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Sam had a headache.
He figured - no,
convinced
himself, over and over again in his head, a mantra, a song, an affirmation - that it was because of the hunt. The bruises covering his body led him to believe that yes, the headache was a result of the many walls he’d been thrown into, the butt of the Lance of Michael that had been pushed against his skull.
He pleaded with himself to believe that no, it wasn’t anything more than a coincidence that Ramiel, a Prince of Hell, had yellow eyes.
But it felt
so good
killing him, as if Sam had just regained a privilege he’d lost so many years before, and when he blinked, he saw Azazel, saw a hospital, saw a gate to Hell and the ghost of his Father and
Dean,
with a timer counting down inside of him.
Sam had a headache, and it was getting worse.
When they all stumbled to the Impala, climbed in and shut the doors, it was more than just a pulse at the side of his brain; it was a presence, a vibration; never ending, never leaving, dancing around his head and getting caught in the gap between his brows.
Dean sat with Cas in the back, even though the sight of all that blood, Cas’ blood, could quite possibly make him gag.
Mary sat shotgun, her hands still shaking, dried blood dying her hair light red, and there was so much of Cas’ blood on her hands. She tucked them away into her pockets, knees pulled up toward her chest.
And so, Sam drove. He drove with a headache, with the unsteady feeling of fear flowing through his veins, with shaky hands and a throbbing skull and
dammit,
his head hurt
so bad-
But they were already on the road by then. Cas was resting, never asleep, his head against Dean’s thigh. Dean’s hand laid gently on Cas’ shoulder, his thumb rubbing small patterns into his skin. Mary was looking at Sam, but he didn’t dare look to check if her expression was one of relief or concern. The act of moving his eyes seemed torturous, and so he kept driving.
But soon, he couldn’t drive anymore, because
this
feeling, this memory of his head wanting to split open and for his organs to just pour out, it was here,
again,
and Sam crossed two empty lanes to stop the car. He climbed out on useless legs, for he fell like a sack of bricks and Mary was shouting something inside, Dean’s door was opening, and Sam was pushing the balls of his hands into his eyes in hope that they’d
fall out-
‘Oh, there was a gun that won the west.’
The pouring of whiskey. A man singing in a gravelly tone.
‘There was a man among the best.’
Light pushing through large windows onto dark ground. A cage in the corner, shoved into a gap in the wall.
‘The fastest gun or man alive.’
A glass of whiskey, picked up. The shaking of chains.
‘A lightning bolt when he shot that Colt - bang! - forty five.’
Laughing. Somebody was laughing.
‘Suppose you think that’s funny,’ a new voice said.
Footsteps. Laughter, consistent.
‘....They kill your kind - it’s in their blood. And you know-’ A pause. Let it sink in.
‘You
know
it’s only a matter of time before they come for you.’
Sing-songy voices. Chains, rattling; bone crushing, ear-piercing.
‘Shut your mouth, dog.’
A head turning.
‘That’s not my name.’
Eyes; red.
Sam looked up, and he was on the side of the road again; he saw his Mother, his brother, felt the fabric of a coat on his chin, and Dean’s hand in his hair. Mary’s hand found it’s way into Sam’s and she clutched at it like a lifeline.
That’s not my name,
the devil had said
.
And finally, Sam screamed.