In camp, Sam was going through their packs--two packs, like the two bags, the two rooms. It was easy to tell which was his and which was Dean's--and Adam was smaller than either of them, and there was nothing sized to fit him.
"I guess now is the time to start explaining," Adam said.
Sam spun. Adam was approaching from the hill, looking like he knew too much. "You shouldn't exist," Sam said--it wasn't quite right. But something was wrong.
"It was the blood, wasn't it?" Adam asked. "Cleaning each other up. You've probably been doing that since your dad started taking you out with him."
"Dad?" Sam asked. "What dad?"
"It can happen," Adam said. "One specific image, or smell, or sound, with ties far enough back. Reasserts the old memories. You start seeing all the contradictions. And you start to wonder." He circled around the firepit, keeping eye contact like he was approaching a low demon. "Dangerous thing, wondering."
"What are you?" Sam asked, backing away. Adam was routing him toward the forest, but close enough that he couldn't risk a glance behind him.
"I just want to live, Sam." Adam spread his hands. "Don't you? Is that so wrong? Don't I have as much a right as you?"
"You screwed up our memories," Sam said. "Made us believe--"
"We were good, weren't we?" Adam's tone rose. He ducked his head, using tactics Sam could recognize from his own persuasive arsenal. "The three of us? Us friends?"
"Except we weren't ever friends, were we?" Sam asked. The texture of the ground changed under his feet; small twigs snapped where he stepped. He stretched out his hands, lowered his center of gravity. "You made us believe that."
"It's a living," Adam said.
Sam dropped another few inches, letting his fingers skip across the ground until they hit a branch.
Gotcha.
Adam must have seen him grab it because he lunged, reaching out and snarling. Sam swung, snapped the branch across Adam's ribs and then Adam was on him, hands on his face, force-feeding images into his mind except that they weren't just memories any more. These ones hurt.
These ones were about fire and watching his friends burning, watching his hands burning, watching liquid flame crawl up his arms and blacken the skin. There were about Dean tied up and tortured and his father--their father--being ripped apart by unseeable demons, about feeling hate well up inside so hot and so hard that he pointed a gun at his brother and pulled the trigger, about Dean pushing him down and pushing his shirt up and pushing himself over him--
He fell and Adam followed, pulling him in and cradling him. "We could have been friends," Adam said, running his fingers back behind Sam's ears. "But I think the time for that's passed, now."
He couldn't even scream. Didn't have the presence of mind to try--Adam ceased to exist, replaced by a knife in his hands as he cut his girlfriend across the stomach, a swelling bruise as his father hit him across the eyes, Dean's hands closing on his throat and twisting his arm up above his head.
"Remember this?" he asked. "And I was always there for you, and I held you just like this, and I made it better, Sam, me--"
"Not in my version," Dean said, and Adam looked up into his fist.
Re: This may be the roughest thing I've written in three months. ...actually, it felt good.
In camp, Sam was going through their packs--two packs, like the two bags, the two rooms. It was easy to tell which was his and which was Dean's--and Adam was smaller than either of them, and there was nothing sized to fit him.
"I guess now is the time to start explaining," Adam said.
Sam spun. Adam was approaching from the hill, looking like he knew too much. "You shouldn't exist," Sam said--it wasn't quite right. But something was wrong.
"It was the blood, wasn't it?" Adam asked. "Cleaning each other up. You've probably been doing that since your dad started taking you out with him."
"Dad?" Sam asked. "What dad?"
"It can happen," Adam said. "One specific image, or smell, or sound, with ties far enough back. Reasserts the old memories. You start seeing all the contradictions. And you start to wonder." He circled around the firepit, keeping eye contact like he was approaching a low demon. "Dangerous thing, wondering."
"What are you?" Sam asked, backing away. Adam was routing him toward the forest, but close enough that he couldn't risk a glance behind him.
"I just want to live, Sam." Adam spread his hands. "Don't you? Is that so wrong? Don't I have as much a right as you?"
"You screwed up our memories," Sam said. "Made us believe--"
"We were good, weren't we?" Adam's tone rose. He ducked his head, using tactics Sam could recognize from his own persuasive arsenal. "The three of us? Us friends?"
"Except we weren't ever friends, were we?" Sam asked. The texture of the ground changed under his feet; small twigs snapped where he stepped. He stretched out his hands, lowered his center of gravity. "You made us believe that."
"It's a living," Adam said.
Sam dropped another few inches, letting his fingers skip across the ground until they hit a branch.
Gotcha.
Adam must have seen him grab it because he lunged, reaching out and snarling. Sam swung, snapped the branch across Adam's ribs and then Adam was on him, hands on his face, force-feeding images into his mind except that they weren't just memories any more. These ones hurt.
These ones were about fire and watching his friends burning, watching his hands burning, watching liquid flame crawl up his arms and blacken the skin. There were about Dean tied up and tortured and his father--their father--being ripped apart by unseeable demons, about feeling hate well up inside so hot and so hard that he pointed a gun at his brother and pulled the trigger, about Dean pushing him down and pushing his shirt up and pushing himself over him--
He fell and Adam followed, pulling him in and cradling him. "We could have been friends," Adam said, running his fingers back behind Sam's ears. "But I think the time for that's passed, now."
He couldn't even scream. Didn't have the presence of mind to try--Adam ceased to exist, replaced by a knife in his hands as he cut his girlfriend across the stomach, a swelling bruise as his father hit him across the eyes, Dean's hands closing on his throat and twisting his arm up above his head.
"Remember this?" he asked. "And I was always there for you, and I held you just like this, and I made it better, Sam, me--"
"Not in my version," Dean said, and Adam looked up into his fist.