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“It’s okay, Sam, don’t fight it.”
Sam’s hand tries to push him away, but the Caged Sam doesn’t back away. The knife is still so close to him, so close, so close. Maybe he should take away his clothes, make it easier for Dean to clean him up when it’s done. Dean had told him that there is no more Sam than him. He’s the only one. Just so sick in the head.
He gets distracted, and the knife plunges into his guts. A strangled cry erupts from his mouth. Caged Sam rests his dizzy head against his own chest as he twists the knife inside. “It’s going to be just fine, Sam. Trust me. Trust this.” The white searing pain burns through him. He can’t breathe. His head lolls uselessly against Caged Sam’s shirt, his legs barely holding him up. “Trust the pain. Trust it.”
As he feels his guts being rearranged in him like a kid carving out a pumpkin, Sam wonders if this is what Lucifer has done to his soul. Pushing him to his limits, pushing him into a world of pain and diluting each of his good memories into a horrific bloody painting. Caged Sam brushes Sam’s hair, whispering soothing words. “You’re too full inside,” he tries to justify in a low voice. “Too full. Too full. It’s no good.” He can’t argue with that, whatever that means.
“I don’t wanna die,” Sam whispers with a broken voice, his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to keep himself conscious.
“Death doesn’t have to be a sentence, Sam. It is only the beginning of something bigger. Freedom of being without feeling. Estranged from the body that keeps you locked in the same place.”
He collapses on the floor loudly. Caged Sam following to the ground, kneeling beside him. The metal against his internal organs shifts. Blood gurgles from his mouth. Sam holds the attacking wrist in his hand in a vein hope of keeping him out. Caged Sam only smiles at him, melancholic and bleary. When he moves away, Sam coughs more blood, rolling onto his side in the floor. His arm stretching to nothingness.
“Dean,” he calls weakly. “Dean…”
His blurry vision can’t make sense of the mess leaking out of him. Red, too much red. Crimson, black drops. He closes his eyes, tears falling free.
“Dean.”
“After all this time, you’re still expecting Dean to come to the rescue.” The voice is cocky, confident, almost disappointed. Someone crouches in front of him. The man’s lips stretch wide with a pleasured, disturbing face. It’s Soulless Sam.
“Please,” Sam begs, more blood dripping to his cheek.
Soulless Sam shakes his head with an unfortunate frown. He rolls him so that he is on his back again. Sam wails when his senses come back to him, the ceiling staring back at him as his insides are spilled outside of him in a painful, gruesome way.
It doesn’t stop. Soulless Sam has the best of them blades. A beautiful dagger. The one Dad offered him when he was twelve, after he came back alive from his first hunting trip. It weighted in his hand. He liked the feeling of it against his palm. He doesn’t quite appreciate as much the feeling of its dents against his ragged skin. Probing and pushing the guts around, fingering deeper his wide-open wounds.
Sam’s muscles are frigid, stuck in time.
“This soul, embedded onto our inner walls, sticking where it doesn’t belong. Slowing us. Down, down, down.” He punctuates each word with a sharp thrust on his meat, drawing long and heavy moans out of Sam’s pale mouth. “Don’t worry, Sammy. It’s going to be over soon.” The side of the dagger scrapes the almost empty cavity. Sam stopped feeling anything a while ago, drifting away. “Musty, moldy soul that needs to be cleaned,” Soulless Sam continues with a winded breath. “The vessel is so better when it’s not full. You’re so full. We’re so full.” He repeats the last words, an eerie mantra, but Sam doesn’t hear him anymore, his glassy eyes falling behind his eyelids, one last shuddering breath escaping his lips. His body shuts down.