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Sam's breaking through. He can see it in Magda's expression, the faint tug of her smile, how there's finally a spark of hope flickering in her dull eyes. He's getting through to her, and he marshals himself to press that advance, because he knows what it's like to believe that you're—that you're tainted, dirty, sinful—that all you do is hurt people—that deep down, at your core, past all the outer layers that look normal, you're evil.
He shuffles a little closer, stretches out a hand. "Magda," he says urgently. "Trust me. We can help you."
She lifts her head, and he sees in her expression a familiar unwillingness to believe. "You can—"
The door to the cellar bangs open and Mrs. Peterson comes clattering down the steps, her reddish curls tumbling over her shoulders. Magda shrinks—physically curls in on herself, collapsing like a hollow paper lantern—as her mother advances on her.
"I told you not to speak with him," says Mrs. Peterson angrily. "He will fill your head with lies. I told you, girl."
"The only one filling her head with lies is you," Sam snaps. "You think she's the Devil? Are you deranged?"
"Enough!" she barks, barely glancing at him. "Magda, did you speak to him? Tell me."
"Y-yes," Magda whispers. "I'm sorry, Mother, I-I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize to her," Sam hisses. The more rational part of him realizes he's probably only going to get himself into more trouble by antagonizing this woman, but the rest of him is too angry to care. Magda's back is sticky with drying blood, her face is layered with tearstains, and her mother is—is smug, is righteously angry, as if she has any idea what right and wrong are.
"I see," Mrs. Peterson says coldly. "Very well. I thought we were finished with our confession but it seems we were not."
Magda flinches and begins to shake her head. On her knees, she inches away from her mother, her head lowered so that her limp hair falls forward, hiding her face. "No," she whimpers. "Mother, no, please—"
"I don't want to have to do this," says Mrs. Peterson, and she's so good that it really sounds true. "I don't want to, but this is the only way to ensure that you aren't completely lost to us." She stoops and picks something up from the ground. It's the whip. Sam yanks on the cuff around his wrist. He registers that his teeth are bared.
Magda takes the whip from her mother's hand. Her fingers are shaking. "P-p-please," she sobs again. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"Enough," says her mother again. She clasps her hands in front of her. "The devil is in you," she intones, "and you must cast him out through your penitence. Through true contrition. Through mortification of the flesh. Do you understand? Do you understand that you must purge yourself of evil?"
"Mrs. Peterson," says Sam desperately. "Don't do this. She's your daughter. Trust me, she's not the Devil, she's just psychic, I used to be the same way, it's not evil, it's just a power—"
Mrs. Peterson tilts her head and surveys him with flat, cool eyes. "If you are like her, then the same evil is in you. And if you've never confessed and been cleansed of your sin, then your soul is lost. But I'll save my daughter's still. I won't let you undo the good work I've done."
"You're not saving anything! You're killing her!" Sam turns to Magda, who is crouching with numb eyes on the ground. "Magda. Do not hurt yourself."
"You don't believe in purification of the body because you are lost," says Mrs. Peterson. "And you—by your arrogance, you have harmed my family irreparably. But there will be a confession tonight. God will have his due." She, too, looks at her daughter. "Magda. Begin. Or I will do it myself."
"Magda, NO. Don't."
Magda lets out a tiny sob and readjusts her grip on the crude device in her hand. She's going to do it, Sam realizes. Her mother's claws are embedded too deeply, her message has burrowed too far into Magda's psyche, the old routine of obedience is too strong. She's going to do it, and Mrs. Peterson, it's clear from the subtle satisfaction on her face, knows this.
"I'll do it," Sam bursts out. His heart is hammering madly in his chest, his vision is distorted by fury, and this is less than a plan, less than the shadow of a plan, but all he knows is that he cannot watch this girl torture herself for her mother's misguided zealotry.
Magda's mother frowns. "You'll do what?"
"I'll do it. I'll confess." Sam yanks on the cuff, rising to his feet. He can't stand completely straight, the shackles aren't long enough for that, but he looks Mrs. Peterson in the eye as he snarls, "You want a confession? You want penance? I've killed far more people than your daughter has. I'll give your God his damn due."
Mrs. Peterson stares at him for a long minute, her expression unreadable. Then she inclines her head slightly. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," she says softly. "I don't care about your soul, but it is God's will that we should love even our enemies, and bring them into His arms when we can."
Yeah, Sam thinks. You haven't seen how God treated his own sister.
Mrs. Peterson nods to Magda. "Give the man the whip, Magda."
Magda hesitates, looking at Sam. She gives a slight, almost imperceptible shake of her head, clutching the whip more tightly, and Sam loves her for it, for her reluctance—this is strength, this is holiness, the kind that Mrs. Peterson could never understand.
"It's okay," he tells her softly. Holds out his hand for the whip. Tries to make her understand with his eyes. "Magda, it's okay."
She bites her lip, but slowly sets the whip down and rolls it across the floor to him.
"On your knees," commands Mrs. Peterson. "Take off your shirt."
Dean would've made some crack about her needing to buy him dinner first, would have given her the kind of cocky grin that looked harmless on the surface but promised all kinds of pain for the future. But Sam's never been able to muster that flippancy, that charade of biting camaraderie with his opponent. So he doesn't bother to try to conceal his hatred, as he kneels slowly on the floor and shrugs out of his layers. Doesn't try to look at Mrs. Peterson with anything other than anger as he reaches for the whip, because what she's done to her daughter? To the person she's supposed to protect, to cherish, to be there for? It's unforgiveable. Because for a child to be told that—that they're unclean, that, that they're evil—for a child to believe that they're unworthy of love—Sam's been there. He's still not back from that edge. And as he lifts the whip, the wooden handle warm against his palm, the knotted ends stiff with dried blood, he despises Magda's mother with every fiber of his being.
"Begin," says Mrs. Peterson.
He looks her dead in the eye and brings the whip up and back.
The impact of the knotted cords stings, a sharp bite of fire against his bare skin.
"Harder," says Magda's mother, her voice cold and angry. But there's a vicious satisfaction in her eyes. She's enjoying this, Sam realizes. He doesn't know if it's out of triumph and the satisfaction of being holier, or just simple sadism, but Mrs. Peterson is enjoying this.
This is all just showmanship, Sam thinks. All the talk about penance, about sin. Maybe she really believes it, but that doesn't change the fact that deep down she also likes the power it gives her, this position of moral superiority, this command over her family.
"Harder!" the woman snaps again, when he doesn't immediately respond. "If you want to make a true confession, you won't shy away from physical pain."
Sam barely avoids rolling his eyes. He lays the whip across his shoulders again, harder this time, with a snap that seems to please Magda's mother. It hurts, yes, but it's a fraction of what he can take—he's guessing that despite her past injury, Mrs. Peterson's experience of pain is fairly limited, and as for Sam—well, what he'd told Toni Bevell was true. He's been tortured by the Devil himself.
He's stalling for time now, he supposes. Dean has to be on his way, so right now all Sam can do is prevent more harm from coming to Magda.
He flogs himself again, trying not to wince. Mrs. Peterson lifts her chin and exhales softly, settling into her stance. "Very good," she says softly. "Again."
Sam keeps his expression level, blank. He can feel a dribble of blood beginning to run down his back, a curiously ticklish sensation. It doesn't hurt, he tells himself. You can take it.
Crack, goes the whip. Magda flinches and makes a soft sound, averting her eyes. "Hush," says her mother softly. "This is very good, child. We bring God's forgiveness with us." She directs her words to Sam. "You'll see soon enough. It's good for you."
It's good for you.
Sam freezes, the whip already coming down. The cords strike his back and this time he jerks, gasping in spite of himself. His vision whites out for a moment and all he sees is Toni, blonde and beautiful in the silk sheets. Was it good for you, Sam? Her smile. Her skin. Her lips. His hands (no not my hands not mine not real no) on her breasts, her nails digging into his shoulders, their bodies moving together.
It wasn't real. It didn't happen.
And yet he can feel her lips on his throat, her hair tickling his face. I didn't want that. But he'd held her afterwards, stroked her hair and smiled, he'd been happy—no, that wasn't you, that was her, she made you—
Was it good for you?
Her fingers, running along his spine.
No. He brings the whip down as hard as he can, relishing the sharp clarity of the pain, the lines of fire that erase the sense memory. And then again, arching his back into the blow, letting the crack of the cords, the sound of his own pained grunt chase away the memory of her voice, of his voice as he'd rolled on top of her, as he'd—
Was it good for you—yes, goddammit, yes it had been good for him, he hadn't had any choice but to enjoy it, the violation of his mind, of his freedom—she'd made him imagine it, she'd made him like it. Nausea claws at his throat.
Again with the whip, and again and again, trying to burrow deeper into the agony of it, trying to stop remembering.
Magda has risen to her knees. "Stop," she implores, to him and then to her mother. "Mother, please. Stop him. I'll do it. I'll confess."
"Shut up," snaps her mother. She's begun to circle Sam, almost prowling, her face alight with pleasure. "You deserve this," she intones. "You allow the Devil to work through you. You must be cleansed."
Sam chokes out a breathless laugh. It's almost funny how accurate her statements are. If only you knew, Mrs. Peterson. If only you knew what the Devil's done through me. He can feel the wet warmth of blood all over his shoulders now. Pull it together, Sam. You're fine. You're fine you're fine.
It didn't even happen. It wasn't even real.
It hurts to breathe; the handle of the whip is slick beneath his fingers. His vision swims. His face is spattered with drops of blood flicked from the tails of the whip, and he can taste it on his lips, hot and metallic. The irony of it makes him grin at the ground even as something like a sob lodges in his throat. Blood in his mouth: the real sin, though the Petersons don't know it. The stigmata by which he, Sam Winchester, was first marked unholy.
"Keep going," Mrs. Peterson is urging, moving even closer, ignoring her daughter's pleading. "You need this, this confession. Can you feel yourself being purified? Does it feel good, being cleansed? Can you—"
She steps too close. Sam drops the whip; in one smooth motion he surges to his feet, grabs her by the arm, and twists, spinning her around and yanking her against his chest. She cries out and fights, and he locks his other arm around her throat—not tight enough to cut off her breathing, just enough to hold her in place. "You need to shut up," he snarls in her ear, because he is done—done—with people hurting him, done with people calling him unclean. Mrs. Peterson and Toni Bevell can rot in Hell together, and he—
"No!"
The cry is from Magda. In essentially the same instant, a bang and a line of white hot fire against the side of Sam's arm send him reeling. Mrs. Peterson wrenches free and whirls on him, gun in hand. His gun. Of course, she has his gun. Stupid, stupid. Sam drops to one knee, hand pressed against the bloody furrow in his arm—a graze, nothing more, but that's about to be the least of his problems.
Mrs. Peterson is out of reach now, the gun lifted, a point-blank shot. "Die, monster," she spits, and pulls the trigger.
The gunshot rings out, and Sam flinches, dropping his gaze to the floor, but the impact never comes. Slowly, he raises his eyes. The bullet hovers in mid-air, quivering slightly, halfway between the gun and his forehead. Mrs. Peterson's mouth slips open, and Sam hears her sharp, ragged intake of breath. The candlelight illuminates the shock on her face.
The bullet drops to the floor with a gentle clink. Sam watches it roll across the cement toward a set of dirt-smeared toes. Magda has risen to her feet, her face thunderous.
"Leave him alone," she whispers, and her voice, though low, roils with power. Sam feels it like an electric current over his skin, a raw fury, a righteousness built on ground more solid than Mrs. Peterson's blind hatred. With it comes a searing surge of determination, a warm desire to protect that makes him draw in a sharp breath of wonder, because even after all this, it seems—even after everything, the torture and the abuse and the trauma—Magda Peterson is good.
Her mother takes a step back, her pinched face drained of color. "Devil," she whispers shakily.
"No," says Magda, wrath in her voice and gaze. "You're the Devil."