Fanfic: The Road to Detroit is Paved With Hell
Beta: borgmama1of5 – World’s best editor! All mistakes are mine.
Summary: Post-Abandon All Hope. Lucifer wants Sam to say yes. He wants Dean back in Hell. And he's tired of playing nice. Sam and Dean will never know what hit them.
Spoilers: Set in Season 5. Follows 5X10 Abandon all Hope
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Bobby, Lucifer
Rating: T (mature themes, strong language)
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to the CW and Eric Kripke -- who'd best treat them well
Author's Note: Story is 18 chapters plus epilogue (approx 55k words). Complete. Will post over several days. Show has been/will be in hiatus for 8 weeks. But we know the boys aren't just sitting in a motel room waiting to go back to work stopping the Apocalypse. My beta says I have filled in the missing weeks, which is not what I started out to do. But the original six chapters just kinda took off ...
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The first thing Sam feels is a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Like he’s lying on rocks. No noise, must be alone. He opens his eyes. There’s enough light to make out he’s in a cave. Rough formations above his head. Stalactites. Fluid columns that remind him of the ornate decorations in Lucifer’s fantasy room. This worries him and he wonders if Lucifer is able to see this cave, if the Devil is more linked to him than Sam knows. At least he’s not tied down. Clearly the creature did not expect him to wake up.
Lucifer’s last words ring in his ears. A freebie. Nice, now he owes him one. Well, too bad. He didn’t ask for help. Sam sits up but his head is filled with cotton and it feels like his blood’s been replaced with liquid lead. The Baykok’s poison is still in his system. A sharp shiver makes him realize his clothes are missing. He’s naked. Oh God. A wave of nausea hits as he remembers Lucifer looking, ogling … He pushes it away. Can’t deal with this now. Has to survive.
Sam reaches to touch his abdomen dreading to feel a hole where his necessary organs should be. The skin is smooth. He sighs and collapses back onto the rough stone slab.
Get a grip, Winchester. The thing won’t be away long. It’s probably getting what it needs for whatever ritual goes with liver eating. Time to go. He forces himself into a full sitting position and swings his legs over the side. The ground is gritty beneath his bare feet. He needs his clothes. His boots. He trembles. His jacket.
In the dim light he’s starting to see things he wishes he doesn’t. He knows he’s not the first meal brought back to this lair. Still it’s one thing to know this and another to see the bones strewn about. He swallows fear, fights down his human reaction to seeing more victims. No time for reacting.
Unfortunately he doesn’t see his clothes. Must have been stripped elsewhere. The forest is cold but he can survive that. Getting past the Baykok is the question. The one thing he knows is that he can’t go without some sort of weapon. His gun is gone and it wouldn’t do much good anyway. The flare gun might have helped but that’s with his pack, dropped when the creature took him. He picks up a human thigh bone. Hears his brother make a Flintstones crack in his mind. Dismisses it. It’s hard, old and will inflict damage. And it’s the only thing he has.
He walks a few yards as stealthily as he can in his barefoot condition. The Baykok’s advantage is its speed. Part ghoul, the creature can pretty much just appear. Sam is down on the ground before he even registers the swish of air around him. He swings the bone around and aims for the thing’s head but the Baykok bats the weapon away like a person might swat a fly. The drug from the dart swims in Sam’s blood, slowing him, weakening him.
Sam’s dragged through the dirt, pulled by his arms. His back is grated by rocks that file his skin raggedly off his body. It hurts and he grunts but it’s over and he’s thrown back hard onto the slab and there’s a crunch where his elbow hits and the pain is so sharp he tears up and can’t breathe.
Red eyes peer at him with a mixture of rage and … surprise. Guess it’s wondering how he woke up. Yeah, well, got the Devil on my side. He feels like laughing at this and knows it’s the pain and the drug making him loopy. He wonders if he broke his elbow because that would really suck as it’s his right arm and that would be a big disadvantage fighting the Apocalypse. Not that he’s been all that valuable in the fight against evil so far. However, it’s certainly a good idea to keep oneself from being eaten if one wants to fight the good fight. Oh, and one might also consider not freeing the fucking Prince of Darkness from Hades.
He’s thinking of himself in third person. Never a good sign.
The Baykok steps away and Sam thinks now might be a good time to try to escape again but before he can even begin to move it’s back and holding a wicked looking knife.
The creature lifts Sam’s head and slams it back down hard against the rocks. For a moment everything goes blank and then a hazy mist envelopes him and he can see but can’t move, feels like he’s floating, like when they were kids and their dad would let them stay at a motel with a pool as a special treat and he and Dean would spend lazy afternoons just floating and roasting under the warm sun. Dean’s freckles would get darker and his hair lighter and he’d get jealous at Sam’s deep dark tan and bitch that he got stuck with the pansy white skin. Then Dad would softly say that Dean had Mary’s complexion and Dean would get all quiet and stop complaining.
Sam feels something slimy and cold rub along his abdomen. He shudders uncontrollably but can’t move his head enough to see and then he smells something thick and foul and he knows in the part of his mind still able to reason that this must be part of the ritual, that he’s about to be eviscerated and he has to do something … do something now … but his body isn’t responding to normal commands. He shuts his eyes as the blade touches him and there’s piercing pain, hot, tight and excruciating. And he screams.
* * *
Dean hears Sam and goes crazy, starts running down the shaft toward the noise. Hold on, he thinks, says, isn’t sure which. Rufus is tight behind him, flare gun ready. Dean’s gripping a thick branch he brought as a bludgeon. Don’t you hurt him. Don’t you dare, you motherf … The passage splits in two. He stares a moment at Rufus, uncertain which way leads to Sam. They have no time. His brother has stopped screaming. Oh God. They split up and Dean runs the way his gut tells him is right.
In less than fifty feet the tunnel opens to a cavern where he’s assaulted by the sight of a pale, huge warrior leaning over intently. “Yo!” he yells in an effort to get it away from Sam. Red eyes lock with his in surprise and heat. He can’t even risk a glance at Sam because if he does then he’ll lose.
The Baykok is holding a bloody knife and Dean’s heart leaps. It charges him and he swings and misses because the thing is fast. Its speed knocks Dean flat on his butt and it's slashing at him, nicks his forehead. Dean rolls, kicks up, and connects but it’s coming back at him with blurry speed and Dean looks for the club that was knocked from his hands, but it’s too far away. There’s a shout and then an explosion reverberates through the small cave in a deafening roar. And the Baykok is toast.
Rufus hollers, “You okay, boy?” and reaches toward him.
Dean is up and running toward his unmoving brother, a naked sacrifice spread on a granite altar. Sammy. Rufus is there with a flashlight. The cut is precise and deep, blood gurgling out. Bits of Sam’s guts garnish the wound’s edges.
“Can you tell …?”
“Ain’t no doctor, boy. But that’s a lotta blood.”
Together they apply pressure and Dean works frantically to quell the bleeding with the cloths Rufus hands him. He is pushing so hard he fears he might damage something else inside his brother. Sam stirs, moans, lifts his arms struggling.
“Sam, Sam, it’s me. You’re okay. Can you hear me? I got you bro. You’re going to be alright.” Dean pulls Sam up and to him as the blood from the cut on his forehead dribbles in his eyes. Time freezes.
Sammy’s in his arms on his knees in the dirt with his eyes rolling up, head flopping back then forward upon his shoulder, a giant ragdoll with a hole in his spine and a heart that’s stopped pumping and there’s nothing Dean can do …
“D’n,” the voice is weak.
Dean fights to remember where he is. Rufus has a hand on his shoulder.
“Rufus shot him with the flare gun. It’s gone, Sam. It’s dead.”
“Liv … er?”
“You’re all there little brother.” Please God. “We just need to get you patched up. Need a hospital. Gotta pull out those old fake insurance cards again.” He tries for light but his voice isn’t selling, knows he sounds panicked. He doesn’t know how deep the cut goes. Has to believe Sam’s liver is still inside but doesn’t know how badly it is damaged. All he knows is that they don’t have time. Sam needs sutures, needs antibiotics, needs medical attention, like yesterday.
“Rufus. We have to get him out of here.”
Rufus is already looking around the creature’s lair for anything useful. They rig a makeshift travois using bones and branches and some animal skins they find. It’s barely long enough for his oversized brother but it lets them move him and that’s all that matters, even as Sam cries out when they cover him and shift him to it.
The hike back to the car is interminable. They change the soaked cloth twice on the way and each time it’s drenched in more blood. Sam drifts in and out. Mutters no, stop, get away … The words are like spears. Now he’s unconscious again and Dean isn’t sure which is worse. C’mon Sam, hang in there, Sam, stay with me. As soon as the road becomes visible from a distance Dean pulls out his cell phone. Prays there will be coverage.
Rufus looks at him, “911?”
He dials Cas’s cell without responding. They’ve been cautious who they tell about Castiel. It’s been on a need to know basis. In fact, Ellen and Jo just met the angel the night before they … Castiel answers immediately as always.
“Cas,” he says, knowing Cas will hear the urgency in his voice. He looks down at Sam’s gray complexion. Like he looked in Cold Oak … Dean leans down and touches his brother’s chest. Still moving. He clicks a few buttons on his phone. “I sent you my GPS coordinates. Now Cas. It’s Sam.”
A hand touches his shoulder and there are the blue eyes of a man who is the closest thing to religion Dean will ever get.
Rufus reacts to Cas’s inexplicable appearance by pulling his weapon.
“It’s okay. Castiel is an angel.”
The other hunter is stunned, looks scared as he takes a respectful step back. Cas has this effect on folks. The angel leans over the stretcher and frowns.
“He needs medical attention.”
Yes … Now. “Can you zap us to an emergency room?”
As he touches the matted hair on Sam’s forehead Cas freezes.
“He has been with Lucifer.”
“Wh …at?” Dean blinks, his head spinning. Lucifer … when, what?
* * *
Sam is wheeled to a room as Dean trots behind. He knows the staff is confused as to how they both suddenly appeared in the waiting room lobby without being seen to walk in but given the degree of Sam’s injuries this is quickly forgotten. A woman with a clipboard approaches and stops him from following Sam into the treatment room.
“We just have to get some information … Mr. …?”
He reaches into his pocket to pull out the medical cards … he’s not sure of the names on them and doesn’t want to make a mistake. All he wants is to go inside and see what’s happening to Sam. He doesn’t see Castiel or Rufus. Assumes that Rufus was left behind. Hopes Cas is around.
“Mr. Crosby … you say your brother was in an accident?”
Dean tries to think. “He was sharpening his knife and it slipped or something and he stabbed himself in the stomach.”
Lame. He knows how ridiculous this sounds. The last thing they need is the police investigating. Was it wrong to bring Sam here? But there is no other choice. His brother would be dead otherwise.
“Okay. I have all your insurance information. I’m sure the doctors will have some more questions later.”
“Can I see my brother?”
“Not yet. Let the doctors do their job. Someone will be out with an update shortly.”
He nods but wants to scream. Wants to break something. Punch someone. Instead he asks if there’s a restroom nearby. He surveys his own damage in the mirror above the sink. The cut on his forehead from the Baykok is dried up now. He washes it quickly and sees no more blood. The cold water soothes, helps calm the dread coursing through his body.
Just hours ago he’d been thinking how it felt like he didn’t have a brother anymore. And now … No. He can’t think about this. They’ll get through this and talk. He’ll find out what’s in his brother’s freakish head and whether he likes what he hears or not, he’ll deal. Sam is all he has. He can’t …
A physician comes out to meet him. Dean doesn’t even notice the doctor’s a woman until she’s finished her introduction and asked him to follow her to a private area. His gut is tight. As he walks behind her a distant part of Dean registers an attractive woman, mid-thirties, blonde hair in a taut pony tail, wearing a crisp white coat.
“How is he?” he blurts quickly.
“I don’t think it was an accident,” the doctor begins.
Dean pales and shifts backward.
“Your brother’s liver is missing, Mr. Crosby. In its place is a stone.”
art by beckieb
The world spins. Dean knows he’s dropping but doesn’t even have the strength to put his arms out. His knees crack on the hard floor tiles. But she ignores him, is still talking, even as Dean struggles to regain his feet. No, no, no.
“He’s still alive but he’ll be dead within the hour. I … I can’t understand how someone could mutilate his own brother.”
There’s a sound behind him. Blue uniforms fill his peripheral vision.
“Hands where we can see them,” a harsh voice orders.
He looks up into the dispassionate doctor’s face. Her hair is loose now, swirling around her face. The coat is open, revealing a clingy white dress something’s off … but then he’s begging into her ice blue eyes. “Let me see him. Please. Just take me to him. He’s my … he’s my …”
She tilts her head and stares at him without pity, like she’s … bored now. “Get him out of my hospital.”
His upper arms are seized in two merciless vise grips. He’s too dazed at first to fight, but out in the hallway he spins wildly, he has to see Sam one last time, maybe Cas … and then out of the corner of his eye he sees a man lingering outside the door where they’d wheeled Sam. Short blonde hair, wide mouth wearing a cocky grin. The Devil throws him a mock salute and disappears into his brother’s room.
“No! Sam, Sam … SAM!”