There's a Part of Me in You - Chapter Fifteen
Master Post
Chapter 15 - Help Me, I Don’t Want To Be Saved
The world swam a little, everything floated gently out of focus. The cold air bit at his chest. It made him shiver. His stomach pulled, sending rippling pain through his chest. He clenched his eyes in agony.
“Dean.” Her voice was quiet, as if she didn’t really want him to hear her.
He moaned as a shiver tugged at the wound. His stomach. The knife. He remembered the gash, and the blood. Castiel was too far away. Dean tried to lift his hand to cover the cut. He couldn’t move his hands; the comfortable pressure of his weapons was gone. No matter how he struggled he couldn’t lift his arms. Chains. Around his wrists. “Sammy,” he whispered. And his jaw ached with the name.
“Hush, Dean. You’re okay.” He turned his head at the voice. Jo was staring at him with worried eyes. She reached up and pushed his eyes closed. “Stay still.” He felt the blanket fold roughly over his wound and fought the cringe that followed.
Her hand was there and then it was gone. Dean was alone in the dark, nothing glowed behind his eyelids. She wasn’t even really… he had imagined her. Sam didn’t keep humans…
Footsteps. People were coming. Demons… Demons were coming.
Something shuffled closer. A hand slipped into his. Dean could feel the warmth of her skin, nearly sighed in relief.
“Is it awake?” The voice was gruff and slurred, reminded Dean of a mean drunk. Her hand clenched his and Dean squeezed back in reassurance.
“No. He isn’t. He talks in his sleep. Leave him alone.” The demon blocked out any light filtering across the room. His hand was cold and wet against Dean’s chin. It turned his head back to the ceiling. The copper tang of blood filled the air and brushed his lips. Dean felt the light within him flare. The hand went limp against his throat before he could even think. Jo flinched as Dean felt its hand slide slickly off his skin.
“Don’t touch him,” she warned. Dean could feel the other demons. They were dark pressure against his mind. They were nothing and yet something. They were inches from him. Hands outstretched to strangle him. “He… wants him… alive.” Her hand vanished from his, he let it fall limp in the cold air.
“We’ll leave him alive, for the most part.” A hand trailed a long Dean’s chest. It grasped the thin blanket and pulled. Dean could feel his skin turning blue in the cold air.
“Don’t touch him.” A warm hand hit his chest, rough and small. The light collected ready to strike. “You saw what he did to your friend. You want to get fried too?”
A low growl filled the room. The darkness lashed out and the slap rang through the still air. Jo caught herself on Dean’s thigh, hands pushing the blanket across his stomach and onto the floor. His whole body tensed before he could stop it.
Nails dug into his leg through his worn jeans. Dean relaxed, rolling his head to the side for emphasis, hoping it didn’t look forced. The blanket was ripped off completely and the air scratched at Dean’s stomach. A low whimper escaped his lips. “Just leave him be… before you get yourself hurt.”
Her grip tightened for a moment longer as the demons walked out. Her hand was on his face in an instant. The heels of her hands pressed unpleasantly at the bruise he could feel on his jaw. He opened his eyes to find her face. Her eyes were hard and her hands, assessing.
“Thank you,” he murmured. Dean could see his breath. Her hands moved away and picked the blanket off the floor. The course fabric scratched at his skin when she covered him up again. She had to suppress her own shiver. Her hand rested protectively on his chest.
Dean groaned at the pressure. He didn’t think he had gotten that beaten up. “Sorry.” Jo pulled her hand away and rested it on his arm. “I forgot about the bruise.” She had a damp cloth in hand and began to wipe the blood off his neck.
“What… what are you doing here?” Dean stammered. His brain felt slow and dull.
“Got snatched from the battle field. He wanted me to stitch you up.” She dried his skin as goose bumps broke out in the cold.
“Jo,” Dean smiled. He groaned softly, feeling the demons shift on the outskirts of his mind. “Why?”
“What? I have no idea.”
“Why would he keep me alive?” Dean focused on her, discovering new bruises all the time. His neck ached.
“Fuck.” Dean laughed. It shouldn’t be funny. He coughed as his head grew light and the strangle hold on his mind tightened. “Great,” he chuckled.
Jo sent him a confused look. “What?”
“Jo, I don’t think Sam’s dead.” Dean sighed.
“How is that…”
“Possible? Lucifer can’t kill him. He’s tried but I don’t think he’s managed to kill him.” Dean felt a heat in his stomach. The skin pulled and his muscles clenched painfully. He shivered a little.
“You mean that was actually Sam?” Cindy was back at his side her, hand resting on his chest.
“No. It was both of them,” Dean grunted.
Jo’s hand rose from his chest. She placed it on his forehead and the cold fingers felt damn good. She pulled the blanket back and stared at the wound. “Shit,” she mumbled.
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His gut was on fire. He groaned and pulled at the chains. “Shush. Dean. I’m going to get something for the pain.”
Why did he feel so cold? Her hand was under his head a moment later, straining the tight bruises on his neck. He whimpered and felt his head slide from his grip. She found it again and pulled Dean’s head and shoulders off the table.
His stomach folded and he groaned. His head was propped up against her stomach and his shoulders rested in her lap. Jo slid under Dean to support him. A cold bottle hit his cracked lips as the chains pulled at his wrists.
Dean felt his mind slip deeper into the fog, felt the sweat beading on his skin. He gasped as the fire spread across his stomach. The bottle was upended for a moment as bitter alcohol burned his throat. He gulped cool whiskey that seemed to quell the fire.
The bottle was pulled away with his mouth still following it. A cool hand slid around his jaw keeping his head against Jo’s stomach. Dean felt the cool air on the inferno of his stomach. He opened his eyes and the bar was blurred around him. Blond hair glowed at the edges of his vision.
The burn intensified. Dean had to get away. He had to stop the pain. A stifled cry escaped him as the chains held him in place and the small hand tightened its hold. His stomach writhed. The bottle was back at his lips and he was drinking.
Dean drank and drank, the never ending burn of alcohol quelling the burn flaring in his stomach. Jo pulled it away and he heard the clink of glass on wood. He whimpered and pressed his head back into her. She ran her hands over his shoulders until he calmed.
She rocked nervously. Dean felt like he was buried in quicksand. The more he fought the further he fell into the darkness. He felt Jo’s tight stomach behind him steadying his shaking body. It took awhile for his mind to process what was happening. “It’s…it’s infected,” he slurred.
Jo just whispered softly to him. “You are going to be ok Dean, I promise.”
“I’m going to die,” Dean realized.
“No… No, I won’t-“
“Finally.” A tear slid down his cheek, a slight smile drawing through the pain.
“What,” she gasped. Her fingers delicately turned his face up.
“I’ve been dead for five years,” Dean muttered. “They just keep bringing me back,” he groaned.
“Dean…” He could imagine the “don’t talk like that” following his name; Jo had inherited her mother’s tone.
“The damn angels. Fuck. I would’ve died with my brother if Castiel would have let me. I… would be at peace, if… wouldn’t have to die over and over just to be brought back,” Dean garbled.
Jo grabbed his face. “Don’t talk like that!” she whispered.
“I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned, clawed, and choked,” Dean gasped. “I died long before that, but that doesn’t seem to matter to them. They don’t care.”
“Dean,” Jo warned. The tears were building in her eyes. Her arms curled around his throat protectively, tears falling from her own cheeks now.
“I died when that bastard killed my brother.”
The whiskey floated through his veins.
Jo slid back, gently laying his shoulders on the oak. His head rested in her lap as she spun with the ceiling above him. Her cold hand rested on his forehead again and she swore under her breath. Everything was going black. “Dean, Dean? Stay with me. Dean?”
His breath hitched. “It’s for the better,” Dean mumbled, eyes drawing closed.
“No,” she cried. Jo pressed her lips to his. It was awkward and upside down but Dean didn’t care. He could feel himself being pulled, the darkness peeling away. He kissed back and she slid her hands gently around his face. Each fingertip felt like silk against his skin. Each second Dean kissed her was one more second his stomach burned, ached, and yet he didn’t want to let her go.
Dean’s tears ran into her hands.
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter 15 - Help Me, I Don’t Want To Be Saved
The world swam a little, everything floated gently out of focus. The cold air bit at his chest. It made him shiver. His stomach pulled, sending rippling pain through his chest. He clenched his eyes in agony.
“Dean.” Her voice was quiet, as if she didn’t really want him to hear her.
He moaned as a shiver tugged at the wound. His stomach. The knife. He remembered the gash, and the blood. Castiel was too far away. Dean tried to lift his hand to cover the cut. He couldn’t move his hands; the comfortable pressure of his weapons was gone. No matter how he struggled he couldn’t lift his arms. Chains. Around his wrists. “Sammy,” he whispered. And his jaw ached with the name.
“Hush, Dean. You’re okay.” He turned his head at the voice. Jo was staring at him with worried eyes. She reached up and pushed his eyes closed. “Stay still.” He felt the blanket fold roughly over his wound and fought the cringe that followed.
Her hand was there and then it was gone. Dean was alone in the dark, nothing glowed behind his eyelids. She wasn’t even really… he had imagined her. Sam didn’t keep humans…
Footsteps. People were coming. Demons… Demons were coming.
Something shuffled closer. A hand slipped into his. Dean could feel the warmth of her skin, nearly sighed in relief.
“Is it awake?” The voice was gruff and slurred, reminded Dean of a mean drunk. Her hand clenched his and Dean squeezed back in reassurance.
“No. He isn’t. He talks in his sleep. Leave him alone.” The demon blocked out any light filtering across the room. His hand was cold and wet against Dean’s chin. It turned his head back to the ceiling. The copper tang of blood filled the air and brushed his lips. Dean felt the light within him flare. The hand went limp against his throat before he could even think. Jo flinched as Dean felt its hand slide slickly off his skin.
“Don’t touch him,” she warned. Dean could feel the other demons. They were dark pressure against his mind. They were nothing and yet something. They were inches from him. Hands outstretched to strangle him. “He… wants him… alive.” Her hand vanished from his, he let it fall limp in the cold air.
“We’ll leave him alive, for the most part.” A hand trailed a long Dean’s chest. It grasped the thin blanket and pulled. Dean could feel his skin turning blue in the cold air.
“Don’t touch him.” A warm hand hit his chest, rough and small. The light collected ready to strike. “You saw what he did to your friend. You want to get fried too?”
A low growl filled the room. The darkness lashed out and the slap rang through the still air. Jo caught herself on Dean’s thigh, hands pushing the blanket across his stomach and onto the floor. His whole body tensed before he could stop it.
Nails dug into his leg through his worn jeans. Dean relaxed, rolling his head to the side for emphasis, hoping it didn’t look forced. The blanket was ripped off completely and the air scratched at Dean’s stomach. A low whimper escaped his lips. “Just leave him be… before you get yourself hurt.”
Her grip tightened for a moment longer as the demons walked out. Her hand was on his face in an instant. The heels of her hands pressed unpleasantly at the bruise he could feel on his jaw. He opened his eyes to find her face. Her eyes were hard and her hands, assessing.
“Thank you,” he murmured. Dean could see his breath. Her hands moved away and picked the blanket off the floor. The course fabric scratched at his skin when she covered him up again. She had to suppress her own shiver. Her hand rested protectively on his chest.
Dean groaned at the pressure. He didn’t think he had gotten that beaten up. “Sorry.” Jo pulled her hand away and rested it on his arm. “I forgot about the bruise.” She had a damp cloth in hand and began to wipe the blood off his neck.
“What… what are you doing here?” Dean stammered. His brain felt slow and dull.
“Got snatched from the battle field. He wanted me to stitch you up.” She dried his skin as goose bumps broke out in the cold.
“Jo,” Dean smiled. He groaned softly, feeling the demons shift on the outskirts of his mind. “Why?”
“What? I have no idea.”
“Why would he keep me alive?” Dean focused on her, discovering new bruises all the time. His neck ached.
“Fuck.” Dean laughed. It shouldn’t be funny. He coughed as his head grew light and the strangle hold on his mind tightened. “Great,” he chuckled.
Jo sent him a confused look. “What?”
“Jo, I don’t think Sam’s dead.” Dean sighed.
“How is that…”
“Possible? Lucifer can’t kill him. He’s tried but I don’t think he’s managed to kill him.” Dean felt a heat in his stomach. The skin pulled and his muscles clenched painfully. He shivered a little.
“You mean that was actually Sam?” Cindy was back at his side her, hand resting on his chest.
“No. It was both of them,” Dean grunted.
Jo’s hand rose from his chest. She placed it on his forehead and the cold fingers felt damn good. She pulled the blanket back and stared at the wound. “Shit,” she mumbled.
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His gut was on fire. He groaned and pulled at the chains. “Shush. Dean. I’m going to get something for the pain.”
Why did he feel so cold? Her hand was under his head a moment later, straining the tight bruises on his neck. He whimpered and felt his head slide from his grip. She found it again and pulled Dean’s head and shoulders off the table.
His stomach folded and he groaned. His head was propped up against her stomach and his shoulders rested in her lap. Jo slid under Dean to support him. A cold bottle hit his cracked lips as the chains pulled at his wrists.
Dean felt his mind slip deeper into the fog, felt the sweat beading on his skin. He gasped as the fire spread across his stomach. The bottle was upended for a moment as bitter alcohol burned his throat. He gulped cool whiskey that seemed to quell the fire.
The bottle was pulled away with his mouth still following it. A cool hand slid around his jaw keeping his head against Jo’s stomach. Dean felt the cool air on the inferno of his stomach. He opened his eyes and the bar was blurred around him. Blond hair glowed at the edges of his vision.
The burn intensified. Dean had to get away. He had to stop the pain. A stifled cry escaped him as the chains held him in place and the small hand tightened its hold. His stomach writhed. The bottle was back at his lips and he was drinking.
Dean drank and drank, the never ending burn of alcohol quelling the burn flaring in his stomach. Jo pulled it away and he heard the clink of glass on wood. He whimpered and pressed his head back into her. She ran her hands over his shoulders until he calmed.
She rocked nervously. Dean felt like he was buried in quicksand. The more he fought the further he fell into the darkness. He felt Jo’s tight stomach behind him steadying his shaking body. It took awhile for his mind to process what was happening. “It’s…it’s infected,” he slurred.
Jo just whispered softly to him. “You are going to be ok Dean, I promise.”
“I’m going to die,” Dean realized.
“No… No, I won’t-“
“Finally.” A tear slid down his cheek, a slight smile drawing through the pain.
“What,” she gasped. Her fingers delicately turned his face up.
“I’ve been dead for five years,” Dean muttered. “They just keep bringing me back,” he groaned.
“Dean…” He could imagine the “don’t talk like that” following his name; Jo had inherited her mother’s tone.
“The damn angels. Fuck. I would’ve died with my brother if Castiel would have let me. I… would be at peace, if… wouldn’t have to die over and over just to be brought back,” Dean garbled.
Jo grabbed his face. “Don’t talk like that!” she whispered.
“I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned, clawed, and choked,” Dean gasped. “I died long before that, but that doesn’t seem to matter to them. They don’t care.”
“Dean,” Jo warned. The tears were building in her eyes. Her arms curled around his throat protectively, tears falling from her own cheeks now.
“I died when that bastard killed my brother.”
The whiskey floated through his veins.
Jo slid back, gently laying his shoulders on the oak. His head rested in her lap as she spun with the ceiling above him. Her cold hand rested on his forehead again and she swore under her breath. Everything was going black. “Dean, Dean? Stay with me. Dean?”
His breath hitched. “It’s for the better,” Dean mumbled, eyes drawing closed.
“No,” she cried. Jo pressed her lips to his. It was awkward and upside down but Dean didn’t care. He could feel himself being pulled, the darkness peeling away. He kissed back and she slid her hands gently around his face. Each fingertip felt like silk against his skin. Each second Dean kissed her was one more second his stomach burned, ached, and yet he didn’t want to let her go.
Dean’s tears ran into her hands.
Chapter Sixteen