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The Rack

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It had Sam’s face. It had the strong brow, the pouty mouth, the sunshine hair. But it didn’t have Sam’s eyes. Instead, there were black empty pits where his eyes should be. The rays of light that came out of those human eyes were gone, the colours that were indescribable but always on the tip of his tongue were gone, the flash of something deeper that wasn’t corporeal but left a physical ache in his chest was gone.

Dean stared into the abyss, and the abyss stared back. Had everything of Sam but the two things that mattered most: no eyes, no soul.

Alastair laughed darkly, his face emerging from beyond Sam’s, skin peeling back to reveal crooked yellow teeth instead of the straight white pearls. Nose distorting from tiny kissable point to a bulbous mass of puss and blood. The eye sockets filled with a dank rotting sludge that was foul and yellow, turning into the gleaming mirthful yellow eyes he had become used to.

Dean could feel his memory of Sam slipping. He could feel the distortions that Alastair put on his soulmate’s face etching into his brain and destroying the purity of his memories. He didn’t remember what Sam’s face looking like anymore. God, he didn’t fucking remember.

Dean wanted to scream and shout and wanted Alastair to cut into him instead of this infernal eternal torment of compromising the one thing that truly mattered. Sam.

He needed off the rack.