After all those delicious tidbits about s12, I couldn’t help writing a ficlet. Tortured!sassy!sorta-suicidal!Sam and a surprise visit from a familiar face. 1,200 words of damaged reckless sassmaster because I needed to.
Sam’s head hangs, eyes burning and blurred with his own sweat and blood.
The Men of Letters and their ever-curious minds and their endless questions—what worth is it to answer, to save his own life? Dean is dead. The world is safe. Perhaps they’re right: maybe his and Dean’s presence does endanger the world. Maybe it will be safer with both of them gone.
Perhaps he’ll see Dean in the Empty.
He’s brushed fingers with death enough times to know that he’s close. His body is tired, laboring harder than ever to do less than it should. His fingers and toes are cold. Blood loss, probably. Maybe shock, from the burns. He’s been shivering for a while, can’t seem to stop. Infection?
Sam has known tortures worse than anything they could possibly imagine. This is juvenile in comparison, tentative and clumsy.
They didn’t like it when he told them so. They cannot deprive him of sleep or force him into any painful or degrading position for longer than he’s done in the Cage. Their attempts at sensory deprivation are pathetic in comparison. He even has all of his internal organs more or less in the right place.
Improper wound care, blood loss, and infection from the shot she should never have had to fire will be the death of him rather than their heavy-handed attempts at information-gathering.
They really don’t like it when he critiques their technique. He can’t help it. He has to have some way to pass the time, and he hasn’t found a single one of these people with a decent sense of humor.
It’s a solemn business, torture.
He’ll find his laughs where he can.
They don’t need him alive, anyway. They certainly didn’t take to the idea that they’re on the same side. The information they’ve tried and failed to glean from him is more of a footnote to their real purpose. As far as he can tell, they need him gone because they think his absence will make the world safer. He’s happy to go.
He doesn’t hear the heavy door swing open, but he is suddenly, electrically aware of another presence in the room. Failing eyes travel across the blood-slick floor and to a pair of impeccably clean black boots and dark jeans.
“Hey, Sam.” Deep and melodious, like there’s a joke in there he isn’t catching.
He recognizes the voice even though he doesn’t have the strength to lift his head. His lips curl up, voice raw when it forces its way from his throat. “Billie,” he says. “I started to wonder what was taking you so long.”
