They call me the Anti-Christ

"I'm not going to ask again, where is my son?"

Sam pressed the demon against the wall, one hand on the throat of the human as he held the guy against the wall a few inches off the ground. Gone was the business suit and tie, and founder of the Winchester Initiative. Now in a pair of dirty jeans, a flannel shirt under a faded leather jacket and military boots, Sam Winchester was a hunter, a weapon, and one pissed off father.

The demon against the wall laughed, blood dribbling out of his mouth as he laughed. "You really think I'm going to talk, Winchester? You don't scare me..."

"I don't, do I?" Sam tilted his head just a bit, lifting his free hand. Pointing his index and middle finger, the others curled, he focused his powers until the tips of them started to glow yellow. His eyes started to glow to match and he just smirked. "How about now?"

( . . . )

ooc: demon!Sam verse. The night after this

It was in the other eyes of the demon that Sam found himself remembering. Pain. Hurt. Fire. Smoke. DEAN! They had always been feelings. Things he didn't see pictured in his head.

But he saw them now. They had found another motel to sleep in that night, and Alec and Dean were inside. Two beds, two men. Trying to sleep. Not think of the demons. Not think of bad things. But Sam can only think of bad things. Bad bad things. Pain. Hurt. Fire. Smoke. DEAN!

Sam sat on the hood of the Impala. He leaned back on the windshield and looked up at the stars. The sky was black. Dark. But there was light. Little worlds making light. But there only light in hell was from fire.

There were only a few memories that Sam had. Now he had these and he didn't want them anymore. They were not fireflies. They were knives and blood and bad things. Bad things.

( Somewhat unimplied spoilers for 4.10: Heaven and Hell )

"What's in the box?" David Mills, Se7en

It was a shiny metal box. 18.3 inches by 6.9 inches by 13.9 inches. Exactly. 10 pounds. NO, more. 10.3. Yes. And there was an apple on top.

He had found it in the trunk of the Impala. He had been looking for something and there was a bag there. It wasn't what he was looking for. It was what he was looking for. It was his. He knew that now.

Alec and Dean were out. He was told to stay. So he stayed, but he was bored and the tv was not working. So he went looking and found the thing. His thing.

He picked it up and looked at it, trying to figure out what it was. He should know what it was. It was his thing. It even smelt like him, just like the bag of clothing that was his. He was wearing the very wrinkled green plaid shirt now and it smelt like the way he was supposed to smell. The jeans were loose on him, but they also smelt like him. And dirt.

He put it down on the table and looked it it closer. There was a button on the side. He slid his finger along the button and a disc popped out, making him jump a bit. There was a disc there now, which he held up to look at. Jason Manns. Music. It was his music, if it was inside of his thing. He put the disc back in carefully, and it disappeared inside of the box.

( Something told him there was more to see )

It was the middle of the night when Sam sat up in the Impala, waking from another bad dream. It was full of fire and pain and even the comfort of the back seat wasn't protecting him from those dreams tonight.

He hated those dreams. Especially because he didn't know what they were. They just hurt him and he didn't like being hurt.

He looked at the motel room where Alec and Dean were fast asleep in and pondered going in. He had not gone in before, even if they left the salt from the door enough that he could get in. They wanted him to come in.

Tonight he would. He did not want to close his eyes to see fire again. He wanted to look at something else.

He dissipated into his sulfur smoke cloud and left the open crack of the Impala's window, then made his way under the motel door. Both of them were fast asleep, so Sam carefully crept over to the dresser which was next to Dean's bed.

He could tell them apart. Dean looked different when Sam looked at him with black eyes.

Sam sat on the dresser and watched Dean sleep. He closed his eyes, trying to see if he could see what Dean was dreaming of, but he couldn't. Dean didn't look like he was dreaming of fire though.

He was sleeping. Sam wanted to sleep too. Maybe when Dean woke up, Sam would try and sleep on his bed. Maybe then he wouldn't dream of the fire again.

(OOC: Warm Gun 'Verse. Prompt is from canon, and if it links to a Dean, then this Sammy's Dean = jstliketherifle.)

Sam doesn't remember much about dying. He doesn't remember much about anything these days. The come back to him in flashes, like fireflies appearing in the distance. You know they are there because you can see them. But they won't stay still and it's hard to catch one.

Sometimes when Sam leaves for awhile, he goes back to that spot. The spot he died. It's a ghost town, full of ghosts that watch him as he walks down the dusty streets. The hide in windows and doorways, almost as if they are afraid of him.

There is a girl who stands on the top of the water tower. Her neck is bent in a bad angle, and she sits there with her hands under her armpits.

I feel like I’m in a nightmare, and it just keeps getting worse and worse.

In the window of a house that smells of salt, the bloodied face of a young man watches him. Sam can almost feel him reaching out, trying to touch his mind before he turns away to look at a dark haired woman in horror.

I’m still working through, “Demons are real”

The edge of town is covered in blood that only Sam can see. There are no birds here. No crickets. Just a single firefly that leads him until he almost trips over an iron bar. He stops, looking down at it as the firefly lands on it and lights up.

Only one of us is getting out of here. I’m sorry.

Sam fell to his knees, holding his head. There was pain. His head, stomach. he was hit and hurt. Each time he made this trip he felt it, remembering the sequence of injuries.

Sam!

The pain stopped and Sam lifted his head. There was no ghost there, but the sound of his name echoed through the town like a canon.

Dean.

His last word. And then there was a sharp pain and then his didn't feel anything but arms wrapping around him. He was safe in those arms. It was home.

Hey, look at me. It’s not even that bad. It’s not even that bad, all right? Sammy? Sam! Hey, listen to me. We’re gonna patch you up, okay? You’re gonna be good as new. I’m gonna take care of you. I’m gonna take you care of you. I’ve got you. That’s my job, right? Watch out for my pain-in-the-ass little brother? Sam? Sam! Sammy!

The firefly flew away from the iron rod as Sam blinked, looking around him. Not a sound. Silence. Death.

Until the screaming began.