Comment fic

Jan. 1st, 2014 11:56 am
kelios: (Default)
[personal profile] kelios

I found this drabble when I was sorting through some old files--I wrote it for a comment fic meme ages ago. It's set in S7, after Dean shows Sam that pain makes the hallucinations go away, at least briefly. The prompt was bathing in holy water.

Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester
Warnings: self harm, insanity
Prompt: Any, bathing in holy water
Length 415 words


The crucifix on the bottom of the old claw tub stares up at Sam solemnly as he feverishly spits out the final words of the blessing, a harsh contrast to the sly, irreverent voices whispering in his head. Sam strips quickly, and sends up a fervent prayer that Dean and Bobby stay away long enough for him to finish.

The water is hot, as hot as he could get it, tho still not hot enough. He hisses as he settles in, skin reddening instantly, involuntary tears spilling out as he clutches the edge of the tub so hard he half expects the worn porcelain to crack. It's not just the heat--the holy water eats into every cut and scrape, bubbling and burning as it comes into contact with his tainted blood, and the voices laugh and taunt him for ever thinking this could work.

He breathes deeply through the pain for a few moments, ignoring them, then gropes blindly for the washcloth he'd laid out beforehand. He shoves it into his mouth and tries to steel himself, but he knows that if he waits too long he won't be able to do it. He grips the sides of the old tub again and sucks in deep frantic gulps of air and steam that burn his nose and throat, then ducks under the water.

It hurts.

It hurts like the Cage, it hurts like Lucifer, it hurts like Michael. It hurts like nothing in this world ever should. He screams into the cloth and the voices scream with him, a maddening cacophony that rises and swells until he thinks his head might actually burst.

He stays down as long as he can, past the point that his air-starved lungs can bear, until the spots before his eyes have narrowed down to tiny, fading pinpricks, until finally, finally, the voices fall silent. He hauls himself up weakly and falls over the edge of the tub, chest spasming as he fights to drag in enough air.

When he stops coughing, Sam tries to get dressed. His head is thudding dully, a thick, maddening pain that matches the roil in his stomach, and his hands are shaking so badly he gives up on his jeans and leaves his shirt unbuttoned as he staggers down the short hallway to Bobby’s guest room. He doesn’t notice that he’s crying, or the blood dripping slowly from his nose. He just collapses gratefully on the creaky, narrow bed.

At least it’s quiet.

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