Chapter Text
"Hiya, Sammy." Those words, once a source of comfort, now sent a chill down Sam's spine unlike anything he'd felt before. Even the cold, damp air in the bunker couldn't compare to the icy fear that gripped him in this moment.
As Sam turned towards Dean's voice, his brother's fist connected with his face, jolting his head back violently. A sharp whiplash of pain shot through his neck, the red-hot agony already beginning to fade. Before he could fully register the pain, another blow landed under his jaw, causing his teeth to sink into the soft flesh of his cheeks. The familiar taste of blood flooded his mouth, a bitter reminder of the violence unfolding before him.
"Dean!" Sam managed to gasp out the word, but it was too late. His brother continued to rain down blows, each one sending him crashing to the floor. Some struck his already battered face, while others landed in his gut, leaving him gasping for breath. Through wide eyes filled with fear, Sam could see the cruelty in Dean's gaze, a sight that chilled him to the core.
Well wasn't that just beautiful?
Sam curled into a fetal position, drawing his legs close to his body as he crawled away from Dean, resembling a wounded animal seeking safety. His broken shoulder added to the difficulty of finding his bearings amidst the chaos. Dean's predatory gaze bore down on him, treating him as nothing more than prey to be hunted and subdued.
Suddenly, the barrage of punches ceased, replaced by Dean's menacing growls. In the midst of the violence, Castiel managed to sneak up on Dean, offering a glimmer of hope to Sam. The sight of his angelic friend locking Dean in a barrier of his arms sparked a flicker of relief within Sam's heart. Castiel's cerulean eyes shone with electric intensity as he held Dean captive, his presence a beacon of protection amidst the storm of violence.
Caught off guard, Dean erupted in anger, unleashing growls that sounded more animalistic than human. He lashed out, striking Castiel's forehead with a forceful blow that shattered the divine hold the angel had on him. "Cassie, sweetie, your batteries are still weak," Dean taunted, his words dripping with contempt and defiance.
Sam, still sprawled on the ground, watched in sick horror as his brother seized Castiel by the neck and hurled him against the wall. With a swift motion, Dean snatched the angel blade from Castiel's trench coat and plunged it into his shoulder, pinning him to the wall. A surge of voltaic energy erupted from Castiel's eyes and the wound, eliciting a shrill scream of agony. Gasping for breath, Castiel's hands flailed, desperately seeking relief from the searing pain radiating from the wound. It became evident that Dean's strength surpassed that of Castiel's as he maintained his grip, choking the life out of the angel until he succumbed to unconsciousness, blood trickling from his mouth as the angel blade clattered loudly against the tiled floor.
The faint hitch in his breath snagged Dean's attention, drawing his focus back to his younger brother. Watching Dean approach with a sinister grin, Sam instinctively raised his arm to shield his face, his body curling inward as if attempting to shrink away. Dean seized a fistful of Sam's hair, straddling his huddled form. Locking eyes with his terror-stricken brother, Dean yanked mercilessly on his long locks, then brutally slammed his head against the bunker floor, each impact echoing like a death knell. Sam's once vibrant green eyes dulled, rolling back into his skull as his consciousness slipped away. As the darkness closed in, the final image burned into Sam's fading awareness was Dean's menacing countenance drawing nearer, his lips twisted into a malevolent grin as he whispered, "Goodnight, Sammy," a sinister promise laced with malice.
Ripping pain tore through his skull, yanking him from the depths of unconsciousness. The relentless pounding in his head intensified as he struggled to awaken further. He groaned, his head an unbearable weight on his neck. Try as he might, he couldn't coax his eyes to open, leaving him trapped in a realm of excruciating agony. It was as if his entire existence had been reduced to the torment raging within his skull, rendering the rest of his body inconsequential.
As he finally managed to pry his eyes open, a dim, fragmented scene materialized before him, a patchwork of blurry shapes and swirling shadows. He blinked furiously, hoping to sharpen his focus, but the world around him remained obscured. With each attempt, the nauseating waves grew stronger, threatening to overwhelm him. With a low groan, Sam squeezed his eyes shut, willing the bile rising in his throat to retreat to its depths.
The familiar surroundings offered a slight comfort, though the locked trunks and dust-covered boxes hinted at the grim purpose of the room. In the Winchester-ese, it was known as the Holding Cell, Panic Room, or worse, the Torture Room. Sam blinked away stray strands of hair as he took in the scene, noting the absence of a devil's trap on the floor.
Carefully surveying his surroundings, Sam realized that while the room bore resemblance to the one used to detain monsters in the past, it was not identical. Each room in the bunker held its own story, its own purpose. From the library to the kitchen to the main room, each space reflected the brothers' individual tastes and memories.
Dean's room was his batcave, his sanctuary, a place he'd made home. It was decorated with memories of home, family pictures, postcards he had collected from all the places they worked cases until postcards were out of trend altogether
Sam's room stood in stark contrast to Dean's sanctuary. It lacked the warmth and personal touch that made a space truly feel like home. For Sam, home had always been a person and not a space confined within four walls. Sure, maybe once, it was the apartment he rented with Jess or the couch he occasionally occupied at the cabin at Singer Salvage Yard and more often than not the backseat of Impala. But save for the car, the other two were left to crumble in ruins long ago. He had no physical remnants of home. The few tattered pictures they had had belonged to Dean just like the Impala. Sad as it was, his room was no different than any motel places they lived in most of their lives. Unlike Dean's room adorned with cherished mementos, Sam's space resembled the transient nature of their nomadic lifestyle.
Bound and immobilized, Sam's hands struggled against the unyielding grip of the cuffs, their metallic clinks echoing in the dimly lit room with each futile movement. Dean had ensured that the restraints were unforgivingly tight, leaving Sam with no room to maneuver, let alone escape. Frustration surged through him as he tested the limits of his confinement, only to find them unyielding.
It was a testament to Dean's intimate knowledge of his brother that the cuffs were designed to thwart even Sam's most desperate attempts at freedom. The realization that Dean had meticulously orchestrated his captivity sent a chill down Sam's spine, overshadowing any lingering hope of a swift escape.
"Rise and shine, Sammy!" The words were familiar but the tone of the voice was far from comforting.
Dean emerged from the far corner of the room that wasn't touched by the light from the solitary bulb hanging over Sam's head. For the first time, there was no feeling of relief at the sight of his brother. Deep down, Sam knew this wasn't a rescue, not when his brother put him there, even if it was under the influence of the damned mark.
"Dean, let me go, please." He tried to reason. This was ridiculous. What was Dean planning to do holding Sam down in this room?
"Oh let you go? Why, Sammy? You were the one who dragged me back here. I'm just spending some quality time with my baby brother." Dean cupped his face. A part of Sam wanted to lean into the comforting touch but the weary part of him was too afraid to show weakness. The hand moved a little and fingers dug deep into his jaw making it ache like a bad case of dental cavity. "Aren't you happy to see your brother?"
Sam's futile attempt to free himself from Dean's grasp only earned him a cruel smile from his brother. As Dean released his hold, Sam's relief was short-lived as a harsh slap sent stars dancing before his eyes, intensifying the already blurred vision and adding to the overwhelming dizziness.
Dean's chuckle cut through the air, a chilling sound that echoed off the walls as he circled Sam like a predator stalking its prey. Sam was weak in every sense. Physically, he looked like crap, most of which was his doing save for the broken shoulder. Sam was responsible for that on his own. Emotionally, he was on a roller coaster, the highs too high and the lows too close to Hell. Spiritually, his baby brother was tainted beyond salvation. Though it was Dean who bore the mark of the first murder, Sam's soul was the one that was darker than the black hole. Inky, murky and coagulated, like oil and water, too filthy even for a demon like Dean to get close to.
Indeed, being a demon had its advantages. Dean had long sensed that there was something amiss with his brother, even when Sam tried to conceal it. Now, with the aid of demonic abilities, Dean could peer beyond Sam's outward facade and glimpse the true state of his soul—a damaged and fractured entity, plagued by unseen wounds and hidden darkness.
Sam blinked his eyes, the pain blooming all over his bloody face. He moved his jaw again trying to relieve some of it. As Dean circled him, the glint of Ruby's knife caught Sam's attention, sending a surge of dread through his already battered body. Ignoring the protests of his own flesh, he braced himself for whatever Dean had in store.
The spicy scent of Dean's aftershave mingled with the musty odor of the room, assaulted Sam's senses as his brother loomed over him. The cold touch of the blade traced a path along his cheekbone, sending a shiver down his spine. Sam's heart raced as the knife inched closer, its glint dancing in the dim light.
"Dean," Sam's voice trembled, his eyes darting away from his brother's gaze, afraid of what he might see. Summoning every ounce of courage, he forced himself to meet Dean's eyes, only to find them fixated on the knife, etching cruel patterns on his flesh. A surge of despair washed over Sam as he realized the extent to which the mark had twisted his brother into something unrecognizable.
Dean dragged the sharp end of the blade, exerting just enough pressure to carve a shallow yet agonizing gash along Sam's face. Sam's sharp intake of breath betrayed the searing pain as the blade pierced his tender skin. With a mixture of anger and fear, he locked eyes with Dean's cold gaze.
"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam's voice quivered, his senses heightened as he felt the blade inching closer to his neck. The burning sensation of the gash on his cheek intensified, each drop of blood tracing the cruel path of the blade.
"Wondering if I should gut you in cold blood or savor the agony," Dean muttered, his voice laced with malice as he carved a deeper cut along Sam's neck, the crimson rivulets mirroring the twisted path of his intentions.
"De-ean!" Sam screamed then chewed on lips to prevent a pained moan from slipping out when the knife dug deeper into the wound, twisting the flaying the skin open. A hand reached to grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back to expose the column of his neck. The biting pain brought tears to his eyes as the knife penetrated the soft skin under his jaw cutting open another incision over his Adam's apple and down to the base of his neck. Warm liquid pooled into the small dip where his collarbones met.
Swallowing hard, Sam choked back the agony as he rasped, "Why are you doing this?" He despised the brokenness in his own voice, a stark reminder of his vulnerability in the face of his tormentor. He had endured worse fate before, under the hands of the Devil. But none of this compared to the betrayal of enduring such torment at the hands of his own brother.
His brother chuckled, the expression so wrong given the situation. "Because, all this blood and gore looks so good on you, Sammy."
Blood dribbled down his neck like sweat, staining the collar of his shirt. He wasn't lying. His baby brother did look so damn gorgeous, tied up, beaten and covered in blood. The dark crimson splatter and trail of blood were a lovely contrast to his pale, sweaty skin. Like liquid rose on marble. What a poetic macabre!
A grim reminiscence of his time in Hell seeped into Dean's thoughts, the memories of torment and suffering intertwining with his present actions. He had once been a righteous man, burdened by the weight of his conscience, but now he found solace in the darkness that consumed him. The screams of his victims had become a symphony of twisted pleasure, each tortured soul fueling his descent into depravity. As he gazed upon his brother's battered form, Dean's heart grew cold with a newfound sense of liberation, reveling in the depraved ecstasy of his own making.
Now, being a demon on earth, there was no conscience putting a dent to the ingrained sadism in him. Torturing little Sammy, in the flesh, got him all tingly inside. With renewed vigor, he ripped open Sam's shirt. The knife swiftly cut through his undershirt like butter. Sam's beautiful hazel greens widened in horror. Gaze swinging between his bare torso and Dean's face, his fear a palpable, tangible thing in the air. "Dean?"
His brother's slap landed with brutal force, the searing pain radiating across his cheekbones like tendrils of fire. A sudden jolt of agony erupted beneath his left clavicle, wrenching a primal scream from his lungs that reverberated in his ears. Gasping for air, he lowered his gaze, only to be met with the chilling sight of the knife's hilt protruding from his flesh. Each ragged breath sent waves of crimson cascading from the wound, drenching his chest in a macabre tableau of blood, staining the waistband of his jeans in a grotesque river of red.
Oh god, his shoulder was on fire dulling the ache of the fracture. The pain consumed him as he panted, drawing in air but it only made him dizzy. Dean's satisfied face swam in and out of his vision as he willed the world to stop turning. Dean walked around him, the sound his footsteps panning from left to right as he circled him. They stopped when they reached somewhere behind him. Sam wanted to follow his movement but right now his body was too occupied hurting to obey through any conscious commands.
The collar of his shirt and undershirt was yanked aside, exposing his vulnerable flesh to the cruel blade. Agony seared through him as the unforgiving metal pierced his shoulder, tearing into muscle and sinew with merciless precision. A guttural scream tore from his throat, reverberating through the stale air like a tortured wail from the depths of Hell. His body convulsed uncontrollably, every movement sending shards of pain ricocheting through his shattered frame. "Gah!" he howled as the knife pulled out. The air around him was saturated with the stench of blood. His blood.
"Dean, ple-ease," he begged, his voice a ragged whisper through clenched teeth, "this isn't you."
Dean's fingers tightened around Sam's wounded shoulder, eliciting a guttural cry of agony from his lips. "Ah! Please, pleeease!" Sam's desperate pleas fell on deaf ears as Dean reveled in his brother's suffering, his grip unrelenting even as Sam squirmed in futile attempts to escape. More blood oozed out of the wound and Sam wailed, eyes full of hot tears that dribbled down and mixed with the blood on his body.
"This is me. The new me. The better me," Dean declared with a chilling calmness. He released his hold on Sam, allowing him to slump back into the unforgiving embrace of the wooden chair.
"I warned you, Sam," Dean taunted, his eyes gleaming with malice, "what I'm gonna do to you, it won't be mercy."