A/N: This is a two part-er, the first chapter focusing on Sam and the second on Dean, so there's something for everyone. I'm still a bit rusty with my fanfiction because I've been working on a novel for the last two years but I discovered Supernatural, fell in love (and used up all my internet allowance watching and downloading episodes) and now I can't get these stories out of my head. Enjoy.

Non Timebo Mala

Chapter One

Dean was saying something.

Sam fought to push through the haze, trying to focus on the words but they simply washed over him, ineffectual and unfocussed.

What…?

Something was wrong. The realization was usually enough to jolt him into awareness, but now it was just an uncomfortable thought on the edge of nothingness.

Where was he…?

Sam tried to move, sit up, open his eyes, anything, but his body wouldn't obey. It's felt disconnected from him somehow. Even his eyelids stayed stubbornly shut. Something clinked above his head, metal on metal, and Sam tried to remember where he'd heard that sound before, but his thoughts were sliding from his head like water through a sieve. Nothing stuck, and even as Dean's voice moved closer, he felt his flimsy grip on consciousness slipping away.

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Sam woke again, head spinning and darkness tantalizingly trying to lure him back in, but Sam fought it. It was only when he groggily tried to roll onto his side that he realized that he was tied down. It took another moment for his foggy mind to remember that being tied down was very rarely a good thing.

At least his eyelids were more willing to co-operate this time. Sam inched them open slowly, unable to smother the moan that escaped as the bright light speared a fork of pain through his forehead. He let his eyelids fall shut, waiting until the pain had settled down to a dull throb before he tried again.

A little fuzzy, but he could see enough to know that he was in a motel room, and not the one he last remembered being in. The room was empty, and oddly neat. No clothes strewn about like Dean was want to do, their duffle bags were no where in sight. His laptop was absent and no lines of salt adorned the door or windows. And Dean was missing.

But Dean had been there. Sam was sure he remembered Dean's voice, so maybe things weren't quite as bad as they seemed.

Sam closed his eyes again, trying to collect his jumbled thoughts and quell the nausea that was rising in his throat. He felt… floaty, and dizzy. Opening his eyes and risking a slight tilt of his head, he finally focused on several small, bruised injection sights. His arm had been used as a pincushion, presumably for some kind of sedative.

Well, at least that explained the dancing wallpaper.

Letting his eyes travel further up his arms, which were secured above his head, he figured out the clinking noise he'd heard earlier. (How long ago was that?) Handcuffs held him to the metal base of the bed, his wrists already raw from rubbing against the cool metal. He didn't think he could move his head enough to see his ankles without throwing up but a slight shift of his leg's confirmed that they too were bound to the bed.

Sinking back to stare at the ceiling – and then thinking better of it and closing his eyes when the room began to spin – Sam tried to figure out what he last remembered, frustrated when he found his memories vague and sketchy. There was a poltergeist, but he couldn't remember where or even whether Dean and himself had managed to banish it.

Or maybe that was weeks ago. Oblivion was calling insistently. Where was he again? Oh, that's right, tied to a bed in an unfamiliar motel room.

Where the heck was Dean?

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Sam gradually became aware of the familiar rumbling of the Impala, the comforting sound bleeding from his dreams into waking. He allowed himself a moment to take in the noise, pretend that he had simply fallen asleep during another long cross-country drive with Dean.

Steeling himself, Sam slowly opened his eyes. He was slumped against the passenger door, not an unfamiliar way for him to wake up, had he not been cuffed to the door handle.

"You awake?"

Sam blinked dazedly, turning slowly towards his brother's voice. His vision cleared to reveal Dean sitting casually behind the wheel, hands rhythmically tapping along to some imagined music, eyes flicking from the road to Sam.

Sam couldn't help the relief that flowed through him. Something was obviously terribly wrong, but at least Dean was sitting next to him, seemingly unharmed.

"Dean…?" Sam managed, finding his voice scratchy from lack of use. The word came out as more of a gasp. How long had it been since he'd last talked?

Sam watched Dean's mouth turn up into a smirk

"Sorry, Sammy, guess again."

Sam felt the relief fade even as he struggled to push through the dense fog in his head. Nothing was making sense. He couldn't seem to organize his thoughts into words.

"What…?"

"You know," Dean drawled, watching the road now and shaking his head slowly, "Every time I run into you Winchester's I get more and more disappointed. It's always so easy."

Finally something clicked into place. Sam forced himself to sit up a little straighter.

"You're a demon," he accused.

"Yahtze," the demon grinned in a gross imitation of Dean.

"Get out of my brother," Sam spat, with as much venom as he could muster, jerking the handcuffs.

Dean blinked and black eyes glared at him.

"Sorry, Sammy, I'm just getting started.

Dean's elbow shot up and Sam had just enough time to flinch his head to the side, protecting his face from the worst of the blow, before he was plunged into darkness.

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Sam came to as Dean – not Dean – manhandled him out of the Impala. The handcuffs had been removed but a small pressure at his lower back told him that a gun had taken their place. Not-Dean steered Sam to a door with a large metal '6' on it – another motel then – and slid a key into the lock. He pushed the door open, shoving Sam in before him.

Then the demon made a mistake.

Not-Dean flicked his eyes off of Sam for a second to lock the door behind them. A second was all Sam needed. He'd been trained by the best, he felt less drugged-up than he had in God knows how long, and if he didn't act now he'd surely end up tied to the bed again, unable to help himself or Dean.

Sam saw an opening and he took it. He spun, fast enough to catch Not-Dean by surprise, sending the gun skidding across the floor. Not-Dean barely skipped a beat, retaliating with an elbow to the face that had Sam seeing red for a moment. He blinked it away in time to dodge the next punch.

The demon's eye's flashed black, lips curled up into a snarl, and Not-Dean lashed out with an impressive kick to the chest that sent Sam flying into the wall and crashing to the ground in a heap.

Sam gasped, trying to bring air back into winded lungs, reeling from the blow. He felt a hand fist itself in his hair, dragging him to his knees. A fist slammed into his face with supernatural strength. Sam tasted blood.

Gathering himself, he shot out with a punch to the stomach – silently apologizing to Dean in his head –and forced himself back to his feet. He barely had time to steady himself before Dean lunged.

Sam ducked, knocking a lamp off of one of the bedside tables. It clattered to the ground, the light bulb shattering. Glass crunched under their feet as they sparred, blows flying, some deflected, some meeting their mark. Sam felt himself tiring. The drugs weren't completely out of his system and his vision was beginning to blur.

Sam deflected a punch, sending it wide over his shoulder, ready to throw one of his own when a fist wound itself into his hair again and pulled downwards, slamming his face into the kitchen bench, hard. Pain blinded him and he crumpled to the ground. He could feel hot, wet blood on his face, could taste the bitter metal tang.

Sam forced his eyes open, struggling to get to his feet. Dean's face loomed over him, fading in and out as the darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

"Naughty, naughty, Sammy," Not-Dean taunted.

Hands gripped Sam's arms and he was dragged over to a bed, the closest one to the door – Dean's bed. Sam fought against the sudden nausea the movement had brought on, allowing himself to be hauled onto the bed. He bit back a groan, trying to curl in on himself, to bring his hands up to his face as if it would somehow lessen the pain that had him on the verge of blacking out, but his arms were roughly pulled above his head and he heard handcuffs click into place.

He must have lost consciousness because when he opened his eyes his ankle's were bound, and Dean was sitting cross-legged on the opposite bed, watching him in glee.

Sam carefully tested his bonds.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

Not-Dean cocked his head to the side.

"I have what I want – Sam and Dean Winchester."

Sam slowly reassessed the demon. Something about the way it walked, the way it talked as if they were old friends… The realization smacked him in the face, dread building up inside him.

"Meg?" Sam asked.

"In the flesh," Meg smirked, holding out Dean's arms as if to show off her new body. "In Dean's flesh, even."

Sam tugged defiantly at the handcuffs, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his wrists.

"Get out of him," he growled.

Meg just shrugged, looking down at Sam in mild amusement.

Sam glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings, looking for weapons, ready to form a plan.

He was in a motel room, hardly distinguishable from any other room he and Dean had stayed in. Musty orange wallpaper, peeling in some places, tobacco stains on the ceiling. The kitchen was barely a few feet of lino with minimal bench space, blood staining the edge of the countertop.

The broken lamp still lay on the floor next to his bed. A table and two chairs stood against the far wall.

Sam pulled his gaze further inwards, searching for something within reaching distance that he could use as a lock pick.

"You're wasting your time," Dean's voice interrupted. "You two idiots might not learn from your mistakes, but I do. There's no escape, Sammy, for either of you. I've been in the Pit, waiting and planning this. The thing's I'm gonna do to you…"

Sam ignored the threat.

"How'd you do it?" he asked, still searching surreptitiously for anything that could aid him, "The tattoo's meant to keep vermin like you out."

"Aw Sam," Meg pretended to pout, "I thought you liked me."

Sam clenched his teeth, "How?"

"The tattoo's aren't as ingenious as you no doubt thought they were," Meg said, unbuttoning Dean's shirt, "They have a major design flaw."

Meg pulled down Dean's collar, revealing the wound on Dean's chest. It looked as if Meg had slashed him with a knife, cutting clean through the protective pentagram.

A wave of anger had Sam straining at the cuff's again, "I'm gonna send you back to Hell where you belong, bitch!"

"Language, Sam," Meg admonished, wagging a patronizing finger at him, "That's more Dean's style, isn't it?"

Sam opened his mouth to snap back a retort but stopped, both his and Dean's head's turning as Dean's cell phone lit up and vibrated along the table, a computerized Iron Maiden jingle interrupting their conversation.

When Sam turned back to Meg she was already standing over him. He started slightly, jerking back a bit as she raised a roll of duct tape to Dean's mouth, tearing a strip off with his teeth. Dean's hand clamped down on his jaw with inhuman strength, forcing his head still as she fixed the duct tape over his mouth.

Assured that it was firmly in place, Meg turned her back – Dean's back – on Sam and walked over to the phone. She cleared her throat before picking it up, the jingle stopping abruptly.

"Hey Bobby," she answered in Dean's casual voice.

Sam strained against his bonds, fingers searching desperately for anything that could be used as a lock pick. If he could just get the duct tape off and yell a warning to Bobby…

Sam moved his fingers slowly up the beds backboard as far as the cuffs would allow, feeling for a splinter in the wood.

Nothing.

He could hear Dean's voice talking about a job Bobby had found in their area – something about people disappearing. Sam very much doubted that they were anywhere near the area Bobby thought they were in. He turned his attention back to the conversation when he heard Bobby's muffled voice saying his name.

"He's sleeping," Meg lied easily.

Sam strained to hear Bobby's reply. How many times had he rung in the last few days, unable to get Sam on the phone? Enough to be suspicious?

"Yeah, maybe I've been working him too hard," the demon joked lightly.

Giving up on release, Sam yelled into the duct tape, reaching up to slam his cuff's against the backboard. Anything to alert Bobby that something was wrong.

"TV," Meg explained shortly to Bobby's unheard question, "Listen Bobby, I gotta go. We'll get right on that when Sam wakes up."

Sam screamed again but it was muffled and Meg was already hanging up. Defeated, Sam sunk back against the bed.

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Days trickled past in a haze of drugs and pain.

Sam didn't know how long it had been since Meg had first invaded Dean's body. A week? A month? Time had no meaning and it was hard to keep track of. Whatever Meg was injecting into him sent him flying, detached from his body. Trying to think, to form a plan, was like swimming through wet cement. Half the time he couldn't remember where he was, and when he came sinking back to reality it was only his need to save Dean that stopped him from wishing that Meg would just shoot him up again.

The moments of lucidity, and the escape attempts that followed, had seen the handcuffs scrape his wrists to a bloody mess, bruised and aching where he'd tried to pull his hands through the loops.

He didn't think Meg had answered Dean's phone again since Bobby's call… however long ago that was. Sometimes Sam heard it trilling out The Number of the Beast at the edge of his consciousness, like listening underwater. Yet another downside of their job, Sam thought vaguely, no one knew where they were, no one was expecting them, and if they didn't answer their phone's, well, maybe they were just busy with a case.

A sudden burning on his arm shocked Sam back to reality and the scent of singed flesh stung his nostrils.

Meg was crushing out a cigarette on his arm. Still dizzy from the drugs, Sam fought the urge to laugh, remembering how shocked he had been the first time he saw Dean light up a smoke. Out of everything – a possessed brother, waking up tied to a bed every day, and all the countless monsters he had seen, it was Dean puffing on a cigarette that managed to take him by surprise.

Well, it was a little funny.

Sam looked up through blurry eyes. Two Meg's sat back in their chairs, crossing their legs in a very un-Dean-like manner. They were in a different motel room. Sam could make out light green wallpaper.

"What do you want?" he slurred, trying to focus.

"I told you, I have what I want," Meg grinned smugly.

"No, I mean… what are you going to do? …with us?"

Meg chewed on her cheek as if pondering the question.

"I think," she started, "I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing until you die." She shrugged, "And then I might throw Dean out a window."

Sam glared, hoping that he was glaring at the right Dean… or Meg. Whatever.

"I'll kill you. You hurt him, I swear to God, I'll kill you," he growled, mustering his energy enough to speak clearly.

Meg stood, barking out a laugh.

"I'd like to see you, and God, try," she said breezily, waltzing to the door. "Don't wait up, Sammy."

As the door clicked shut behind the demon, Sam fell back against the bed, his energy draining out of him. God, his head hurt. Steeling himself, Sam began his usual inspection of the bed's headboard, carefully moving his fingers over the smooth wood, letting his thought's drift. There was no point. Meg was too smart. She never left him anything he could use to escape.

As Dean would say, this sucked out loud. He was drugged up, cold, hungry, in pain and – Ah! And now he had a splinter. Perfect.

Wait…

Sam's heart lurched. He scrabbled his fingers up the headboard again. There! Almost out of his reach, a small chip in the wood. Concentrating, Sam slowly edged his fingernails into the crack, working the splinter carefully, until…. Aha!

Sam squeezed the splinter in his fingers, desperate not to drop it, and slowly twisted his wrist around to slip it into the lock, awkwardly working it until the cuff clicked open. He made quick work of the second cuff and moved on to the ropes around his ankles. He had to be fast. He had an exorcism to organize.

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Sam listened to the key turning in the lock, taking a deep breath to focus himself. This had to work. He couldn't afford to screw this up. Dean's life depended on it.

Sam watched the door creak open from his vantage point on the bed. He tilted his head up to check that the handcuffs were in place, concealing his freedom, then swung his eye's back to the door as Dean entered.

"Have fun while I was gone, Sammy?" Meg asked airily as she locked the door behind her.

Sam didn't answer, holding his breath as he watched her progression into the room.

"Cat got your tongue?" Meg moved towards the bed, then stopped suddenly. "What-?!"

Sam followed Meg's gaze upwards until it settled on the Devil's Trap spray painted on the ceiling. Luckily, wherever Meg had gone, she'd left the Impala in the car park, and Sam had had plenty of practice at picking the boots lock.

Meg's eye's flashed back to Sam, suddenly enraged.

"What did you do?" she seethed.

Sam pulled his wrists from the unlocked handcuffs and rolled off the bed, pulling a book from under the mattress.

"I'm gonna send you back to Hell," he said with cold determination, briefly meeting Meg's steely gaze before turning back to find his marked page.

"Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversario adversarii," he began to read, wasting no time.

Meg snarled, Dean's brown eyes flicking to black in an instant.

"You think you're doing Dean a favour?" Meg spat out, "He likes this! He likes hurting you, making you pay for all the things you've done to him."

Sam continued reading, ignoring her.

Meg gasped and shuddered.

"He hate's you! He's sick of you. Should have stayed at Stanford, Sammy. But no, you have to go get your pretty little girlfriend killed, and then jump back into the hunt. You're a curse, Sam. Everyone around you dies and Dean doesn't want to stick around until it's his turn."

Sam faltered but only for a moment.

"Omne phantasma, omne legio," he continued.

Meg screamed, a long bloodcurdling shriek as she dropped to her knees. Lowering her head, Sam heard her muttering under her breath. He paused to listen. It sounded like Latin. The room shook suddenly and Sam braced himself against the bed, a crack suddenly snaking it's way along the ceiling. He jumped back to his reading, speeding up his words but the crack continued, breaking through the outer circle of the pentagram.

Meg burst forth with the speed of a charging bull, plowing into Sam and throwing his backwards, over the bed.

Sam flipped onto his stomach, frantically searching for his place in the exorcism.

"Praecipio tibi," he gasped out.

Meg, crouching over him on the bed, threw her head back and cried out like a wild animal in pain. Sam cringed at hearing Dean's voice scream like that.

"Sed libera-" was as far as he got into the next line before Meg was on him, tearing the book away and wrapping her hands – Dean's hands – around his neck.

Sam gagged, trying to bring in air but there was none. It felt like his throat was about to collapse under the pressure. He stared up into his brother's face, twisted in malice, trying to claw Dean's hands away. Black spots danced in his vision, but he couldn't die, because if he died then Dean was next and he had to save Dean.

In a burst of adrenaline, Sam bucked forward in an impressive head butt that sent Meg back into the side of the bed. He scrambled for the book, managing to reel off a few more lines of the exorcism before Meg leapt on him, dragging him backwards by his hair.

"You know," Meg breathed in his ear, "I think I'm sick of you now."

A sudden explosion of pain under his left collarbone rocked him and Meg dropped him to the ground.

Sam swayed on his knees, unwillingly letting his gaze drop downwards. He knew it was a knife before he saw it. It wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed – kind of came in the job description – and it probably wouldn't be the last. Sam blinked, remembering where he was as he watched the blood spread slowly across his shirt. Actually, maybe it would be the last…

The book was still next to him.

"Sed libera nos a malo. Immundissime spiritus…"

Meg kicked the book away.

Sam just looked up at her, the demon in his brother's body, stunned. He was so close, he'd almost finished it, almost saved them both. Too late now. His vision began to gray at the edges, Dean's face swam in and out.

There was a muffled crash somewhere beyond his eyesight, near the door. Sam couldn't find the energy to wonder what it was. He supposed it was blood loss that made him think he heard Bobby's voice right before he sunk into the darkness.