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Day 11: hallucinations
It’s a stupid idea, Dean’s well aware of that, thanks. But Sam is staring at things that aren’t there, hearing things that aren’t spoken. Goddamnit, Dean can’t leave him to deal with it alone. (He hates witches, but this one he might hate slightly less. She’s a wiccan after all, a light witch.)
“It’s a dangerous thing, seeing another person’s hallucinations,” the woman says, chewing at her bottom lip. “If you let the person having the hallucination know that you can see them, they might become your hallucinations as well. Then you’d see everything even after the 24 hours are done.”
“But I can tell him after.”
“The hallucinations wouldn’t follow you if you tell him after,” the wiccan says, “but your brother may think that this is a breach of privacy. Hallucinations can spout some very personal things.”
Dean waves a hand. He doesn’t really care, he’s not going to let Sam go through his . . . insanity(?)- alone, no matter how much his little brother claims that he can handle it. It’s Lucifer and Michael and the Cage and everything that Cas had said flayed Sam’s soul.
He takes the spell-bag, fresh green plants and old bird-bones wrapped in white cloth dipped in essence of belladonna, and goes back to the motel.
Sam’s still there where he left him, staring at his laptop as if the thing held all the secrets of the supernatural. (That it very well might was beside the point.) Sam doesn’t notice Dean drop the bag into the outside pocket of his duffel. Chronically unused, that pocket.
Dean would be worried about his brother letting his guard down, but he was too busy being amazed that Sam still trusted him this much after all Dean had done to him. Because he has no one else to trust, his mind spits at him. Not even himself. It humbles and terrifies him. Reminds him of the way Sam had been when he was soulless, looking to Dean, confused and desperate, trying so hard to act like he should.
Then, because the Wiccan’s warning about not letting Sam know anything was still fresh in his mind, he went to lay down on the bed. If the hallucinations came, it would be easier to pretend not to be startled if he wasn’t actually doing anything.
For a moment nothing happens. Dean wonders if Sam isn’t hallucinating anything, though the crease between his eyebrows said otherwise. Then he hears it.
“Sammy I’m booooored, Sam pay attention to me, Sam, Sam, Saaaaaaammmyyyyyyy,” all sing-song and piercing. Lucifer.
And then Dean has to catch and hold his breath in his chest because there are flames all over the room quite suddenly. He knows it’s the hallucinations because he can’t feel the heat, but Sam flinches when the laptop conflagrates under his fingers. Twists to look at where Lucifer must be standing, somewhere behind Dean’s back. Dean wants to turn to look, but the wiccan’s warning keeps him still. He’s asleep. As far as Sam is aware, Dean is asleep, dead to the world- unaware of reality, let alone hallucinations.
Sam doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even notice Dean’s open eyes, or the hand that he’s biting to keep quiet. Just breathes heavily, chest expanding and contracting in obvious panic. He’s biting his lip, blood welling up under his teeth. Dean wants so desperately to comfort him, and if he wasn’t seeing the hallucinations he would. He would hold his brother, pull him out of his scary pseudo-reality, call his name until Sammy blinked kaleidoscope irises at him.
The flames are gone as soon as they came, no damage left in their wake.
“Come on Sam, I’m boooooored. If you’re not gonna talk to me, at least give me a show. Might even let you sleep if you give me a show, Sammy.” Has Sam not been sleeping?! How long?! Sam is staring resolutely at his bright laptop screen. Dean remembers reading somewhere that that’s bad for a person’s eyes. Maybe Sam’s gonna need glasses soon. Assuming soon exists for his little brother, who has Satan in his head.
Dean shifts, hoping it looks and sounds natural, as if he was moving in his sleep. He finds Lucifer’s visage in the corner of his eye. Satan is staring at Sam with a kind of ferocity that makes Dean’s hackels raise up. Stay away from Sammy he snarls in his mind, but can’t say. As much as he wants to understand, he doesn’t need hallucinations of his own.
“Saaaammmyyyyyy, come on. You’ll even get some pleasure out of it, you’d have control. Not like most of the times when we were bunk buddies.” The Devil’s tone is wheedling, and Dean can see Sam’s fists clenching on the laptop keyboard. (If Dean is honest, he knows what the Devil is alluding to at this moment. He refuses to accept it.) The Devil leans over his brother’s shoulder, and Dean has to systematically clench every muscle to keep from rushing the bastard (who’s not even really here).
Dean will experience the same sights and sounds as his brother for as long as the spell lasts (at most 24 hours), but is not privy to the smells, tastes, or physical pseudo-reality Sam’s {broken} mind subjects him to.
So while he can see that the Devil has hands fisted into his brother’s hair, he has no idea if it is painful or just pressure. If Dean will be able to grasp the back of his little brother’s head without inciting memories of torture. And it’s not just that gesture that puts cold ice into Dean’s veins. Lucifer cups Sam’s neck from behind for a few moments, as if waiting to cut off his breath. Then he’s sliding his hands along Sam’s arms, and at that point Sam jumps to his feet, the chair screeching over the cheap vinyl floor of the motel. Dean slams his eyes shut in case Sam looks over at the bed.
A few moments of silence, and then the Devil is laughing, and Dean chances a glance through his lashes. Sam is backed up against the wall, eyes shut tight. He’s shaking. Damn it all to Hell. Dean can’t leave his brother like this. He’ll just have to make sure not to let on that he can see Sam’s hallucinations.
“Sammy,” he calls, but Sam doesn’t so much as twitch in his direction, so Dean gets up. Crosses the room, ignores Lucifer, and grabs at where one of Sam’s hands is clenching his own T-shirt. “Hey, Sammy!”
Sam’s eyes open, but he’s not looking at Dean. He’s looking at Lucifer. But Dean is not supposed to know that.
“I’ve got you Sammy,” Dean tries, grabbing Sam’s chin to angle his gaze. Just don’t look at Lucifer. “Close your eyes little brother, I’ve got you.”
Sam’s so tense. His muscles shake and shiver under Dean’s touch as if he was overstimulated. Maybe he was. Even just the last few hours of constant sound and moving sights has Dean on-edge. Sam has been hallucinating for far too long. So Dean tugs Sam towards the bed, hoping to get him under blankets, shut out the light for a bit. Muffle the sounds.
He catches a glimpse of his own arm as he moves to pull the comforter back, and only his tight, conscious grasp of his reactions keeps him from startling at what his eyes see. His skin is peeling, red and blistered and rotting, showing bone and muscle. He feels no pain. Just another one of Sam’s hallucinations. It’s trippy as hell though, seeing his arm looking like that and feeling none of it.
He situates Sam on the bed, and his brother seems so lost and confused, one hand twisted into Dean’s T-shirt. (Looking for the amulet, and Dean hates himself a little for throwing it away.)
“I’ve gotcha Sammy,” he says, letting his weight fall half on top of his brother, anchoring him to reality. Pulls the comforter over their heads.
“Whatever you were seeing?” (He knows exactly what Sam was seeing) “It’s not real.”
Sam’s still shaking. “Not real,” Dean repeats. “I promise little brother, we’re safe right now.”
They stay there on the bed a while; Dean only leaves to get water and meal-replacement bars for them both. The hallucinations are gone from Dean’s perception before Sam stops shaking under the covers.