Post by Deleted on Jan 31, 2014 20:04:18 GMT -5
It was three a.m. and Sam had woken the entire bunker with his screaming.
The usual nightmares had morphed into visions, which had put him in a half-sleeping, half-waking state as the last missing puzzle pieces of his time in the Cage crashed their way into his consciousness with the force of a drunken semi driver. Light burst, red, like bursting capillaries coating his eyes. It burned bright, like looking into the sun with your eyes closed and seeing through your skin. And it hurt. As his mind replayed scenes of torture at Michael's hands, he felt the ghost echoes of the pain.
Overlaying the scenes of torture, were others. Hiding in that room of feathers and bone, which he had come to realize was a part of Lucifer, whose true form was huge and inhuman. The quiet spans, whether they were minutes, hours, or weeks. The moments of quiet were filled with constant talking. At first it had been angry, on Sam's end. But as time had gone on, Lucifer's protection of him had softened Sam's hatred after what seemed like years in the Cage. And all the knowledge Lucifer had shared came streaming into Sam's consciousness, more than any human was meant to know.
By the time anyone reached him, he was silent. Just staring at the ceiling. Catatonic. It was several minutes before he moved, unaware of any panic he might be inciting around him. He just sat up. "Lucifer," was the first and only word out of his mouth. Grabbing Dean's arm, he did something rare for the younger Winchester: he gave an order. "I need Bobby, and Cas."
It was four a.m. and Sam had the floor. He didn't apologize for waking them. He just flitted from bookshelf to bookshelf until all of them were there. Only then did he stop eluding them and come to the table. "I remember everything. From the Cage." There was something different about him, impossible to put a finger on and yet blatant. It was in the way he talked. The tone that had often been full of emotion, unsure or angry or disbelieving, was now sure and even. As if he no longer had anything to worry about. "I need to know if there's any way -- any way at all -- that these things I'm remembering, could be false. If Lucifer could have planted them there." He held a book, marked by a forefinger, loosely in his grasp, forgotten. "Because if they're real, then we've got it all wrong. And Michael is heading for us, and we have to change our plan of action."
The usual nightmares had morphed into visions, which had put him in a half-sleeping, half-waking state as the last missing puzzle pieces of his time in the Cage crashed their way into his consciousness with the force of a drunken semi driver. Light burst, red, like bursting capillaries coating his eyes. It burned bright, like looking into the sun with your eyes closed and seeing through your skin. And it hurt. As his mind replayed scenes of torture at Michael's hands, he felt the ghost echoes of the pain.
Overlaying the scenes of torture, were others. Hiding in that room of feathers and bone, which he had come to realize was a part of Lucifer, whose true form was huge and inhuman. The quiet spans, whether they were minutes, hours, or weeks. The moments of quiet were filled with constant talking. At first it had been angry, on Sam's end. But as time had gone on, Lucifer's protection of him had softened Sam's hatred after what seemed like years in the Cage. And all the knowledge Lucifer had shared came streaming into Sam's consciousness, more than any human was meant to know.
By the time anyone reached him, he was silent. Just staring at the ceiling. Catatonic. It was several minutes before he moved, unaware of any panic he might be inciting around him. He just sat up. "Lucifer," was the first and only word out of his mouth. Grabbing Dean's arm, he did something rare for the younger Winchester: he gave an order. "I need Bobby, and Cas."
It was four a.m. and Sam had the floor. He didn't apologize for waking them. He just flitted from bookshelf to bookshelf until all of them were there. Only then did he stop eluding them and come to the table. "I remember everything. From the Cage." There was something different about him, impossible to put a finger on and yet blatant. It was in the way he talked. The tone that had often been full of emotion, unsure or angry or disbelieving, was now sure and even. As if he no longer had anything to worry about. "I need to know if there's any way -- any way at all -- that these things I'm remembering, could be false. If Lucifer could have planted them there." He held a book, marked by a forefinger, loosely in his grasp, forgotten. "Because if they're real, then we've got it all wrong. And Michael is heading for us, and we have to change our plan of action."