What the Hell? (Book 4 Arrow/SPN Crossover)

The Boys Come To Blows

"C'mon Sammy, let's finish this game." He stalked through the halls of the Bunker, hammer in hand. All he felt was the desire to maim, kill, torture. He needed the feel of blood on his hands, to watch Sam beg him to stop, the sound of breaking bones, blood being coughed up. All the hours in that chair, the agonizing pulse of purified blood racing through him, devouring him, it was the thought of pulling Sam apart piece by piece that kept him going.

As the demon side weakened he felt the handcuffs lose their power, the Devil's trap no longer held him. He had just enough left to utterly destroy what was left of Dean. That weak, human, guilt ridden, worthless thing. He would put this strong, virile, attractive body to much better purposes than what Dean had done with it. Once Sam was gone, Dean's memories would wither and die, his soul would burn itself out in impotent rage. He just had to kill Sam.

-I smell him, love that fear.-

He rounded a corner, and saw Sam looking the other way.

-This is it!-

Feet pounding on concrete, arm swinging with all it's strength, howling with glee, the hammer connected with Sam's injured shoulder. The delicious impact flew up his arm and Sam's agonized cries were the perfect accompaniment to the feel of bones breaking as he swung over and over. 

"Dean! Hey! Wake up!"

His eyes flew open, Sam was standing a safe distance away, fear laced concern in his eyes. Dean's pulse was racing, the pull out couch Lyla had offered after Oliver ate and left to keep an eye on things was covered in sweat and his hands were balled into fists. Dig had gone to run some errands with Sara while Lyla went to work. Sam had taken the guest room and he took the couch, they both needed some sleep after driving all night. The sheets were in utter disarray and the few decorative pillows he'd just pushed out of his way so he could lay down had been flung several feet from the couch.

Sam stepped closer and handed him a towel, "What was that about?"

"Monster," he tried to shrug it off, "Hell, who knows. I don't remember."

He watched Sam's face flash through all the phases of concern and irritation that only Sam was capable of showing in less than five seconds as he dried the sweat from his face and chest. Sam would keep pushing, he knew it but he couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth. Not after everything he went through to bring me back. I can't. The dreams, they're getting worse, more vivid, more violent. I see them when I'm awake sometimes now too. It's not gone. I just have to hold on a little while longer, after this job I'll tell him.

Sam walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it with ice water and set it on the table next to him. "You know, it'd be great if for once you could actually be honest with me. I know we don't have a great track record with that but it'd be a nice change of pace." He started picking up the pillows and tossing them at Dean. "Get up, those sheets are soaked. We should at least throw them in the wash before Lyla and Dig get back."

He got up off the couch, downed the water and started walking to the bathroom, "Fine, whatever. I'm going to clean up."

"Damn it Dean!" Sam snapped, he was near the end of the patience. "Stop."

He didn't turn around. He couldn't look his brother in the face. Not when his hands were shaking and a cold sweat was breaking out on his face again.

Sam stepped in front of him. "That dream wasn't about Hell or monsters. I have seen every variation of nightmare you have, I can tell by how much you move what the dream is about. Keep pushing it down, keep running. It won't help."

He's close to breaking, there's so much frustration in his eyes. I know he wants to help but he can't, no one can. Talking won't make this go away.