#asksamcontest

Sam, being no stranger to unexpected actions from Dean (especially when he had had a few too many beers), was only slightly startled when he looked up from his H. G. Wells book to find that a spoon was being held a few inches from his face.

“Bend it, psychic wonder,” Dean said. He sounded surprisingly articulate for having been at the bar for hours.

Sam closed his book and set it down on the white blanket of his hotel bed, then looked past the spoon at his brother.

“Dude. Did you take that from the bar?” he asked.

Dean continued to insistently hold it in front of him. He looked awkward, sitting on the edge of his bed and leaning out towards Sam to keep the spoon in his face.

“Doesn’t matter, just use your tele-whatever and bend it,” Dean replied.

“Telekinesis,” Sam corrected automatically. “Which I don’t have. You realize that was like, ten years ago, right?”

Dean scoffed and shook the spoon at him.

“I get it, we’re old. C’mon, just try.”

Sam couldn’t help but wonder what his brother was trying to do. Surely, he couldn’t want him to still have his powers. There were no positive connotations between those abilities and Dean. The only feelings there were confusion, betrayal, and fear.

Maybe Dean was trying to reassure himself, trying to confirm that some old worry from so long ago was stupid. That didn’t seem like him, though. He usually worked furiously to shove those kinds of things to the side for as long as he could and tell himself, and Sam, that nothing was wrong, that they would move on from it. Just like Sam was doing now, actually. Convincing himself that this was just a harmless rambling of his drunk brother. It wasn’t a demon or a hallucination trying to trick him into reawakening the abilities, which were long gone, anyway. They’d laugh about it, afterwards.

Bend the spoon. Yeah. Sure.

“If I try, will you take the spoon out of my face?” he asked, trying to sound good-natured about it. Dean shrugged and nodded.

Feeling like an idiot, Sam focused all of his attention on the spoon. Although he told himself he didn’t need--or want--to know, deep down, he did wonder. How could he not?

Moments went by, and the spoon stayed in its sturdy, curved formation. Sam leaned back and shrugged.

“Guess not,” he said, then stood up. “I gotta go get a lore book from the car.” He grabbed the keys to the Impala from where Dean had set them on the nightstand--a rare occasion--and walked out of the hotel room.

-----

The spoon incident was the last thing on Sam’s mind the next night. Something had been dropping people in Winter Park, with a pattern centered focused on patients that were discharged from a local hospital.

“Frickin’ Florida,” Dean had remarked. “Could just be some whack-job.”

Unfortunately for Sam, it had been a whack-job; a demonic one, who had tossed him through a screen door and tied him to a chair.

Like that was anything new.

Unfortunately again, Dean wasn’t around to help. The victims in the house that they had stormed after the demon targeted them were safe with Dean, who Sam made promise to get far away before he came back. Dean had protested, like he always did, but reluctantly took the two mothers and their son away to safety.

“Sam Winchester,” the demon drawled. Its vessel was a woman named Marie LaFond, who worked as a surgeon at the hospital, but hadn’t shown up for work in a few days. She was an average height, and had long black hair and soft, unassuming features. Bad memories there.

She walked around to the back of Sam’s chair and snatched the small knife he was using to saw at the rope that he was tied up with. He craned his neck to check his progress on the rope and sighed. He’d barely snapped one thread before she had taken it.

Marie held up the knife triumphantly.

“I know all about your tricks,” she told him. “You and your brother are quite the celebrities down below.”

“I’ve heard,” Sam muttered. In response, Marie sneered and, with a deft flick of her wrist, slashed him across the face with his own knife. Sam flinched and took in a sharp breath of sulfur-tinged air. For a brief moment, there was no pain, but as his nerves caught up with the shallow gash, it stung like a papercut from his cheek to his jawline. The blade had barely touched him at all, but of course, he kept his knives sharpened.

Marie admired the small amount of crimson blood that now decorated the weapon, then flicked a bead off onto the hardwood floor.

“Most demons can only dream of slicing up a Winchester,” Marie told him. “Lucky me.” She paused.

“Of course, with how soft Crowley’s gotten, most of us are itching to kill anyone, let alone a hunter. Lucky me, again.”

Sam watched Marie as she prowled around the room, still holding his knife. He yanked at his bonds. They didn’t give an inch.

Keep her talking.

“For being the King, Crowley sure doesn’t get much respect from his subjects,” he observed.

Sam eyed Marie as she gestured wildly. She blinked, and her blue eyes were replaced with the pitch black eyes of a demon.

“Crowley couldn’t rule over a litter of puppies!” Marie snarled. “He’s just lucky we’re waiting for--”

She took a breath and smiled sweetly. With another blink, her eyes went back to normal.

“Waiting for?...”

Marie bent down so that she was eye-level with Sam.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know. I’ve said too much already, Sammy. Wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise,” she crooned, then stood up and plunged the knife into his arm, right under his shoulder. The cold steel bit into his flesh without warning, and he yelled out in surprise and pain. The pain increased as Marie yanked the blade out. Sam swore and looked at his arm to assess the damage. Blood was leaking out, staining the sleeve of his shirt, but it didn’t look like she had hit anything important. She had picked a good spot to start stabbing him. He wouldn’t bleed out until she wanted him to.

Marie showed him the knife, which was now dripping with his blood.

“Much better,” she enthused.

Dean, any time now, Sam thought, right before the knife came down again. This time, it was his outer thigh. Marie pulled the blade slowly towards her, ripping his skin and muscles apart. Sam let his head fall back and screamed as the pain and the knife tore through him.

“I’m not gonna make this fast, so don’t get your hopes up,” Marie said. She pulled the knife out.

“I’ve been waiting too long to have some fun.”

-----

Dean’s knuckles were white as he gripped the Impala’s steering wheel. Jamie, Sarah, and Cole--Marie’s next victims--were safe at Sarah’s dad’s house in a different part of the city.

“This is why we don’t come to Florida,” Dean muttered, not caring that no one could hear him, or that the statement didn’t make any particular sense. The only things he was concerned with were getting back to Sam, and cursing himself for letting his brother talk him into leaving in the first place. He didn’t turn any music on. It was just him, the hum of the engine, and the dial tone as he tried to call Sam for what felt like the hundredth time. Cas hadn’t been answering, either.

“Come on, man, pick up.”

It went to voicemail again. Dean tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and put his hand in his jacket pocket, then flinched as he felt the object he had placed there earlier. He put his hand back on the wheel.

He was almost there. Sammy would be fine.

-----

Sam’s hair had fallen into his face, but he didn’t have the energy to toss it out of the way. After cutting him open in three more places--maybe four, but he had lost count--Marie had left him alone for a while. He didn’t know if she was contacting another demon, or scouting for new victims, but whatever she was doing, at least it gave him a reprieve from new injuries. His body felt like one big minefield of pain. He couldn’t tell which wounds were where anymore, or if any of them looked like they were serious. More serious than typical stab wounds.

That was almost funny.

Marie’s shoes clicked along the floor as she walked back into the room. Sam looked up at her. The manic pleasure that had been painted across her face when she left was gone. In its place was disinterest.

“Alright, you’ve been a fun pin cushion,” she said, “but I’ve really delayed for too long. Someone’s gonna kill me if they find out I didn’t just stick you through the heart or cut your throat as soon as I got you all trussed up. I’m gonna go with option two now, though.”

Sam grit his teeth and pulled at his bonds again, with no luck. Marie considered the bloodstained knife she had taken from him, then dropped it to the ground and pulled a large, wickedly curved dagger from an inside pocket of her jean jacket.

“Wait,” Sam said. “Don’t.”

“Sorry, Sam, but you should know better than to plead with a demon. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed,” Marie told him. “Unless you have some last minute information that I might want…”

Sam searched frantically for anything, any piece of information that she could use or bring back to Crowley, but he didn’t know anything. For the first time in quite a while, he was completely helpless.

“Mhm. Thought so.”

Sam’s heart pounded as Marie traced her dagger over his throat and used it to tilt his head up towards her.

“Look at me when I’m killing you,” she said.

The dagger dug into his throat. Sam could barely hear Marie over his own heartbeat, but he could barely make out her next words.

“I’ll go find your brother, next.”

-----

The door of the house slammed against the wall. Sam was deafened as something exploded from within him, and Marie was tossed backwards like a rag doll. Her knife flew from her hand and lodged itself in the wall adjacent to the one that interrupted Marie’s flight and crumpled her body to the floor. The ropes binding Sam to the chair shredded into pieces, and so did the chair.

After the disorientation of whatever had just happened, Sam found himself on his knees on the floor. Splinters of the chair dug into his hands. The first couple stab wounds, which had clotted earlier, were bleeding again.

But the door broke down before the explosion…

Dean was standing in the doorway of the house, taking in the damage that had just come from nowhere. His eyes trailed over Marie’s limp form, the knife in the wall, and the remains of the chair, then came to rest on Sam.

Without a word, he reached into the pocket of his jacket.

A pang of fear shot through Sam. Dean had seen what he had done and was going to kill him, here and now.

No. That was ridiculous. Dean had refused to kill him for doing more than tossing a demon across a room.

Dean held up a thin metal object so Sam could see it. It took him a moment to figure out what it was.

The spoon that Dean had insisted he try to bend earlier.

And it was bent.

Dean scanned over the room again. Marie was starting to move. Sam dreaded what his brother was going to say about what had just happened.

“Didn’t need my help, after all,” Dean finally said. “Hey, you’re bleeding pretty bad. Let’s get you patched up.”

As if it had been waiting with bated breath for Dean’s reaction, Sam’s body finally realized that he was losing blood, and he collapsed. He didn’t have far to fall, but he felt Dean catch him before he could hit the ground.

“I’m not upset,” Dean said. “About the powers.”

Thank God.

Also holy shit guys no wonder mine costs so much more

“You know, your brother has been looking for you,” Cas went on. Sam heard him shift, his shadow moving away from the crack he’d left in the door in his hurry, and the next time he heard Cas, he was a big to the side. “He’s been very worried.”

“I…” Sam tightened in his ball again, the words struggling to escape him. “I don’t wanna come out yet.”

“That’s alright,” said Cas gently. “Dean frightened you?”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment, still shaken from the unexpected display of violence from his big brother.

“Sam?” Cas tried again. It helped Sam relax. Cas wasn’t growing impatient with him or demanding an answer, just checking to make sure Sam was okay.

“He… he pushed me down. He was mad at me…” Sam admitted, his voice light as he told Cas what happened.

Sam heard Cas sigh. “I don’t think he was upset with you. The mark on his arm—it’s…magic.” It was clear that Cas was hesitant to explain this to a child. “Very bad magic.”

I knew it.

Cas was quiet as he continued. “I may not be much—but I’m still an angel. I will do my best to help.”

“You’re a angel?” A hint of curiosity leaked through Sam’s voice as he scooted forward and peeked out of his little cupboard. Sam regarded the man with disheveled black hair, a desperate hope in his big hazel eyes. “Can you fix Dean?”

Cas’ bright blue eyes softened at the sight of his cursed friend, so much smaller than he used to be, fluffy brown bangs partially shading his little face. “I am,” he answered. “And I’ll do what I can for him. And for you.”

Sam decided to believe Cas, finally coming out of hiding. He came to sit next to the angel, almost right up against his knee where the tan trench coat he wore fanned out.

“Can…can angels fix me, too?” Sam asked hesitantly, staring at the floor. “I think…there’s something bad in my skin…”

Sam hadn’t told anyone he felt that way, not even Dean. Something about Sam, something deep inside, felt very wrong. Ever since his big brother became a grown-up. Everything was different, even Sam.

“Can you fix me, to?” Sam urged Cas, his voice cracking a little as he choked up.

Then Cas put a hand on Sam’s little back, spreading warmth and comfort from its touch. They sat there like that for a minute, Sam feeling his tensions and worries melting away.

“There is nothing about you that needs to be fixed, Sam,” Cas insisted, his voice as gentle as it had been. “I’ve learned that much.”

Sam liked Cas. He was nice. Sam never met an angel before…although something in him wondered if he really was one, or if he was just saying that to make Sam feel better.