he finds Dean.
When he looks up from the envelope she handed him, she's gone. He gets up and shuts the door that she's left wide open. He thinks he knows what's inside the envelope, he thinks he knows what it'll mean, and he does not open it. He's not ready yet, he'll never be ready. He's not ready.
It is five weeks before Sam will realize the world is ending.
15.
It’s weird, actually, to have his hand free.
Dean lies there on the table, faced turned as he ignores the staff bustling around him and looks at his free hand. Flexes his fingers. They curl. They do what he tells them. So he does it again. Just a second delay, and his thumb moves.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hand now that it’s his again.
Dean’s scraped off a lot of skin into raw red patches from when he had the cuff there: it’s so minor compared to the daily schedule he doesn’t even really register it. He brings it up to his face, turning his hand before it and looks at it like it’s something he’s never really seen before, wonder in his blood-splattered face. Sometimes the nurse pushes his hand down (he doesn’t fight her), but the second her back is turned, he’s looking at it again until she catches him in the act all over. He did it. For the first time, he did it, and there’s just three more and the bar to go and he’ll be able to get out there, get Sammy, and then…well, he can’t think that far ahead but everything seems okay so long as he makes it to the Sam part.
The nurse pushes down his hand. She has a funny look in her eyes even as she turns away to pick up a clipboard.
It takes Dean a long second to realize he's smiling.
White-Eyes smiles back at him. He's proud of him, Dean realizes, and this time he's proud of himself too. He did it. Just three more to go. Dean still manages to smile even as he hacks up some more blood.
His hearing's coming back, too. Things keep looking up.
He can't feel the blue-black liquid running through his corpse, not really. He's just floating, and it's not even the same as that other floating. Not even the water or the white powder can bring him down. Dean doesn't even wonder why he didn't try to free himself earlier. Hell, even the break for his "good behavior" isn't as bad as normal. When White-Eyes suddenly vanishes from the room, Dean doesn't even notice: it's only when he comes back hours later with a sad, disappointed expression on his face that Dean pays attention.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says.
16.
By the end of the third week, Sam's managed to transcribe the contents of the files. Not all of it, obviously. There are more blanks in the text than there aren't and what he can read, he still has to figure out what it all means.
But it's a step.
It's a step he should've gotten to a week ago, if he's to be honest. But he pushes it away. He's not hesitating. Why would he be?
I'm not ready, he thinks, a fleeting thought, but he ignores that, too. It's not true, that's not why. If he's going slower than he should, it's because he's distracted. It's not as if he has the days to work on this; he can only do it at night.
If he could, he'd be taping things to the wall, but that's not doable under the circumstances so he's got them laid out on the table instead, row by row by row. There's no indication anywhere that the file has anything to do with Dean. He thinks he would've been able to make out either the name Dean Winchester or Eric Derringer at least once, but it's not there. Like the autopsy report, all explicitly identifying information has been left out. He's made out a chicken scratch that must be Dean's height, though.
On the very last page is a date for August 14. There's no year attached, but either way-one year ago, Dean wasn't here, and this year, Dean was in Hell. That date is completely out of place.
There's a shift to his left, and Sam glances out of the corner of his eye for the first time tonight. Peter doesn't look away, but he doesn't stare directly at Sam, either.
He knows Peter's been watching him work. He avoided working while his roommate was in the room at first, but that lasted about a day before he gave up, decided that it wasn't like it really mattered what Peter thought. He suspects Peter understands more than either of them are willing to admit, anyway.
He has to give Peter credit because Peter hasn't asked him what the hell he's doing. That's actually a pretty goddamn impressive span of time. Peter's kind of been exceptionally good at leaving him alone ever since Dean's been gone which Sam can't deny he's grateful for, though it's unclear whether it's a result of Peter being, well, Peter, or if it's because Peter feels guilty that Nathan's still around. Sam thinks it has a lot to do with the latter. He knows, all too well, that guilt gives you patience like nothing else.
But it's three weeks in. Peter's probably had enough of observing or talking around superficial topics that Sam can't find the energy to converse about beyond what's required, so he finally comes out and asks. Peter's ignored this activity of Sam's for so long that the question makes him look up and put down his pen in surprise. He's been expecting Peter to ask since day one, but now that he has, Sam doesn't have a ready answer.
"I found something," is all he says at last.
He doesn't know how else to put it, but Peter doesn't press, nor does he look like he's holding back from questioning further, and Sam understands that Peter gets exactly what he means. Thinking on it, as Peter's gathering up his things to go out, he realizes that it wouldn't have exactly been difficult for Peter to guess what's gotten Sam's undivided attention. That maybe Peter wasn't holding back his curiosity all those weeks, that he only asked now because he was seeking confirmation.
It occurs to him, out of nowhere while he's flipping one page over the next, that there's something he should tell Peter. The little things that have been going on for the past few months now-the deaths, the lack of new patients, the way the sun never quite shines anymore. He thinks Peter's noticed; his roommate isn't oblivious. But he should do something regardless. It's difficult not to recognize the signs of the institute shifting, changes, and he knows he should at least make sure that Peter is aware. For some reason, it's tonight that he feels compelled in particular to go after Peter and tell him this.
But he catches sight of the envelope Ruby left behind and in the five seconds he's distracted, Peter has left and Sam does not chase him down. Instead, he fingers the corner of it. Before he can change his mind, he tips it over. The amulet inside spills out, black cord curling over the pages of notes.
He doesn't pick it up. It's clean, not a speck of blood on it, and he can't bring himself to touch it. He leaves it there as his gaze wanders back over the file, back towards the only date he can find, and it hits him:
This is not about the content of the files. It's not about what's written down. It's that these notes exist in the first place. Because there's no reason for the extensive reports to have their pages numbered after the autopsy unless they actually were written after, but they can't have been written after-he's caught enough of the gist of them to recognize that these are not things that can be done on a corpse that's been shredded by hellhounds. You can't test for memories, you can't test for emotional response, and he's been assuming that these were things done by Dean's therapist, but-
He looks back at the date of August 14, and he thinks: what if that's from this year?
He's never considered the possibility that there could be forces stronger than Hell itself; it's just always been a given that there aren't. And suddenly, he doesn't know why it's a given. If the institute can pull his brother out once, they can do it again.
This isn't about demons and this isn't about Dean's soul, not entirely. He's been so caught up with both that that was what he assumed, that he hasn't actually stopped to put together all the little things that have been off.
Four months ago, Ruby dropped by his room to tell him about Dean and that's when everything changed. Not just for him; everything changed. That's when the population dropped by half, when the patients stopped coming in, when he could walk through the halls at night untouched. He doesn't know how he missed it.
He knows it was a demon that dropped these files behind, and it was a demon he felt in the morgue. And that made no sense until now, when it occurs to him that it's possible the demons, too, have lost Dean. That they're looking for him, as well. That was why they were there, except they couldn't find him. That's why they want Sam to find him, why Ruby even has hold of the information at all. Whatever's breaking apart in this world, whatever's gone wrong, it's more important than keeping Dean from Sam. Maybe they think they can just take his soul again. Maybe they're just desperate to stop the driving force behind the institute.
Sam doesn't care. He pauses only long enough to take the amulet and he opens the door so fast, he almost runs Ruby down. He stares at her for a good several seconds. He's not so naïve to think that she didn't know any more than he did when she pointed him in the direction of the morgue.
"You could've just told me, instead of making me-"
Ruby interrupts him with a quiet huff. "Please. I know you, Sam."
The implication is clear. He can't argue with it. She's right: he never would've believed her if she'd told him. He doesn't think he would've even believed her if she'd directly steered him on. But he still can't quite forgive her.
"You know where he is," he says.
"You know where he is."
Sam blinks. That doesn't- "What?"
Ruby waves a hand. He can't tell if she's actually impatient or just pretending, but he thinks she must have a stake in this as much as the demons who want Dean found.
"In case you haven't noticed, you can sense demons. Or, the small-fry ones, anyway."
"What does that have to do with-"
"And you can track them," she adds, like she hasn't heard his question, and that can't be right, that can't be what she's suggesting, but it is. It is.
Sam stares at her, but she gives him a look like she really wants to know if he's gonna argue this with her now of all times, as if arguing is going to change anything, and she's right there, too-it changes nothing.
She's got a knife in her hand when she asks, "Want me to show you how?" and he doesn't say no.
It is four weeks before Sam will realize the world is ending.
17.
There’s more changes but Dean doesn’t care anymore.
He can’t.
He thrashes around so hard the bar around his chest bends one afternoon, groaning as it nears the snapping point when he hits it too hard on accident. Today they replace it with iron, and it hurts, but so what? Tomorrow they’ll just do the same thing with his remaining cuffs, the new iron hissing as it comes into contact with his dead skin. He convulses then too, and while he doesn’t break free of one - he can’t - he does get it stuck on him, the cuff wrenching so sharply he warps the metal around his wrist. They don’t replace it. It’s just going through the motions: he wouldn’t escape even if he could.
White-Eyes watches. He always watches, when he’s not teaching Dean.
Dean knows the monster has big plans for him but he doesn’t care.
Maybe he deserves it.
Sammy didn’t.
18.
The learning curve has always been slow here-but then it suddenly speeds up. Something's changing, breaking, again.
Sam can't help but wonder if this is what Ruby was anticipating. If she knew it would happen. He thinks it probably doesn't matter at this point. He's so close, he can feel it. He doesn't know where he's going to go from here, what's going to happen if he even finds Dean. What Dean's even going to resemble. How far gone Dean will be.
But Dean's here, and Sam can't ignore that now that he's acknowledged it.
Ruby is one floor up, near the chapel, and he knows this from where he stands inside the Sun Room. He's looking at the windows when he thinks he sees a flash of black looking back, but it must be his imagination.
It is one week before Sam will realize the world is ending.
19.
White-Eyes whispers in the dark, We couldn’t save Sammy. But that man’s still out there, you know. It’s just not right.
For the first time, Dean listens.
There’s so much I can teach you; he’s just a man, but you and I are different.
Can they bring Sam back like they brought him back?
Dean can’t remember if White-Eyes answers. All the monster says is:
I’ll teach you everything I know, Dean Winchester, and when we’re done, if you make it, I’ll take you to that man and you’ll make me proud.
The iron brands itself against his skin. The chain links clink softly against each other.
Then we can go home.
20.
Third time's the charm, but Sam still doesn't save Dean. He finds him, though, and maybe that'll have to be enough.
He finds the demon first. Or the demon finds him; the details don't matter. He knows, despite the eyes, that it's not Lilith-she'd never take a body like that. Ruby didn't tell him a demon was involved (of course she didn't) and Sam never expected it when he got a tap on the shoulder and spins around to see it.
You know he's mine, the demon says, and that's all it takes.
It lights up like a goddamn firecracker. The smell of sulfur is so strong, it reminds him of when he got whisked to Cold Oak. Ruby never told him about this, either, but he's got three (two now) demonic threads he can feel, one of them two steps away, and that's all that matters. The possessed body's a lost cause; Sam steps over it without a look down.
21.
The light's swinging wildly, flickering.
It's not supposed to do that.
Dean's eyes are almost rolled back, half-closed; he's not unconscious, but the only thought he can really hold onto after White-Eye's care is it's not supposed to do that. Dimly he's registering creaking sounds. A flash of something that blinds him.
Footsteps, and all he can think about through the haze is that light.
22.
He reaches Dean's side the exact moment half the ceiling caves in. He doesn't have time to take in the blood or the chains or that, despite the dim light, he can tell Dean's eyes are too dark to be their usual green. There's another crash. Someone must've been upstairs because a body hits the ground with a sickening squelch that lets him know it must've impaled itself on something.
Sam steps over that, too. His hands are shaking too hard to pick the locks, but somehow, the cuffs fall away, and he knows it's not from the needle he jammed into the lock.
23.
Someone stands over him.
His hand reaches up to grasp at the stranger’s clothes, bloody fingers brushing against him weakly.
Help me.
24.
They're not alone. Sam will recognize the sound of people panicking for their lives anywhere and he recognizes now. He doesn't know if Peter's made it out with Nathan. He hopes they did, but he doesn't even consider making sure. He doesn't look for Ruby.
He has to stop once to break the devil's trap in their way without dropping Dean because Dean's got one hand curled in Sam's jacket and that's not enough to keep him from tipping over.
Ten steps out the door, a light bulb crashes at his feet and that's when he thinks:
The world is ending.
25.
It's the first time he's been off that table in -
Dean doesn't even know anymore. All he knows is suddenly all the other cuffs are pulled off - cheating, White-Eyes is gonna be pissed at him - and he's getting dragged off too. Dean's legs wobble drunkenly on him as he falls against his rescuer.
It doesn't matter. Dean just looks up at the stranger, sees a face he's never seen before in the lab, and he feels something in him, something weird and alien and it's almost as powerful at that old familiar hate. He'd do anything for the stranger.
It's out past the prep room and into a narrow hall that it hits Dean out of the blue, right when he's busy trying to let the blood pool from his mouth and not get it on the guy, and stumbles. The guy pulls him outta the way as something falls from the ceiling and nearly brains the two of them.
He knows him.
Somehow, he thinks he knows him.
"Sammy?"
26.
Ten steps out the door and Sam knows the world is ending.
But he's got an arm around Dean, hand slipping on the blood against bare skin, and Dean's looking right at him with pitch black eyes and this is the first time he's heard his brother say his name in four months. And he thinks, too:
Maybe it's not.
Authors: continuum, famira
Beta: None
Word Count: 7124/15,500
Rating: R
Character(s): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Ruby, "Alexander"/Alistair, Martin Landel, Peter Petrelli, Nathan Petrelli (namedrop), Genjo Sanzo (namedrop), Euphemia li Britannia (unnamed cameo)
Pairing(s): Sam/Ruby, possible one-sided Alistair/Dean
Summary: Dean expects dying to be a get-out-of-jail-free card and Sam expects to be left alone, but really: they should both know better by now
Notes: FST here + Photoshopin' madness both by famira. Title shamelessly stolen from The Smashing Pumpkins.
Part I
10.
There are two things Sam has never been able to do: he has never been able to save Dean, and he has never been able to forget him.
He thinks that this is rather unfair. He should be able to do one, if not the other.
But he can't and this is why he's here. This is why he's taken on the one case he's spent the past two months swearing he'd never take. He'd blame Ruby, but he knows she's not responsible, that he would've ended up here even if she never came along and opened doors she had no business opening. He'd be here, anyway.
(He blames her.)
Ruby didn't give him a lot to go on-he got a location and the fact that two months and three days ago, something changed-but the ambiguity is no surprise considering who he's dealing with, and Sam's worked with less. He's got a place to start; that's all he needs. Sam's never had a problem starting. It's knowing where to end that's the real issue.
What's supposedly changed, that part's not clear, but he realizes as soon as he steps inside the morgue that Ruby hasn't lied. He can tell. It's the same feeling he's gotten recently every time Ruby's nearby, only stronger. A lingering hint that digs under his skin. He knows what it means, technically, but he doesn't know what it means for Dean.
What it means for him.
He should stop now. He never should've gone this far in the first place. Instead, he shuts the door behind him, quietly, with a click only he can hear.
The morgue is never empty these days. Not that Sam's come around to check; he just knows from common sense. People keep dying every night, so obviously the morgue can't ever run out of bodies to store. It's pretty simple.
So he's not surprised when there are neat labels on almost all of the drawers. There are columns of threes, running left to right. The last five are empty, and it looks out of place. An unconscious part of him seeks out Dean, but of course Dean's corpse isn't here. It's been too long. Besides, what the hell would he do with Dean's body, anyway? He already knows how Dean died and he knows how Dean looks dead. He doesn't need a live demonstration to jog his memory.
Which is why he doesn't open the drawers to look at the other bodies. He figures he's seen them all.
His flashlight sweeps idly over the first drawer at the bottom and he wonders, briefly, how these people died. Did somebody screw it up for them, too, or was it just some bad luck? Maybe they should've stepped left instead of right. Maybe they'd bled out all over someone's arms or maybe they died alone.
Maybe, somewhere, someone's still trying to save them, too.
Sam doesn't know what he's looking for. He's been in here a few times and he remembers clipboards. Notes on the other patients. They are never readable, but they're always neat and organized and they're always there. For some reason, though, it's all cleaned out. Not a trace.
Which is maybe why the only file in the entire room catches his immediate attention. Unlike everything else in the institute, these papers are scattered and haphazardly stacked on the single file cabinet pushed into the corner of the room. They don't look like someone left them there by accident, but they do look like they were grabbed in a hurry.
Not that anything ever occurs by accident. If you trace it far enough, there will always be someone to blame.
The deliberate placement of the files should bother him-make him feel as if nothing should come this easy, that it is, in all likelihood, a trap. But it doesn't. He can't think of what there's left to even trap him for, and he doesn't care where he finds what he does or how. It's what he can get that's the point.
He flicks through one page, and then the next. A thin powder coats his finger as he does. He assumes it's dust, so he just brushes it off against the thigh of his jeans, but a second later, he realizes that he's wrong. It's not dust. It's sulfur.
His eyes narrow. Why would a demon be involved in providing him information? Still, nothing makes less sense than it did before, so he puts it away for now. He can't think about this here; he needs time. He knows better than to get sloppy about it. That was his mistake, where he went wrong. Part of where he went wrong, anyway. The list of how he fucked up is too long to be numbered. He knows-he's tried.
He gathers up the scattered papers, stacking them without hurry. He pauses to unfold a dog-eared corner of one. For the first time, he feels like this might not be a complete waste of his time, that he might be getting somewhere. He recognizes that this is a dangerous way to be. That this is how he got them both to where they are in the first place.
Deep down, he understands: he will only save Dean when he forgets him.
But that's a fantasy.
11.
Tell me everything you know about Sam Winchester.
He can do this one.
Dean resists the homework. Sam's still out there, safe. Alive. What doesn't he know about Sammy? Okay, maybe some of it's getting hazy around the edges, but he's spent so many nights thinking about Sam that most of it's still there in one piece, one of the few things White-Eyes hasn't been able to slice outta him. It's been hammered into him that he's gotta answer, gotta try for White-Eyes, this impulse that's seems as natural as bracing himself when he sees any sign of water in the same room as him. The incident with Martin Landel isn't ever mentioned again: he hears about him from the staff sometimes, but it's just that one visit and the next morning, White-Eyes is back to his usual. In fact, he gives him even more attention, like in some sick way he's trying to make it up to Dean.
The worst part is Dean feels somehow better about that. Like going back to the norm of screaming himself hoarse for hours was fine so long as there weren't any more surprise visits from Landel.
Dean would've felt sick at himself if he wasn't busy trying to work out the blood from his mouth. Seriously, where the hell was all this stuff coming from? How was he even producing it still?
"Tell me about Sam Winchester," White-Eyes drops to be eye level with Dean. Dean can see the individual curls of white smoke in those eyes, as dead as his. "Tell me everything. If you can tell me something about Sam Winchester you'd never tell anyone else, I'll help free you. I'm on your side, Dean."
Dean almost blabs about his brother's abilities right there on the spot. Somehow he manages to reign that shit in, eyes sliding past White-Eyes to the machine beeping over his head. Still flatlined.
White-Eyes is patient like always despite the silent refusal.
"We can do something different today, to show you I want what's best for you. I won't use this," White-Eyes holds up the bowie knife, glistening red, "on you today. No tests."
Dean's attention turns back to White-Eyes. "Why?"
"Because when we're done, you'll need to know this, Dean," says White-Eyes. "You won't be on this table forever, you know. Try to get out."
Dean's not sure what he means, but when White-Eyes taps the edge of his blood-stained bowie knife encouragingly against his cheek, he tries. It takes several attempts before he gets anywhere, his lips parting, naked back arching against the table. His eyes roll back. It's one of the weirdest experiences in his life, both dead or alive, being in two places at once. There's a brief glimpse of starting to look down on himself, floating, struggling to get loose when he's tied down, before he's suddenly sucked back in with a snap, like a bungie cord. Dean gags - something that hasn't happened in, well, ever since dying - and coughs on himself. It's a start, but it's not good enough. Dean braces himself for White-Eyes to go back to work...only it never comes. White-Eyes just sits there, a hand on his upper arm as Dean twists in the restraints and tries to do it again.
That night, Dean almost doesn't hurt. He's still alone, trying to fend off White-Eye's instructions drilled into his head like a broken record, but he doesn't hurt.
The scary part is he's starting to believe White-Eyes now. He's a monster of his word.
12.
There are thirteen (thirteen and a half, to be exact) pages total. They are all out of order, some turned around upside down or flipped the wrong way, and it takes him a few minutes to shuffle them back into place. None of them tell him anything about Dean. At least, not on the surface.
Sam can't actually read any of this straight off the pages. Like everything except for the useless so-called patient files, the handwriting is illegible. Even the typed labels that tell you what to fill into which blank, the print looks like it came out of a typewriter and was badly photocopied ten times over. It's almost as bad as the handwriting.
What he recognizes as an autopsy report, peculiarly, contains neither a photograph of the body or a name. The box is struck through, as is the box for time of death. There is only a case number. Stranger still is that the entire report has been struck through. Not destroyed, just crossed off, a thick line the size of a fat Sharpie going diagonal from left to right.
Crossed off or illegible or whatever, though, this is not a dead end. He can count how many letters are in each word. Beginning and end letters are easier to decipher and he can read most of the capitals. It's not that hard to recognize the more common words by their placement in the sentence. The handwriting is consistent, if crap, so he starts going through, searching out letters that look like the ones he's already identified from words he's managed to read.
There's no way this is gonna take anything but awhile, but he's stopped putting himself on a timer. Dean's already in Hell and though it's not like he thinks leaving his brother to burn just that much longer is a good thing, he's also fairly certain:
It's way too late to save him.
No, this isn't about saving Dean. He wishes he still has that option, but he's blown the two chances he had and he knows he won't get a third. This is about making sense again of what once did. Because Dean was dead, dragged to hell, and that made sense. He knows why it happened; he knows what mistakes he made. He knows exactly who took his brother and he knows exactly when and where it went down.
But that's all fallen apart and now he's uncertain all over again. The uncertainty bothers him. He needs to know what's happening with Dean now. He needs to know what this means, whether Dean's still dead and in Hell or somewhere else or if Lilith no longer has a hold on his soul and what demon's gotten involved with this and why they've decided to leave him a paper trail. He needs to know if...Dean's here.
No, that's ridiculous. That's the one thing he doesn't need to know. It's not true; Dean's not here. That'd be stupid and he doesn't know why it's even crosses his mind. Dean can't be here. This is not about saving Dean.
This is not about saving Dean.
Sam has thirteen (and one half) pages to decipher. It is seven weeks and five days before he will realize the world is ending, and he will believe what he tells himself for exactly twelve minutes and fourteen seconds.
It's a record.
13.
I don't know how long I've been here, Dean says. Can't even hear his voice 'cause White-Eyes blew out his ear-drums first thing this morning before taking brunch with his staff. Dean thinks they'll heal, since he can see a vial of that blue-black drug sitting on the tray next to him, but for now, he's gotta get used to being deaf all of a sudden. Blood still leaks from his ears, pooling into a congealing little puddle underneath his head. I really don't know.
Dean has to watch White-Eyes hard to understand him, eyes on his mouth, his eyes, any body language that can help them communicate. It's not helped when right now, he's got at least six iron stakes shoved into his chest, and if he doesn't know better, they almost look like a star to him. Sorta. Talking at all makes them jiggle, and a few times he feels them brush up against his ribs, choking off any answers he makes. White-Eyes made it clear he has to keep talking, and Dean's stopped wondering what that "or else" was. He's stopped wondering about a lot of things now.
How long do you think you'll be here?
Dean can talk almost like normal now. It's not hard anymore to move his corpse's mouth, even if it's hard to concentrate in general. His eyelashes flutter. Tired.
Tired, he repeats, feeling his voice reverberating in his chest and throat, head still tilted to rest against his shoulder, half-lidded eyes on the monster.
I know you are. Answer me.
He tries again to rouse himself. I don't know.
Do you think anyone's coming for you?
Dean's confused by the question. He jolts when suddenly he's getting another stake shoved into him as a wake-up call, and while he knows he screams, it's just this buzzing white noise to him. He thinks he says "No", but he's surprised when "Yes" pops out instead.
White-Eyes steeples his blood-stained fingers together, leaning back in his chair at Dean's side - always at his side, Dean can't imagine him anywhere else - and crossing one leg over his other.
Sam Winchester, White-Eyes says. It's not a question. Dean keeps silent. He said too much and he has no idea why: things just pop outta him when he keeps telling himself he's gotta lie. Gotta protect Sam, no matter what. He didn't matter anymore, being in this lab makes sure he knows he's nothing. It's just Sammy that exists to him now. It's a mantra every night, to the point where it's just words and he can't even remember why he's saying them, only that they're important. White-Eyes asks about Sam more than once, and several times, Dean almost slips.
White-Eyes is a fast one, throwing in a random question while Dean's trying to read his mouth, concentrating hard, and Dean barely fights off the automatic, instinctive compulsion to answer.
Dean, my boy, White-Eyes says, I'm not the one holding you back. You could've started to free yourself, you know, if you weren't being so selfish. You just have to tell me everything about your brother and I'll help you. I can't hold off Martin Landel forever: you have to help yourself too. I can't hold your hand through this nor be your crutch. This has to be your choice.
Dean's eyes wander, not focusing on anything in particular. After getting trained to get used to screams, having a conversation is like trying to ride a bike again, and he just barely remembers what one of those is. He's been fumbling his way through all this talking, and all the smartass things he would've had to say are buried too deep for him to get at. Dean wants to be free, he wants that cuff off more than anything. He has to be there for Sam, and he can't do that while he's here, it's just as simple at that. Dean might've forgot a lot of things over the past month, but he can't forget That Man coming in here, barging in, pissing off White-Eyes and threatening to take his brother.
Anyone but Sam, Dean thinks. He looks at the nurses, the staff, and sees them for what they really are. He's just meat but so are they. They don't matter to him, not even the woman with the panties that change color every day. White-Eyes showed him his priorities, and Dean's torn on if he's thankful or not. He's telling the truth, either way.
He can't imagine a time when White-Eyes wasn't there. It just seems like it's how it's supposed to be, that White-Eyes hurts him - for his own good? White-Eyes says it is - and it's his job to keep on hating him, to answer his questions anyway, and if White-Eyes wants him to scream, he screams. If he has to choke it back, he can do that too.
White-Eyes is right, though. He's always right 'cause he keeps his word, Dean's seen it over and over again. Eyes on the monster's face, it feels like everything just tunnels down around him, that white noise humming in his ears as he thinks over what White-Eyes just said.
It's true. Dean has to free himself, has to get to Sam no matter what it takes or what it does to him. Sammy's worth it, he tells himself, but how is he gonna help him when he's still chained to the table?
It's several more days before White-Eyes brings up Sam again. Dean's still deaf, the blood from his ears dry, when White-Eyes leans over him.
I can help you, Dean. You just have to let me.
Dean hurts again.
After injecting him with a lot more of that blue-black drug, they've coated everything iron in that white powder and the water, and it's a whole new level of pain even he's not used to. Can't concentrate. Every time he starts trying to focus himself into thinking, White-Eyes reaches over and twists that knife in his chest or pours more of that water into the wounds, jerking him away from half-formed thoughts as clouds of steam violently hisses off him. Dean would've thought he was delirious except for the part where he's dead and dead people don't get delirious.
He has no idea what he's saying anymore.
Sammy's still out there. He needs you.
White-Eye's beard tickles his skin and there's no breath, either. Looking up, he sees his own dead eyes reflected in the monster's, and Dean doesn't know what he's looking at. They're not his eyes anymore.
He grunts when in goes another stake, feeling every little grain of that white powder boiling his corpse's blood away.
There's nothing wrong with saving yourself to save Sam.
He doesn't know who said that, if it was White-Eyes or not. Was his mouth moving?
Tell me everything, White-Eyes purrs.
When the lights flick off, Dean Winchester's down one cuff.
14.
In two weeks, Sam runs out of batteries twice while he's going through the pages and pages of notes, which annoys him briefly, but as the monsters that crawl the institute still choose to do nothing more than stare at him-never curious, always with recognition-it's not that difficult for him to just walk up the stairs and find what he needs. The first time he goes into the storage closet, there's a thin trail of blood beneath the door. It's starting to congeal, but it's fresh enough that he's not surprised when he can hear something chewing.
The door's broken in, so a flick of a finger against the edge is all it takes to swing it wide open. It's still eating when he casts his light over it. Whatever it is. It seems to just be made up of teeth and six large eyes that don't blink. Blood drips in a slow slide down its canines. He doesn't recognize the body; there's not much left to see, though enough that he figures she can't be older than eighteen. He's remembers seeing someone shot in the face before with a .22, and that's pretty much what it looks like here. The only thing he's got is a swirl of blood-stained hair, pink. It's an odd shade that makes him stop for a few seconds to consider. That she's even still here is rare enough; most of the kids have disappeared weeks ago. He can't decide if she's just one of those who hang on for the sake of it or if she had a reason to stick around.
Either way, he doubts her soul minds booking it out of here.
The thing skitters beneath his legs. It jolts him out of his thoughts and he remembers what he's doing here: it's not to contemplate another statistic.
There is only one set of batteries remaining, among a few scattered items. It's early in the night, so it's odd a significant number of items are gone, but he dismisses the thought and reaches for the batteries. He stops to shut the door before he leaves. He's not entirely certain why. It's not as if it'll change anything, whether he leaves her in the open or hides her away. It doesn't change that he knows he should burn the body. But he doesn't have the time or means to put everyone to rest, and he doesn't quite think it fair to give one soul that opportunity and leave another to potentially wander around, lost, so he does nothing.
When he comes back five days later, there's no sign that anything's ever been amiss in here. He knows, from experience, you can't clean off that much blood in such tight quarters, but he's stopped questioning the smaller details. Things come and go; that's nothing new.
Again, though, there's not much left in the closet. Even less than last time. There can't be that many people grabbing stuff that quick, can there?
Sam sits on his bed and props up his flashlight. He remembers that Dean is gone and forgets that people are dying without leaving a trace not days later. He forgets that he could probably stop it if he tried. He forgets even considering trying in the first place. He forgets that he should care. There are plenty of people who care, he's sure. There are plenty of people willing to put their life on the line for a complete stranger and mourn the deaths of people they don't even know. But he's the only one who will ever bother with a dead man who has already cheated death twice, the only one deluded enough to keep looking despite knowing that what he'll find is going to break everything further, that-
The door opens without warning. It startles him, though he knows who it is before he sees her. He hasn't seen Ruby in weeks. Or-that's not true. He's seen her, but she hasn't approached and he hasn't, either. There's been no reason to. He's been busy.
He wonders if she's going to crack something else open, but that's a ludicrous thought-there's not much more she can do after bringing up Dean. She's already played her trump card. There's nothing left, so he doesn't really mind that she's here beyond the fact that she's interrupting his work.
She's got her hand behind her back, but before he can ask, she displays a large manila envelope with a flourish like it's a bouquet of flowers.
"Something you missed," she says.
He takes it from her. At the corner is an abnormally shaped lump, the size of a small rock. He knows he didn't miss it. He doesn't miss things, not when it comes to this. Not when it comes to Dean. There's no way he could've not seen an envelope this size. He doesn't say anything, though, because it's not worth getting into it with her. He already knows she has something to do with this. To what extent, he can always figure it out later. After he finds Dean.
When he looks up from the envelope she handed him, she's gone. He gets up and shuts the door that she's left wide open. He thinks he knows what's inside the envelope, he thinks he knows what it'll mean, and he does not open it. He's not ready yet, he'll never be ready. He's not ready.
It is five weeks before Sam will realize the world is ending.
15.
It’s weird, actually, to have his hand free.
Dean lies there on the table, faced turned as he ignores the staff bustling around him and looks at his free hand. Flexes his fingers. They curl. They do what he tells them. So he does it again. Just a second delay, and his thumb moves.
He doesn’t know what to do with his hand now that it’s his again.
Dean’s scraped off a lot of skin into raw red patches from when he had the cuff there: it’s so minor compared to the daily schedule he doesn’t even really register it. He brings it up to his face, turning his hand before it and looks at it like it’s something he’s never really seen before, wonder in his blood-splattered face. Sometimes the nurse pushes his hand down (he doesn’t fight her), but the second her back is turned, he’s looking at it again until she catches him in the act all over. He did it. For the first time, he did it, and there’s just three more and the bar to go and he’ll be able to get out there, get Sammy, and then…well, he can’t think that far ahead but everything seems okay so long as he makes it to the Sam part.
The nurse pushes down his hand. She has a funny look in her eyes even as she turns away to pick up a clipboard.
It takes Dean a long second to realize he's smiling.
White-Eyes smiles back at him. He's proud of him, Dean realizes, and this time he's proud of himself too. He did it. Just three more to go. Dean still manages to smile even as he hacks up some more blood.
His hearing's coming back, too. Things keep looking up.
He can't feel the blue-black liquid running through his corpse, not really. He's just floating, and it's not even the same as that other floating. Not even the water or the white powder can bring him down. Dean doesn't even wonder why he didn't try to free himself earlier. Hell, even the break for his "good behavior" isn't as bad as normal. When White-Eyes suddenly vanishes from the room, Dean doesn't even notice: it's only when he comes back hours later with a sad, disappointed expression on his face that Dean pays attention.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says.
16.
By the end of the third week, Sam's managed to transcribe the contents of the files. Not all of it, obviously. There are more blanks in the text than there aren't and what he can read, he still has to figure out what it all means.
But it's a step.
It's a step he should've gotten to a week ago, if he's to be honest. But he pushes it away. He's not hesitating. Why would he be?
I'm not ready, he thinks, a fleeting thought, but he ignores that, too. It's not true, that's not why. If he's going slower than he should, it's because he's distracted. It's not as if he has the days to work on this; he can only do it at night.
If he could, he'd be taping things to the wall, but that's not doable under the circumstances so he's got them laid out on the table instead, row by row by row. There's no indication anywhere that the file has anything to do with Dean. He thinks he would've been able to make out either the name Dean Winchester or Eric Derringer at least once, but it's not there. Like the autopsy report, all explicitly identifying information has been left out. He's made out a chicken scratch that must be Dean's height, though.
On the very last page is a date for August 14. There's no year attached, but either way-one year ago, Dean wasn't here, and this year, Dean was in Hell. That date is completely out of place.
There's a shift to his left, and Sam glances out of the corner of his eye for the first time tonight. Peter doesn't look away, but he doesn't stare directly at Sam, either.
He knows Peter's been watching him work. He avoided working while his roommate was in the room at first, but that lasted about a day before he gave up, decided that it wasn't like it really mattered what Peter thought. He suspects Peter understands more than either of them are willing to admit, anyway.
He has to give Peter credit because Peter hasn't asked him what the hell he's doing. That's actually a pretty goddamn impressive span of time. Peter's kind of been exceptionally good at leaving him alone ever since Dean's been gone which Sam can't deny he's grateful for, though it's unclear whether it's a result of Peter being, well, Peter, or if it's because Peter feels guilty that Nathan's still around. Sam thinks it has a lot to do with the latter. He knows, all too well, that guilt gives you patience like nothing else.
But it's three weeks in. Peter's probably had enough of observing or talking around superficial topics that Sam can't find the energy to converse about beyond what's required, so he finally comes out and asks. Peter's ignored this activity of Sam's for so long that the question makes him look up and put down his pen in surprise. He's been expecting Peter to ask since day one, but now that he has, Sam doesn't have a ready answer.
"I found something," is all he says at last.
He doesn't know how else to put it, but Peter doesn't press, nor does he look like he's holding back from questioning further, and Sam understands that Peter gets exactly what he means. Thinking on it, as Peter's gathering up his things to go out, he realizes that it wouldn't have exactly been difficult for Peter to guess what's gotten Sam's undivided attention. That maybe Peter wasn't holding back his curiosity all those weeks, that he only asked now because he was seeking confirmation.
It occurs to him, out of nowhere while he's flipping one page over the next, that there's something he should tell Peter. The little things that have been going on for the past few months now-the deaths, the lack of new patients, the way the sun never quite shines anymore. He thinks Peter's noticed; his roommate isn't oblivious. But he should do something regardless. It's difficult not to recognize the signs of the institute shifting, changes, and he knows he should at least make sure that Peter is aware. For some reason, it's tonight that he feels compelled in particular to go after Peter and tell him this.
But he catches sight of the envelope Ruby left behind and in the five seconds he's distracted, Peter has left and Sam does not chase him down. Instead, he fingers the corner of it. Before he can change his mind, he tips it over. The amulet inside spills out, black cord curling over the pages of notes.
He doesn't pick it up. It's clean, not a speck of blood on it, and he can't bring himself to touch it. He leaves it there as his gaze wanders back over the file, back towards the only date he can find, and it hits him:
This is not about the content of the files. It's not about what's written down. It's that these notes exist in the first place. Because there's no reason for the extensive reports to have their pages numbered after the autopsy unless they actually were written after, but they can't have been written after-he's caught enough of the gist of them to recognize that these are not things that can be done on a corpse that's been shredded by hellhounds. You can't test for memories, you can't test for emotional response, and he's been assuming that these were things done by Dean's therapist, but-
He looks back at the date of August 14, and he thinks: what if that's from this year?
He's never considered the possibility that there could be forces stronger than Hell itself; it's just always been a given that there aren't. And suddenly, he doesn't know why it's a given. If the institute can pull his brother out once, they can do it again.
This isn't about demons and this isn't about Dean's soul, not entirely. He's been so caught up with both that that was what he assumed, that he hasn't actually stopped to put together all the little things that have been off.
Four months ago, Ruby dropped by his room to tell him about Dean and that's when everything changed. Not just for him; everything changed. That's when the population dropped by half, when the patients stopped coming in, when he could walk through the halls at night untouched. He doesn't know how he missed it.
He knows it was a demon that dropped these files behind, and it was a demon he felt in the morgue. And that made no sense until now, when it occurs to him that it's possible the demons, too, have lost Dean. That they're looking for him, as well. That was why they were there, except they couldn't find him. That's why they want Sam to find him, why Ruby even has hold of the information at all. Whatever's breaking apart in this world, whatever's gone wrong, it's more important than keeping Dean from Sam. Maybe they think they can just take his soul again. Maybe they're just desperate to stop the driving force behind the institute.
Sam doesn't care. He pauses only long enough to take the amulet and he opens the door so fast, he almost runs Ruby down. He stares at her for a good several seconds. He's not so naïve to think that she didn't know any more than he did when she pointed him in the direction of the morgue.
"You could've just told me, instead of making me-"
Ruby interrupts him with a quiet huff. "Please. I know you, Sam."
The implication is clear. He can't argue with it. She's right: he never would've believed her if she'd told him. He doesn't think he would've even believed her if she'd directly steered him on. But he still can't quite forgive her.
"You know where he is," he says.
"You know where he is."
Sam blinks. That doesn't- "What?"
Ruby waves a hand. He can't tell if she's actually impatient or just pretending, but he thinks she must have a stake in this as much as the demons who want Dean found.
"In case you haven't noticed, you can sense demons. Or, the small-fry ones, anyway."
"What does that have to do with-"
"And you can track them," she adds, like she hasn't heard his question, and that can't be right, that can't be what she's suggesting, but it is. It is.
Sam stares at her, but she gives him a look like she really wants to know if he's gonna argue this with her now of all times, as if arguing is going to change anything, and she's right there, too-it changes nothing.
She's got a knife in her hand when she asks, "Want me to show you how?" and he doesn't say no.
It is four weeks before Sam will realize the world is ending.
17.
There’s more changes but Dean doesn’t care anymore.
He can’t.
He thrashes around so hard the bar around his chest bends one afternoon, groaning as it nears the snapping point when he hits it too hard on accident. Today they replace it with iron, and it hurts, but so what? Tomorrow they’ll just do the same thing with his remaining cuffs, the new iron hissing as it comes into contact with his dead skin. He convulses then too, and while he doesn’t break free of one - he can’t - he does get it stuck on him, the cuff wrenching so sharply he warps the metal around his wrist. They don’t replace it. It’s just going through the motions: he wouldn’t escape even if he could.
White-Eyes watches. He always watches, when he’s not teaching Dean.
Dean knows the monster has big plans for him but he doesn’t care.
Maybe he deserves it.
Sammy didn’t.
18.
The learning curve has always been slow here-but then it suddenly speeds up. Something's changing, breaking, again.
Sam can't help but wonder if this is what Ruby was anticipating. If she knew it would happen. He thinks it probably doesn't matter at this point. He's so close, he can feel it. He doesn't know where he's going to go from here, what's going to happen if he even finds Dean. What Dean's even going to resemble. How far gone Dean will be.
But Dean's here, and Sam can't ignore that now that he's acknowledged it.
Ruby is one floor up, near the chapel, and he knows this from where he stands inside the Sun Room. He's looking at the windows when he thinks he sees a flash of black looking back, but it must be his imagination.
It is one week before Sam will realize the world is ending.
19.
White-Eyes whispers in the dark, We couldn’t save Sammy. But that man’s still out there, you know. It’s just not right.
For the first time, Dean listens.
There’s so much I can teach you; he’s just a man, but you and I are different.
Can they bring Sam back like they brought him back?
Dean can’t remember if White-Eyes answers. All the monster says is:
I’ll teach you everything I know, Dean Winchester, and when we’re done, if you make it, I’ll take you to that man and you’ll make me proud.
The iron brands itself against his skin. The chain links clink softly against each other.
Then we can go home.
20.
Third time's the charm, but Sam still doesn't save Dean. He finds him, though, and maybe that'll have to be enough.
He finds the demon first. Or the demon finds him; the details don't matter. He knows, despite the eyes, that it's not Lilith-she'd never take a body like that. Ruby didn't tell him a demon was involved (of course she didn't) and Sam never expected it when he got a tap on the shoulder and spins around to see it.
You know he's mine, the demon says, and that's all it takes.
It lights up like a goddamn firecracker. The smell of sulfur is so strong, it reminds him of when he got whisked to Cold Oak. Ruby never told him about this, either, but he's got three (two now) demonic threads he can feel, one of them two steps away, and that's all that matters. The possessed body's a lost cause; Sam steps over it without a look down.
21.
The light's swinging wildly, flickering.
It's not supposed to do that.
Dean's eyes are almost rolled back, half-closed; he's not unconscious, but the only thought he can really hold onto after White-Eye's care is it's not supposed to do that. Dimly he's registering creaking sounds. A flash of something that blinds him.
Footsteps, and all he can think about through the haze is that light.
22.
He reaches Dean's side the exact moment half the ceiling caves in. He doesn't have time to take in the blood or the chains or that, despite the dim light, he can tell Dean's eyes are too dark to be their usual green. There's another crash. Someone must've been upstairs because a body hits the ground with a sickening squelch that lets him know it must've impaled itself on something.
Sam steps over that, too. His hands are shaking too hard to pick the locks, but somehow, the cuffs fall away, and he knows it's not from the needle he jammed into the lock.
23.
Someone stands over him.
His hand reaches up to grasp at the stranger’s clothes, bloody fingers brushing against him weakly.
Help me.
24.
They're not alone. Sam will recognize the sound of people panicking for their lives anywhere and he recognizes now. He doesn't know if Peter's made it out with Nathan. He hopes they did, but he doesn't even consider making sure. He doesn't look for Ruby.
He has to stop once to break the devil's trap in their way without dropping Dean because Dean's got one hand curled in Sam's jacket and that's not enough to keep him from tipping over.
Ten steps out the door, a light bulb crashes at his feet and that's when he thinks:
The world is ending.
25.
It's the first time he's been off that table in -
Dean doesn't even know anymore. All he knows is suddenly all the other cuffs are pulled off - cheating, White-Eyes is gonna be pissed at him - and he's getting dragged off too. Dean's legs wobble drunkenly on him as he falls against his rescuer.
It doesn't matter. Dean just looks up at the stranger, sees a face he's never seen before in the lab, and he feels something in him, something weird and alien and it's almost as powerful at that old familiar hate. He'd do anything for the stranger.
It's out past the prep room and into a narrow hall that it hits Dean out of the blue, right when he's busy trying to let the blood pool from his mouth and not get it on the guy, and stumbles. The guy pulls him outta the way as something falls from the ceiling and nearly brains the two of them.
He knows him.
Somehow, he thinks he knows him.
"Sammy?"
26.
Ten steps out the door and Sam knows the world is ending.
But he's got an arm around Dean, hand slipping on the blood against bare skin, and Dean's looking right at him with pitch black eyes and this is the first time he's heard his brother say his name in four months. And he thinks, too:
Maybe it's not.