sometimes it is barren

Title taken from Gulzar's poem Evening. I've no idea who Gulzar is or where he's from, but his poem's pretty great - talks all about how the evening is disowned from the night and abandoned by the day. Also, his name is awesome.

As always, feedback's appreciated.

1/18/08 - changed the ending. I think it's more appropriate this way, although feel free to tell me if you think differently. Also, just to put it out there, I hate categories. Is it hurt/comfort if the hurt person is giving the comfort? Seriously, if anyone has any idea how I should categorize this, please tell me.

3/20/08 - TOTALLY called Alastair being alive.

Warning: Mild torture (is that an oxymoron?), Sam angst, worried Dean, and a creepy ass Alastair.

When Sam wakes up, he doesn't remember anything from his dream.

He thinks it might have had something to do with the Impala chasing after him with an iPod and calling him an ass, or Dean stuffing his face full of lettuce and glaring at Sam while mumbling 'I'm so killing you for this', but the thought quickly fades as his headache grows into a Godzilla and starts to stomp around like his head is goddamn Tokyo. He groans a little, tries to raise a hand to his forehead.

…Emphasis on tries.

He blinks, and for the first time, thinks to look around.

It's a good idea, probably, except Sam also discovers that he can't move his head. Even being able to look forward doesn't appear to hold any advantage whatsoever – there's nothing but darkness, maybe a little brown, the glint of cold light against some shiny things. It might sound a little absurd, but Sam really hopes he has a concussion, because he's never needed glasses and it kind of feels like he might want to start.

A quick check with his inner ear confirms that Sam isn't even lying down, but is actually stretched out on something tilted at about forty-five degrees, give or take a few. His arms are bound over his head, and his legs are spread apart in a way that's bordering on uncomfortable.

He's starting to get the idea that it isn't by chance.

"Waking up, are we?" an oily voice speaks out from behind, making Sam start.

It isn't a voice Sam knows. All the same, though, there's something about the intonation, the slow drawl, that is frustratingly familiar.

Whoever it is laughs quietly. "Peas in a pod, you two. Your brother wasn't very talkative either, first time we met." Clink. "…But that's what happens when you get things used."

Somehow recognition pierces the haze in Sam's head.

"Alastair," he says hoarsely, mouth dry.

He can't see it, but the demon's slow, lazy smile is practically audible. "My, my. Aren't we quick on the uptake, Sammy boy."

It feels like anger is replacing the blood in his veins. Sam has hated being called Sammy ever since turning twelve, but the way Alastair says it, as if he has a secret, as if he knows Sam inside and out, is infinitely more grating than anyone else using the childish nickname.

He tries not to let it distract him, though - he has slightly bigger concerns at the moment. "Weren't you…" dead, I saw you disintegrate –

Alastair steps into view, somehow managing to make even that small movement look utterly smug and self-satisfied. Sam doesn't even glance at the knife in his hand, but instead scans the face of a thin, wrinkly man with a snub nose; hollow, fuzzy cheeks; and small, crinkly brown eyes that would have twinkled had anyone else looked out through them.

"Let's just say I know how to make an exit," the demon drawls. Grins. "Dean learned that the hard way."

Sam nearly wrenches his shoulder out of his socket, forgetting for a moment that he can't move. Somehow the way Alastair lingers over Dean's name is a million times worse than any Sammy he might utter. "You bastard," he hisses venomously. Vows, "I'll kill you."

Alastair's eyebrows rise so high Sam thinks they might as well fall off his forehead. He moves closer, beetle eyes appraising their captive. "I see someone's been running their mouth," he says softly, looking intrigued. "What exactly did he tell you, I wonder?"

Sam isn't usually much for spitting, but he takes his chance when he sees it.

The bastard doesn't even flinch, just draws back and chuckles. "Like I said," he grins, wiping his face with the back of a jeweled hand. "Peas in a pod."

Sam doesn't ask what that means; he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know. He would much rather find out where he is – he doesn't think this is hell, thinks he'd remember dying – but on second thought, maybe that doesn't really matter, either, because he can't see a way out of this. The restraints are leathery and strong, and his headache keeps him from really concentrating.

...He's pretty much fucked.

"What do you want?" he snarls. Maybe he can get him to make it quick. "Are you going to be a good little underling and kill me?"

For the first time, Alastair looks less like a kindly old man and a tiny bit more like a lord of hell. "I follow no one's orders but my own, little boy, and you'd best remember it," he barks, then seems to catch himself. His face rips into the smile of a shark. "Now don't you worry, Sammy, you'll be in one piece when I'm finished with you. You're a catch, all right," he croons softly, sounding almost regretful - but then he draws up to Sam's ear and whispers, "but I got other fish to fry."

He draws back, hums appreciatively. "Not to mention you have a very big buyer wanting you alive, my boy."

Sam's eyes widen, mind snagged on one thought, and one thought only. "You're not – you can't, not -"

Alastair bares his teeth before turning away to fiddle with something Sam can't see. "Sorry, kid," he says, not sounding very sorry at all. "I'm afraid I've grown rather attached to pretty little Dean. He showed such promise back in the Pit. It'd be a real shame to just… let it go to waste."

Maybe he can power his way free, he thinks frantically, somehow control or trick Alastair into letting him out. What's the point in having powers if he can't use them to save himself, save Dean?

It's worth a shot. Sam tries to focus.

...There's nothing.

Nothing. Not even a twitch or stir of power.

His headache starts to worsen, but Sam pays it no attention, mind on slightly more important things, like Dean and Alastair and hell.

There's no way he'll allow himself to be used as bait.

There's no way Dean is going back to hell.

"You're not getting him," he growls as he moves violently against the leather straps, trying his best to burn the demon with his glare. "You hear me? You're never getting him, I won't let you ever touch him again!"

"Don't we sound all grandiose," Alastair says, not even bothering to turn to look Sam in the eye. "It's really not like you have a choice here, Sammy."

"It's Sam, you son of a bitch," he snarls.

"Not to Dearest Dean, it isn't," the demon replies easily. "He talked about you so much, you know, I feel like we're practically best friends already. Sammy this, Sammy that, help me Sammy, please Sammy stop them …" He sighs. "Gotta say, after a while it was just too much like a broken record for my tastes. Had to cut his tongue out every day for years before he started getting with the program."

There's cool sweat beading on his forehead. Sam almost feels like he's somewhere else, his mind's just… numbing and numbing, too angry to even register on the scale. He doesn't want to listen, but he can't shut his ears. The words feel like they're slithering under his skin. "Shut up," he whispers raggedly.

"Exactly what I said," Alastair turns, nods smilingly. He's holding a slender, curvy tool in his hand. "But I gotta admit, the kid had a way with his mouth. You could always tell when he was feeling particularly feisty," he says idly, tracing the fine silver point down Sam's arm, leaving a thin trail of blood. "Especially," he lingers on the word, savoring it, then finishes "…after."

"Fuck you," he breathes spitefully, barely feeling the pain. His left hand thinks it feels a little give in the straps it's tied with, and he starts working it slowly, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He doesn't know how feasible escape is, but if there's a chance he's goddamn going to take it.

"Did he tell you about that, Sammy? How he took my offer, started being a player?"

Sam only glares, wishes he could break Alastair's face.

Alastair throws back his head and laughs in delight, stopping his work for a moment. "No. He didn't! Oh, this is too precious," he hisses viciously, teeth bared in a grin. "Why on earth would he go and do that for? What, did he really think you'd forgive him for it? Tell him everything's fine and dandy?" He pats Sam's cheek affectionately as a thought strikes him. "Or was this just your brother's way of telling you to skedaddle?"

And just like that, Sam's mind completely blanks. For a timeless moment, conversations mix up and he's back there (next to a road/under a bridge), sitting on the Impala with a beer in his hand and listening to a mental repeat of forty years, forty years, wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy, I enjoyed it. He had been so busy trying to comprehend all the new ways Dean was broken that it had never even occurred to him what Dean was really trying to tell him in the first place. Dean's real reason for trying to explain something for which there are no words.

Never occurred to him that those torn glances over the past month, pieces of his brother's soul, might not have had anything to do with getting Sam to understand at all, but rather... rather...

Why still here, Sammy?

...Something else.

You can go, if you want. Wouldn't blame you – I'd leave me too, if I could.

There's a snap, like a finger breaking, but in his daze Sam thinks it might as well be his heart.

"Actually, I'm curious," Alastair says, continuing on Sam's other arm. His eyes don't stray from his work, but they glitter merrily. "Do you forgive him, Sammy? He hurt a whole bunch of people, you know. Of course, most of them deserved it - you know, hell - but still. Big brother Dean, protector of the innocent, torturer of thousands… I don't know, kinda puts a crimp in the savior-of-the-world title, I think."

"It doesn't matter," he whispers tightly, more to himself than to Alastair. His eyes squeeze shut against the pain, although he couldn't rightly tell which one, outside or inside. "Not his fault."

For a moment he can feel Alastair's eyes on him. There's nothing but silence, broken only occasionally by the idle shredding of Sam's shirt and bicep.

"Maybe not," the demon concedes, moving on to Sam's chest. "But it makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

His eyes open wearily. "…Wonder what?"

Alastair isn't smiling anymore, just considering him carefully. "Just how close you were to not getting him back."

"W-what?"

"You know what I mean. Just how close you were…" his eyes flash black, "to having your brother become one of us."

The breath gets knocked out of Sam without the old man's hands even touching his skin. He stares at Alastair, wide-eyed.

"Don't wanna know, Sammy boy?" Alastair says softly.

He does. Suddenly there's nothing Sam hungers for more. He wants to know. He needs to know.

…He doesn't dare ask.

"Go to hell."

"No problem with that, kid. Actually, once your brother gets here, that's sort of the plan."

It's not going to happen. It can't happen.

Sam mouth betrays him. "How close?" he whispers, barely audible. Hates himself for asking.

The demon flicks a smile at him, doesn't directly answer. "He got special treatment, you know, your brother," he tells Sam, absentmindedly scratching a pattern unto his stomach. It doesn't really hurt - Sam gets the feeling Alastair's doing it more out of boredom than anything else. He really is waiting for Dean. "What, you think everyone gets the same offer he did?" Chuckle, circle. "Oh no. Most people would just jump on the opportunity. Not much point to that, is there?"

He cocks his head as if listening to something, smiles to himself, and then continues,

"Besides, a Winchester? And not just that, but the brother of old Azazel's heir apparent? It's a hell of a catch, Sammy. Hell of a catch."

Sam can barely see - his headache is getting worse and worse, and all he can think about is my fault, my fault, I made it worse-

His left hand is still worrying away at the leather, but it's a mindless action, practically automatic. It'll take him hours, maybe days to wear it down, yet it's all he got so he keeps at it. He doesn't think Alastair's caught on yet.

When he can stand to think, that is.

"Not to mention, Sam, your brother's pretty special even without all the fancy connections. Boy's so messed up it's positively heartbreaking. Nothing anyone did to him was as bad as what he could do to himself." He laughs quietly. "Bugged the hell out of me in the beginning, I'll tell ya. Thirty years, you know, and he still looked like a man on a mission, like he'd like nothing more than to tear me a new one. There wasn't enough pain I could give that boy."

Took me a while to figure him out. We don't get many of Dean's type down in the Pit. But you know what they say about practice." Alastair's mouth curls reminiscently. His hand stops for a moment, then resumes. It's a square this time. "He's a funny guy, you know, your brother. Creative. Always a party to watch him work – especially once he started laughing. Although for a while there, I wasn't sure he could. He was so quiet when I got through with him."

Faint yells from outside. Alastair's gaze converges on Sam's, and suddenly the shark grin is so wide it almost seems bigger than his face. "You know what the best part was though?"

Sam's hands start shaking. Something coppery runs into his open mouth, and his head feels like it's splitting open. He's not sure what face he's making, but he's glad he can't see it.

"It was almost like he never walked off."

Sam's eyes are burning, stinging. His headache is worse than ever.

"You see, Sammy, with every soul Dean ripped apart, every person he sliced, every scream he caused, you could tell from his eyes that he just hated himself more and more. With every moment and every laugh, he was hurting himself more than anyone ever could." He pauses, as if thinking, then smiles at Sam almost affectionately. "...Well. Maybe not anyone."

"I'll kill you," Sam whispers, fights to get it out. His throat is sore and it feels like he's suffocating, but with each gasp for air his head just gets worse and worse. He isn't sure how intelligible the threat is, isn't all that sure he's saying it aloud, but it's a promise that comes from his very core, his very being. I will hunt you down, wherever you are. I won't let you see another day. I swear it.

Intelligible or not, Alastair doesn't seem to take the threat incredibly seriously. He pushes a strand of hair away from Sam's eyes, oddly tender. "It takes a very, very long time to become a demon, Sammy," he says warmly, but the shriveled soul under the wrinkles shines an unforgiving, merciless black. "What Dean did – that, my dear boy, was all him. And he knows it. He'll always know it."

There's a painful ringing in Sam's ears, but he can still hear Alastair's musing voice over it, loud and clear.

"…I wonder, has he asked you to kill him, yet?"

Sam's world goes red.

Had he been able to think, Sam might have wondered if his head had finally exploded. But he can't and he doesn't, because for the moment there's no pain and no ringing and no words, and for what feels like a long time, there's no Sam, either.

0000

"-am. Sammy!"

Everything hurts.

"-wake the fuck up, you fucking lazy -"

A lot.

"-must calm down, Dean. You are of no use to -"

"Cas, unless you have a fucking magic wand shoved up your fucking angelic ass, do the fucking world a favor and fucking shut up."

Hands cup his face. They're rough. Warm.

"Sam. Sammy. Don't you do this to me now, Sam, don't you dare do this to me you little bitch, you goddamn asshole - don't you, don't you dare -"

It shouldn't be this hard to open his eyes. He frowns a little.

A hand brushes wet hair away from his forehead. "That's it, that's it. Keep going, little brother. You can do this, come on."

There's no black or brown. Just a blurry face, freckles, anxious green eyes. He's not really sure if he's staring up or down or to the side, which is annoying. For some reason it matters.

"…Sammy?" Shake. "Sam."

Dean. He's with Dean.

He lets out a little sigh.

…Wait, that's wrong.

He starts struggling, shakes his head. He doesn't remember why it feels like he shouldn't be able to, but that's wrong, too.

"N-no," he mutters feverishly, limbs flailing weakly. Dean can't be here, he can't, Alastair will – Alastair –

"Don't worry about him, all right? Just me and angel boy here. Alastair's gone. You, ah… well, he's taken care of, let's just leave it at that."

The words take a moment to register, but when they do Sam calms down in order to search for answers in Dean's eyes. Dean's eyes always tell the truth.

you could tell from his eyes that he just hated himself more and more

"Sammy?"

Sam thinks far enough in advance to turn his head away from Dean before he starts throwing up.

0000

The next time Sam comes around, he's lying in a bed and Dean's drooling on his blanket.

He watches for a little while. It's a peaceful sight. Kind of adorable, really.

His head suddenly twinges – nothing big, it isn't even painful – and he jerks.

And just like that -

Memory. Pain.

Alastair.

"Dean," he gasps, before remembering that Dean's right there, and he's just kicked him in the face.

"You know, Sam," Dean sighs as he sits up, not really seeming to care that he'd been kneed in the nose, "I've been thinking. Next time you want to get take out? Yeah, not happening. Also, if you're going to eat your burrito before getting kidnapped, try not to puke it all over me. I was getting some real weird looks at the laundromat."

"Dean," Sam simply rasps out again, mind too fuzzy to keep up.

"Right here, dude," his brother replies wearily, leaning back on his chair and running a hand over his face. He has a five o'clock shadow, Sam notices, and dark bags under his dark eyes.

"What," he tries, stumbles.

"What happened? You went out for Taco Bell and got kidnapped by some demons, is what happened. Typical Sam." Dean's flat voice belies the levity of his words. "Cas led me to where they had you, but turns out that other than a couple of low-ranking shitheads, you'd already taken care of the main event."

"Alastair."

"That's what you kept telling us, yeah. We couldn't really tell."

He tries to sit up, but Dean wordlessly pushes him back down with a finger, looking weary. "Is… is Cas mad?"

His brother shrugs. "The heck should I know? Guy ain't exactly an open picture book."

It takes him a couple of seconds to get the next question out. "…Are you?"

"Nah, I think I'm more a magazine kind of guy."

"Dean."

Dean looks down for a moment. "...No, Sam," he says finally, tiredly. "I'm not mad."

Sam raises his head with an effort, trying to meet his brother's eyes, work out what Dean's thinking, except that's difficult enough on a good day. "Even though -"

"Look, Sam," he's interrupted, "Alastair was a bastard. I don't blame you for going Chuck Norris on his ass. I'm just glad you're okay, all right?" Dean's gaze flutters over him and away. "Sorry I couldn't get there earlier."

"Dean, you shouldn't have come at all. He was…" Sam swallows, isn't sure how to say this, is even less sure if he's ready for what Dean might say in return. "It was a trap. For you."

"Yeah, I figured."

Sam's eyes widen incredulously. "You figured?" he repeats.

"Didn't matter, did it?" his big brother shrugs. "He had you. I wasn't going to stop just because the son of a bitch maybe didn't want to keep you."

"Dean, that's -"

"Drop it, Sam," he's told flatly.

Sam notices again how exhausted his brother looks. His fault.

"Dean, I'm sorry," he says quietly, achingly, letting his head drop back to the pillow. If it hadn't been for Sam, if Sam hadn't somehow gotten through the mental blocks – that must have been what had messed up his head so badly – his brother would have practically walked willingly right into Alastair's arms. Back into hell.

And this time, there would have been no argument who was to blame.

"Damn right you are." His brother tries for a smirk, but it gets lost somewhere between his mouth and his nose. You scared the shit out of me, his eyes say before flitting away. "You ruined my favorite black shirt."

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, cry me a river," he mumbles, all of a sudden drowsy. "Go to Target."

Dean laughs, probably a little more shakily than he intends, and it isn't until then that Sam realizes how terrifying it must have been for Dean to find his brother missing again, without a word or a clue or even a goddamn text message. And then to realize it was Alastair, and that it was all a trap set for him, to get Dean sent back to the Pit...

for a while there, I wasn't sure he could.

"Dean," Sam murmurs blearily and weakly reaches out a hand, ignoring the pain radiating across his skin. He has to fight to keep his eyes open, but it doesn't matter. He can't fall asleep yet.

Not while he can still hear Alastair say, I wonder.

His brother cranes over him. "What," he asks patiently, carefully grabbing Sam's wayward hand, and suddenly Sam can't love his brother more.

"…Ne'er do it…" he slurs, sight going in and out of focus. God, he's so damn tired. "Ever. Can't - can't ask. You gotta."

"Care to speak English, buddy?"

He has to make him see. "Gotta… gotta stay, Dean," he breathes, blurring the words insistently. "You gotta. 'm not… not goin' an'where." He tries to articulate, focus on the surprised green stare. "Not… not leavin' you."

Sam jabs his hand at Dean's face for emphasis, forgetting that Dean's still holding it. He thinks he might have poked Dean's eye with his knuckle – or maybe it was Dean's knuckle – but he's too out of it to tell for sure. "An' you… not leavin' me, too. Either. Not gonna let you, that happen. Never. Ser'ously."

He opens an eye.

"...Got it?"

Dean's smiling at him in what looks to be a mix of amusement and affection, maybe something else too. "Loud and clear, Sam."

"Sammy," he corrects him firmly, eyes closing against his will.

A beat.

"...Right," his brother says softly. "Sammy."

It might just be his imagination, but when Sam finally drifts off, he thinks he can feel Dean squeeze his hand.