Sam - Part 1/3
Master Post
part one
2014… Dean thinks as he steps out on the cabin’s front porch. Takes a look at a world that’s not his. Not anymore. Out here in the woods, though, it doesn’t look all that different from ‘09.
He sits down on the wooden steps with a cold bottle of beer in his hand. Things feel almost normal. If it weren’t for the strange vibe in the air, he’d think he’s on vacation. Some suck-ass vacation, yes. Because he’d prefer a 60” screen, a waterbed and room service for his holiday. He’s had enough of that backwoods, survival kind of vacation as a kid, but still… Some people are said to be into this. But the men, women and children who Dean watches walking in and out of their cottages aren’t overpaid, frustrated families leaving their white picket fence for the harmless thrill of pseudo wilderness. They are soldiers. Wannabes, mostly, he figures. But soldiers nonetheless.
They are leading a life that is not theirs to live. In for a death that’s not theirs to die.
He sighs, takes a drink. On the gravel road a few yards down, a shaggy haired boy hands his father a machine gun. Kid can’t be more than nine. The liquor burns like gasoline in Dean’s throat. He grits his teeth against the pain. Then he takes one more drink.
‘Hey,’ someone says.
Dean looks up, spots Castiel walking up to him. He is smiling, but it’s a little of kilter. His eyes are glazed over. Dean spots a glowing stub between Cas fingers that smells suspiciously of dope.
Cas’ fist bumps his shoulder in greeting and he sits down a couple steps above him. Dean twists around in time to see Cas bring the joint to his lips. He frowns and Castiel cocks his eyebrows, exhales, then holds the stub out.
‘Want some?’
Dean blinks, taken aback by the image of his stuck-up-angel buddy as a stoner, and shakes his head no.
‘More for me, then,’ Cas says and takes another drag.
‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready to leave?’
‘I am.’ Cas grins , blows a ring of smoke through pursed lips, then asks, ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Still trying to wrap my head around all this, I guess,’ he says, waving a hand in a wide sweep at the summer camp turned military base.
Cas nods. ‘What about now-you?’
‘What about him?’
‘You think he is okay with you being out here?’
‘Well, the cat’s outta the bag, isn’t it?’ Dean doubts that there is much point in hiding any more. Word about him had probably long made the rounds. ‘Besides, he… I… whatever, went up to his room. Said he wanted to get some rest. You know… to get ready for high noon.’ Dean shakes his head, giving a bitter chuckle. ‘I don’t get how he can sleep at a time like this.’
‘What makes you think he can?’ Cas asks, glancing at him sideways.
‘What?’
‘You said you couldn’t and essentially, he is you.’
Dean exhales slowly and takes a sip from his beer. ‘He is different to me.’
‘Nah,’ Cas says, tilting his head contemplatively. ‘Not all that much.’
‘Right,’ Dean scoffs, kicks at a pebble on the ground. ‘He is torturing again, man,’ he says. ‘I swore I would never…’ Castiel’s laughter breaks him off mid-sentence. He looks up, brows furrowed half way between annoyed and confused.
When Castiel has finally calmed down, he says, ‘You know, Dean, he once said the exact same thing.’
Dean clenches his jaw. Friggin’ time paradox. He sighs, lifts his shoulders and turns his palm upside in question. ‘Then why?’
Castiel straightens up, flicks the roach of his joint off into the distance. He turns and glances at Dean. And suddenly he looks like Dean remembers him. Somber and serene. ‘Why are you here, Dean? Why are you not with your brother?’
Dean blinks, taken aback. He’s here, he thinks, because he has no choice.
He has no choice.
‘Goddamn,’ he mutters and chafes a hand over his face.
Behind him, Cas stands up. Dean can hear him dust off his pants and descend the few steps until he is standing next to him. A hand falls onto his shoulders.
‘Take care of yourself, Dean.’
---
Dean looks up the ladder that leads to the second floor of the cabin. Climbing up there looks about as inviting as climbing the Everest without any gear. He could just leave it be; probably would on any other given day. But today something drags him forward. Maybe it’s because he knows this’ll be over soon, anyway. Maybe it’s because he’s all that He’s got left.
‘God, I friggin’ hate this shit,’ he says under his breath, wraps his hand around the iron rail and takes the first step.
---
The second floor is a single, vast room. It’s empty, save for an old, unlit fireplace, an old, tiny closet, one table and a single chair. The worn-down furniture looks depressingly lost among the cluttered books and maps. He steps onto the floorboards, turns to look at the rest of the room. Two beds behind him, standing side by side, and suddenly it feels like the walls are closing in on him. He shoots a hand out. Closes it around the wooden railing until the nausea stops and the suffocating wave of claustrophobia has ebbed away.
Dean is sitting on the bed closest to the entry, eyes narrowing in on him. He’s shirtless with a first aid kit lying open next to Him. ‘Dude,’ He asks, tensing up. ‘What are you doing here?’
It’s a scene too familiar. For a moment Dean has a strange, dissociated feeling, like he’s in the wrong body. He shoves it down, along with the tremor in his voice and says, ‘I was looking for a beer.’ He gives a crooked smirk as he walks further into the room.
‘Very funny.’
‘What are you doing?’ Dean motions at the needle and gauze in His hand. There is a bloody towel lying across His lap. On the floor between His feet stands a bottle of hard liquor.
‘What does it look like?’ Dean grits.
Dean rolls his eyes and sits down on the empty bed, facing Him. ‘Let me see,’ he says.
But Dean makes no move to show him anything. Simply says, ‘Just a little mishap with our informant. I’m fine.’ It comes out on a clipped breath, belying the casualness of His words. Dean cocks an eyebrow and glances at the hand holding the needle. It’s shaking.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You look just peachy.’
‘Geez,’ Dean huffs, ‘I can’t remember ever being such a bitch.’
‘Well, I sure turned into one,’ Dean retorts. ‘Now, you want some help or do you actually get off on hurting yourself even more?’
Dean glares at him, more out of principle, Dean figures. He scoots forward, straightens up and lifts His left arm and finally bares the scars on His body. There are a lot. Dean knows that, knows some from his own body, already. Others he doesn’t. No big deal, though. Mostly they’re no different to the old ones, just more of the same. It’s the nasty, ragged scar of a burn that catches his eye. Spanning nearly the whole of His left ribcage, expanding even to His back, Dean recognizes it as a handprint like the one they share on their left shoulders. But this one too, is old; already healed.
It doesn’t stop him from looking up, every intention to ask what happened. What does stop Dean though, is the look on His face. It’s an expression he knows. The one that says don’t ask, don’t make a big deal out of it. He knows there’s more of a plea than a demand to it. He knows what it’s like when someone forces the issue, anyway. So he doesn’t ask.
Instead he focuses on the injury above. A gash oozing blood in tiny rivulets over the ragged flesh of the burn. The cut is several inches in length; just a couple inches shy of His armpit, but doesn’t seem too deep. Dean can tell the injury isn’t life-threatening. It looks nasty nonetheless and sure as hell damn painful. And it had already been stitched up at least once before.
He glances up at Him, holds out his hand for the needle. ‘Stitching looks crappy, no wonder it blew. You did it the first time around by yourself, too?’
‘Well, not like there’s anyone to do it for me,’ He says and hands him the gear.
Dean takes them, flicks open a lighter and heats the needle up to sterilize it. ‘What about Cas?’ He asks. When he doesn’t get an immediate answer, he glances up. Comes face to face with a pair of eyebrows raised in disbelief.
‘You saw him, man,’ Dean says and leans back. He holds His arm out from His body as much as He can to give Dean better access. ‘Cas is stoned out of his mind most days. Don’t want him patching a shirt, much less my ass. Not if it’s not absolutely necessary.’
‘But he’s sober enough for you to take him on a mission?’ Dean asks, eyebrows raised. He doesn’t get an answer. With a sigh, he pushes the needle into flesh. ‘What about everyone else? No one around who used to be a doctor?’
‘We got one or two with medical training,’ Dean says, hissing as the first stitch is pulled through His skin. ‘But the people around here have seen enough.’
‘Seen enough?’ Dean laughs. ‘You shot that guy in front of their eyes and said it was normal.’
Dean watches him silently for a moment. Then He averts His eyes and says, ‘That was different.’
‘How?’
‘Come on, you know how,’ Dean says.
And yeah, he probably does. Or can take a good guess at least. Blood and tears isn’t what hope is made of. Smoking barrels and answers are.
‘I just don’t have a choice, anymore,’ He says.
Resignedly, Dean shakes his head. For the next few minutes, the sound of needle piercing through flesh is the only sound around them. It’s a sound too familiar and the bringer of unwelcome memories.
‘Speaking of choices,’ Dean says, smoothing out a bandage over the fresh stitches.
Dean curls up on His side and glances at him with mild curiosity.
‘Wanna tell me how we got back to torturing?’
For a moment, Dean thinks he is not going to get an answer. Dean closes His eyes and averts His face. But then He exhales wearily and says, ‘Hand me the whiskey, first.’
---
The thermometer reads 104° when Dean takes it out of his mouth and he groans in annoyance.
‘If you had rested when it still was just a bug you would have kicked it long ago,’ Lauryn says and changes the wet cloth on his forehead.
The cold comes as a shock and he flinches, the sudden movement shooting agonizing sparks through his joints. ‘Jesus’, he gasps and scrunches his eyes shut.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I just…‘
He glances at her, at the lines of worry etched on her face; they’re too deep for a girl her age. He remembers her talking to him. Little bits and pieces that filtered through his fever hazes. Stuff about picking her prom dress, about her boyfriend David.
Dean knows he’s dead, has been for nearly six months, now. Lauryn and her little sister Emma had showed up at Camp Chitaqua shortly after.
‘Do you think they’ll get her back?’ she asks.
‘Of course,’ he says and tries for a smile but it comes out crooked, no matter how hard he tries.
She smiles back, but it’s a sad smile that he knows only too well and a fist clenches around his heart. Memories resurface, of countless motel rooms and lonely nights and days when a little boy Dean once knew would still ask ’What’ and ’How long’ and he would answer ’Nothing’ and ’Soon’, even though they both knew their Dad would turn his own and Dean’s promises into lies in the end.
It’s a smile out of gratitude for his efforts, rather than belief in his words.
Back then, he was a kid and couldn’t do a damn thing to make that smile become real. But that’s not an excuse he can use now, not anymore.
He tries to sit up, but small hands on his shoulders push him back down into the mattress.
‘No,’ she says sternly, as if he is a sulky toddler. ‘You gotta keep resting. Your fever only just broke.’
‘My sheets are soaked. It’s friggin’ gross,’ he says. ‘And I gotta use the bathroom.’ It’s not even a lie as his bladder throbs insistently.
When she holds out a pot, he shakes his head, black spots dance in his vision, but he still manages to croak out a fairly decent, ‘Hell, no.’
‘You used it before,’ she tells him, calmly.
‘Yeah, but now I’m back to being aware of what I’m doing. So, no pot.’ He would rather wet his bed than use that thing and the sheets are now soaked to the point where it wouldn’t even make a difference.
‘Alright, fine,’ she gives in with a sigh. ‘But promise you will take it easy, okay?’ she says and helps him up. ‘The world’s not going to fall apart just yet without you to boss us around here.’
The world did just fine in falling apart when he was around but he smirks, anyway, if just to humor her. The truth is he has no idea why people keep flocking around him.
Climbing down the ladder turns out to be a bitch. It takes him forever and by the time Dean reaches the bathroom, he’s seeing stars. He must have swayed on his feet, because Lauryn almost doesn’t let him go inside on his own.
But he puts his foot down.
‘I’ll be right outside. Call if you need anything,’ she says. ‘I mean it.’
He has to refrain from slamming the door in her face. It is not her fault, though, he just hates this, hates that he has to take a piss sitting down in his own home. But it gets better after that, his circulation is kicking in now that he’s upright.
He’s eyeing the shower when he hears the sound of engines and tires on gravel. They’re back.
‘Emma!’ Lauryn shouts. The next second Dean hears her clamber out the front door.
There’s a pair of jeans and a shirt on the cabinet. The shirt is stained with God knows what. It’s probably blood and he hopes it’s his own. It’s not Croats’ blood, though; he would have burned those clothes on the scene. It’s one of the camp’s rules. So far he is the only one who had ever needed to follow it.
He throws the clothes on and hurries after Lauryn.
Outside, he leans against the porch banister and watches Cas, Bobby and five other hunters get out of the two jeeps. Of the five, Janice is the one who has managed to stay around and alive the longest. The other faces change monthly, some of them even weekly. He spots Kyle and Carl, twins with red hair and an attitude who have been with them for barely three weeks. If the pale color of their skin and the shocked look on their faces is any indication, it wasn’t just their first, but also their last mission. Then there is Big Tony who doesn’t talk much and gets out of breath easily, but knows a friggin’ shitload about traps and explosives. He’s also a mean driver, which comes in handy these days, when most of the roads are blocked and Croats are on your ass.
From behind the wheel of the second jeep climbs Eugene. He’s gangly and a little goofy looking, with big glasses and hair sticking from his head in every direction. Dean would’ve pegged him for a geek if he’d met him before the apocalypse. When he showed up around here and asked to tag along on missions, Dean gave him a month. He’s been around for two and a half now and the guy keeps coming up swinging. Dean can appreciate that, even if he can’t help mocking the guy from time to time.
They all climb out of the cars, one after another, but Lauryn’s little sister is not with them.
Janice grabs her around the shoulders and holds her back from looking into each car. Lauryn turns to her and Janice shakes her head.
‘Fuck,’ Dean mutters under his breath. He watches Lauryn fall to her knees on the gravel, he hears her crying and calling for her sister. Janice sinks down with her and pulls her close.
Dean’s fingers clench around the banister, hating his inability to do anything for her. Hell, these days he can’t seem to do anything for anybody.
Bobby calling, ‘Watch out,’ drags Dean’s attention from the girls back to the jeeps. Cas, the twins and Eugene are manhandling someone else out of one of trunks. It’s a guy in a suit, with his hands tied up behind his back and his head covered by a bag. There’s a devil’s trap on it.
They caught a demon.
He takes a deep breath against the nausea sloshing in his gut and straightens up. ‘Hey,’ he calls. They all stop dead in their movements before seven surprised faces turn towards him. He braces himself against the vertigo and goes to catch up with them.
‘What the hell are you doing on your feet, boy?’ Bobby asks.
Dean shoots him a glance, but doesn’t answer. Instead he nods at the hooded man. ‘Why did you bring a demon here?’
They don’t do that. There’s too much risk of the thing being infected with the virus.
‘For questioning,’ Kyle grits and his brother adds, ‘The fucker killed Alice and Henry.’
‘We think he knows where Emma is,’ Eugene says.
‘Mhh, yeah…’ The demon says, his words muffled by the hood. ‘She was such a cute little bitch.’
The words have barely left his mouth when Lauryn comes charging at him. With her fists flying she attacks the demon, hitting it square in the gut and they almost lose hold of it.
Dean grabs one of her arms and tries to pull her back, but a flailing elbow hits him in the stomach. He grunts, doubles over and gasping for breath, he shouts, ‘Somebody get her away from here!’
Janice finally gets her arms around Lauryn but she keeps kicking and screaming, trying her best to break free of the hold as Janice drags her away. Even when they’re out of sight, Dean can still hear her screams, the image of her tear stained face burned into his retinas.
He straightens up, looks at the demon then turns to Castiel. ‘Get him in my cabin.’
‘Dean…’ Bobby says.
‘Now.’
Maybe he can do something after all.
---
Big Tony and the twins strap the demon to a chair in the middle of the cottage. Castiel is drawing a devil’s trap around them. Dean sits on the big table that they pushed against the wall to make room and watches them. He plucks at his shirt. It’s soaked with sweat, clinging uncomfortably against his skin. He feels too hot and the dizziness makes his head swim. He lets it fall back against the wall, closes his eyes and tries to ignore the profanities the demon is sprouting.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been in this position when someone calls his name. He blinks one eye open. Eugene is standing in front of him, the duffle Dean had Eugene get for him in his hand.
‘Do I want to know why you have a bag like this?’ Eugene asks and dumps it next to Dean on the table. The tools inside clunk heavily on impact.
‘Probably not,’ Dean says and pulls it closer. It’s heavier than he remembers it to be when he had stashed it in the deepest corner of his closet.
‘I took the liberty to fill up the canisters with holy water and salt,’ Eugene says. ‘I assumed that’s what they were for.’
Dean nods.
‘Dean,’ Bobby says. ‘Can I have a word?’
Eugene glances back and forth between them and at Dean’s nod he leaves.
Dean sighs and turns to Bobby.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Bobby asks.
Dean frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘This,’ Bobby says and motions at his tools. ‘You should be in bed.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You look like death warmed over. What’s your temperature? 103?’
Dean averts his eyes. ‘Something like that.’
‘Damn it, boy.’
‘Look,’ he starts, taking a deep breath. ‘I’m sick of lying in bed all day. Besides, you guys need me for this.’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘What?’
‘We can squeeze a little information out of the son of a bitch by ourselves.’
‘Yeah? And how long is that going to take?’
This time it’s Bobby who averts his eyes.
‘You need my help,’ Dean repeats.
Bobby sighs and glances back at him. ‘You sure that’s all this is about?’
Dean frowns. ‘What else would it be about?’
‘Well, you know… Lauryn and Emma… maybe it’s all hitting a little closer to home than you want to admit.’
Dean blinks, then sets his jaw. ‘No.’
Bobby watches him. His eyes prickle on Dean’s skin like hot pokers. He tenses involuntary, but manages to hold Bobby’s gaze.
Eventually, Bobby says, ‘Fine.’ The expression on his face doesn’t waver, but he tosses a small package at him. Antibiotics, Dean realizes as he picks it up. The really good stuff, too. Hard to come by, these days.
‘Take them, for Christ’s sake,’ Bobby snaps. ‘Don’t even think about stashing them for someone else.’
‘I didn’t…’
‘You did. I know you, boy.’
Dean nods, and smiles faintly. ‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says, then adds, ‘Idjit.’ He sets a gallon of holy water on the table and waits for Dean to take one of the pills before he gives a satisfied nod.
A moment later Castiel announces that they’re done.
‘Alright,’ Dean says and takes a deep breath. ‘Everybody out.’
‘What? No way,’ Carl says.
‘Yeah, we wanna help you,’ Kyle chimes in.
‘Trust me, you don’t want that,’ Dean says and rolls his tools out. Knives and pins and variations there of, made of silver and iron. Syringes and cords. Salt. Chants and exorcisms. Crosses and holy wood.
His imagination.
‘But we’re the ones who caught him! We have a right…’ the twins start to protest. They watch the instruments with a hunger that stems from too many movies, not enough reality. Dean grits his teeth and braces himself on the table. ‘Cas, get them out of here.’
Dean can feel his blood starting to boil in his veins as the adrenaline takes over his feverish body. Anticipation he long thought forgotten sends an itch to his fingers. He closes his eyes against it, feels the beginning of a dull, throbbing headache at his temples. His jaw hurts and he realizes he has been clenching it nearly the whole time since the troop returned.
Finally, he hears the front door slam shut and the place falls quiet. He exhales slowly and opens his eyes.
‘Alone at last,’ the demon says. ‘Dean Winchester. I heard a lot about you.’
Dean turns around and sits down on the edge of the table. ‘Yeah? Well, I have no friggin’ clue who you are and frankly I don’t care. Just tell me where you took the little girl.’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ the demon laughs. ‘I expected a bit more ferocity from Alastair’s favorite student.’
‘So you’re one of those, huh?’ Dean asks.
‘One of who?’
‘One of the sick fucks who get off on this shit.’
‘Maybe,’ it says. ‘But you’re no different.’
‘I’m nothing like you,’ he snarls.
‘No? So, you won’t hit me, if I tell you I’m walking around in the body of Matthew Peters, age 31, veterinarian? You won’t burn me if I tell you he’s a loving father of a girl and a boy? You won’t kill his meatsuit when I tell you I didn’t cause him any harm?’
Dean’s vision starts to blur. He rubs a hand over his face and grits his teeth. ‘You’re lying.’
‘Keep telling yourself that,’ the demon says. ‘If that makes it easier for you.’ Dean can hear the smirk in his voice.
There’s a book with exorcisms among his stuff and he wonders if he should blow this off. Peters might know where Emma is. If he really is still alive.
Before he comes to a decision, the front door flies open. The force sends it smack against the wall, before it slams back shut. Lauryn’s standing in the room, breathing heavily. ‘Did he talk already?’
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Dean says, at the same time as Matt says, ‘Honey, we haven’t even started, yet.’
‘Why not?’She glares at Dean. He opens his mouth to reply, but the demon beats him to it.
‘Because,’ he says, ‘Your tough leader here, is actually a big coward. He would much rather exorcise me and save this guy, than your little sister.’
Lauryn’s eyes widen in shock. She snaps around to him. ‘Tell me that’s not true.’
‘Lauryn…’ Dean starts, but she cuts him off by getting right into his face.
‘Don’t Lauryn me,’ she snaps, ‘My baby sister is out there somewhere, Dean. And she’s alone and scared and I…’ She cuts herself off. Dean watches her jaw work. Watches her wipe a hand angrily over her reddened eyes, before she reaches past him and picks up a knife.
‘I’ll just do it myself,’ she says, turning towards the demon. Her face has darkened, gained an edge to it. She’s about to lose the last of her innocence. Dean feels something in him shift and crack. He can’t let her do that.
Gently, he takes the knife from her hand. ‘No, you won’t.’
‘But I…’
‘You’re not that girl, Lauryn.’
‘I’m not?’ she asks. The anger falls from her face, leaving her looking incredibly young. ‘It’s my fault she got kidnapped.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘I never should have allowed her to come along on that trip. Even if it was just for supplies.’
‘Well, I never should have let the both of you come along. So if you wanna blame somebody, blame me,’ he says.
She glances up at him. ‘I just want my sister back.’
‘I know.’ He lays a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly.
‘You done?’ the demon calls. ‘I’m getting bored back here.’
Dean’s jaw locks. He takes a deep breath then nods at the door. ‘Go.’
She glances back and forth between him and the demon, before she reluctantly walks to the door. She shoots him a last look. Dean nods and Lauryn leaves. He locks the door behind her, leans against the cold wood for a moment, letting the chill of it sooth his feverish skin.
Then he pulls the hood off the demon’s head.
‘Finally getting serious, are we?’ it says.
Matthew Peters’ face looks up at Dean. The guy looks disheveled. An unruly mop of curly dark hair, bangs matted to his forehead, falling slightly over smart eyes. When the demon makes Matt smirk, the guy even has dimples.
Dean swallows past a lump forming in his throat, then grabs a bucket of holy water. ‘If you’re still in there, Matthew, I’m sorry,’ he says.
Steeling himself with grim determination, Dean empties the bucket over Matt. The demon starts screaming at the burn. Much too soon the it turns into laughter. ‘You gotta do better than that, man. Get creative.’
‘I’ll get there,’ Dean says and picks up an iron chain. ‘In the meantime, how about you tell me why you kidnapped the little girl in the first place?’
‘You know,’ Matt says, ‘Just ‘cause.’ But his cockiness is slipping. Pleased, Dean watches the frown form on the demon’s forehead as he steps closer to him, slinging the chain in rounds like a noose.
‘Just cause, huh? See, why don’t I believe you?’ He asks and throws the noose over the demon’s head, slowly pulling it tight and tighter. It doesn’t take long before Matt’s arching against the burn on his neck. Dean watches for a moment. Just lets the pain course through the demon’s body.
When Matt has regained some of his control, Dean asks, ‘Wanna try that again?’
‘Fuck you,’ he spits.
Dean picks up a handful of salt and shoves it between Matt’s lips. ‘Having fun, yet?’
The demon coughs once, twice, then stretches his lips into a smirk and nods. Dean repeats the action until the demon is a sputtering mess. A trickle of blood is running from the corner of Matt’s mouth.
‘Alright,’ he gasps, ‘The girl is… she’s dead’.
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not.’
Dean picks up iron pins and forces them into the demons left arm. Matt… It … Someone, screams and shouts in pain, writhing desperately on the chair. ‘Tell me where she is.’
‘Rotting in a ditch!’
‘Shut up!’ Dean shouts, grabbing the knife. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s dead!’
He rams the knife between Matt’s ribs. ‘Tell the truth!’
The demon’s face distorts in pain. He’s still not opening his mouth, yet. Dean slowly pulls the knife back out. He has just set it to the demon’s throat when it mumbles, ‘Stop.’
Dean flicks at one of the pins in his arms. ‘Sorry, what was that?’
‘Wait, please,’ Matt gasps. ‘We wanted her for infiltration, okay?’
‘Infiltration?’
‘Yes. We infected her and we’re going to send her back here.’
‘And you think we wouldn’t be suspicious?’
‘What? You think we’d plant her right under your nose, Dean? Before any of you get around to shooting that sweet little girl, she’d have infected enough of your naïve survivors to wipe the rest of the camp out.’
Dean stabs the knife into his abdomen and twists. The demon screams.
‘Where is she right now and when will she be here?’ He asks.
‘I don’t know.’
Dean twists the knife again.
‘Shit. Tomorrow, alright? But I don’t know where she is right now,’ the demon gasps. Matt is panting harshly. ‘That’s all I know, I swear. Just exorcise me, okay?’
‘You wish!’ Dean cuts his throat. A spray of blood showers over him. He stumbles back, blinking and rubbing at his face, but it only gets worse. In front of him Matt’s eyes fill with clarity, with life. They lock on Dean, confused and filled with terror. He stutters, gurgles up blood. Only then he dies.
‘Shit,’ Dean breathes and falls into a chair. His breathing is labored. He tries to catch his breath, but it doesn’t work. His fever has spiked again, making his head throb violently. His face feels like it’s on fire. There’s still a bottle of holy water on the table and he downs it with a few quick chugs. It barely helps.
By the time the door opens he doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting hunched over the table. Torture tools stare up at him, mocking him.
‘Dean?’ It’s Castiel. ‘Bobby got worried when we couldn’t hear anything anymore. Is everything…’
Dean can tell the moment Castiel’s eyes fall on the mutilated body. ‘Oh,’ he says.
‘I think I need some help, Cas,’ Dean says. His legs don’t feel like they’re going to support him anytime soon.
‘Of course.’ Cas rounds the dead body. Matthew Peters, Dean makes himself remember. ‘What do you want me to do?’ Cas asks.
‘Gotta get this shirt off,’ he mutters. It is starting to stick to his skin. Bile is rising in his throat.
‘Did you get any blood in your mouth?’ Castiel asks, unmoving. ‘Or an injury?’
Dean shakes his head. ‘No, I swear, man. Now, help me get the fucking shirt off.’
Cas grips the hem of his shirt and Dean lifts his arms, barely able to keep them up over his head. The blood sodden fabric rubs and clings to his face as Cas pulls it off. When it is gone, Dean slumps forward, dry heaves and spits on the grounds.
‘So?’ Cas asks. ‘What did you find out?’
---
‘Did you… we… kill the girl?’
Dean shakes his head. ‘Lauryn did.’
‘What?!’
‘Emma was her sister. She asked to do it.’
‘Where’s Lauryn now?’ Dean asks. Dean is quiet. Then He says, ‘She hanged herself two days later.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I know,’ He sighs and closes His eyes. ‘That day I swore I was done just defending. So, I took the fight to them.’
The room falls quiet around them.
Dean takes a look at Him, curled up on the bed. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on His face. A stray drop runs down the haggard features. He’s all hard lines and sharp cuts. There’s an edge to Him that reminds Dean of their father. He remembers a time when he would have killed to be like that. Now that he’s face to face with it, he finds it doesn’t make him look tough. It just make him look weary, broken.
‘You’re skinny,’ he says quietly.
‘You’re fat,’ Dean retorts without even opening an eye. But there’s a smirk playing over His lips.
Dean chuckles. ‘No love lost between us, huh?’
‘Guess not,’ He says, His smirk fading.
‘Why?’ Dean asks, not expecting an answer. He doesn’t get one, anyway. Doubts he’d even want one.
But he reaches out, can’t help himself. The situation still too surreal even after everything he’s already seen. He tentatively strokes a thumb over the rise and fall of His ribs. Dean flinches at the contact. His eyes snap wide open, startled and defensive but Dean meets His gaze and holds it. Just like he keeps his hand pressed gently against His chest. After a moment, Dean relaxes and His eyes slip shut again.
Dean ghosts his fingers over the gauze. It seems to get Dean back into the here and now. He twists His head and follows his fingers with His eyes. ‘Was it really just… a little mishap?’
Dean sighs. Then He slowly shakes His head.
---
Dean shoves the demon forward by the shoulder. It stumbles, blindly, a demon warding bag over his head. He had gagged and blindfolded it, too, for good measure. And just ‘cause.
‘Move it,’ he shouts and kicks it in the back of its knees. It loses its balance and falls forward. The rope around its hands prevents it from breaking the fall. Dean watches with grim satisfaction as it crashes face first down the stairs to the interrogation room.
It used to be a storm bunker, spacey enough to accommodate the average amount of people at the camp. Bobby and some of the more hardened men set the room furthest at the back up for him. Covered the walls with iron plates, drew all kinds of symbols on them. Painted huge devil’s traps on the ground and the ceiling. He has hooks and shelves for every tool he possesses.
They even found him an electric chair and set it up in the middle of the trap like a throne. In one corner he has a whole barrel full of holy water. It’s flanked by huge sacks full of rock salt.
‘Little help here?’ Dean calls over his shoulder. Cas sighs and raises from his spot on the stairs leading into the bunker.
Satisfied when he sees him move, Dean heads down the short flight of stairs into the interrogation room and grabs the demon by the collar of its shirt.
‘You know, I don’t get why you still drag me along to this,’ Cas says, appearing in the door way. ‘You’re doing just fine on your own.’
‘’Cause your company is always so delightful,’ Dean deadpans. He pushes the demon into the chair. Together with Cas, he fastens the restraints.
‘You don’t have to do this, Dean. No one is forcing you.’
Of course not. But they don’t make him stop doing it either. ‘Whatever. It’s the last one, anyway.’
‘You said that last time. And the time before that. What makes you think this time is different?’
‘He knows where the Devil is.’
‘If that is indeed the case, it still doesn’t mean he’s going to tell you.’
‘Oh, I will make him tell me.’
‘If he doesn’t die first.’
‘Well, I just won’t let him die, then.’
‘You said that before, too.’
Dean plucks the joint from Castiel’s lips and takes a drag. ‘Whatever. Just get your ass out of here.’
‘Always a pleasure,’ Cas says and takes the joint back from him. Dean watches him leave. The door to the bunker slams shut and he is left alone.
For a while Dean just leans against the table with his tools. Watches and lets the demon stew in his juices, while he considers how best to go about this.
When the demon starts shifting restlessly in his seat, straining against his restrains, Dean lifts the hood off of his face.
‘Hey, there,’ he says. ‘It’s Stan, isn’t it?’ He unties the blindfold. ‘Or at least it used to be.’
Stan glares at him. Grunts against the gag in his mouth. A pair of dirty socks, the stench of which must be tickling his nose uncomfortably.
Dean grins. ‘No, I’m sure it’s Stan. You know, I have a little trouble with remembering names, lately, but yours sounds familiar.’ Then he glances down at the table, flutters over the tools, before he looks up again and says, ‘I don’t like it.’
He rams an iron pin into Stan’s shoulder. Stan screams into the gag as he writhes against the burn.
‘Guess, you didn’t like that, much, either?’ Dean asks. ‘So, I don’t wanna be here, you don’t wanna be here. How about we end this quickly, huh?’
He pulls the gag from his mouth, and says. ‘Just tell me where Lucifer is.’
Stan coughs and spits at his feet. ‘Screw you.’
Dean shoves the socks back into this mouth and picks up a drill. ‘Wrong answer.’
He can still hear his screams, despite gag and the roaring sound of the drill. He loses track of how many screws he forces into Stan’s arms and hands. It’s not even all about information any more. It’s the thought of this guy being near Lucifer that bugs him. That this sick piece of shit gets to see a face that he has long lost the right to look at.
When he runs out of screws there’s too much blood to tell where Stan’s arms end and the chair begins. The demon has lost consciousness. The silence feels oddly disturbing.
He tosses the drill onto a table to his right and fills a bucket with holy water. Then he rounds the chair and empties it over Stan. Gasping and screaming, he comes back to consciousness.
‘Let’s try again. Where is he?’
‘Why the hell would I tell you? I’m gonna die either way.’
‘True,’ Dean says, injecting a saline solution into his arm. ‘It’s the how, that’s still up for debate.’
Stan grits his teeth. ‘Maybe I like this.’
‘Well, then…’ Dean trails off. He forces Stan’s mouth wide open, says ‘Have some more,’ and dumps two pounds of salt in it. Stan’s eyes roll into the back of his head.
‘Having fun?’ he asks.
Stan hunches forward, vomits salt and spit and blood and teeth.
‘Shit,’ he croaks.
‘Figured,’ Dean says, picks up a knife and holds it out for Stan to see. ‘We can stop right here. Just tell me where Lucifer is.’
‘No.’
Dean shoves the knife slowly into his gut. ‘Why are you making this so hard on yourself?’
Stan chuckles. ‘It’s worth it.’
‘What?’
‘You,’ Stan says, glancing up at him from bloodshot eyes. Scarlet foam frames engorged lips that pull into a weak smirk. ‘And the way you talk, like this means nothing to you. Just… chopping up a steak.’
‘And you think it’s funny?’
‘Hell yeah.’
‘Why?’ he asks, confused.
‘Because you’re trying to convince yourself of it as much as me.’
‘You saying I’m just acting?’
‘I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You’re worthless. You couldn’t stop the apocalypse. You couldn’t save your brother and deep down you know that even now, you still won’t be able to kill Lucifer.’
‘Shut up!’
He charges forward, knife in hand, when the demon suddenly rips one of his restraints, grabs his outstretched arm and twists it. Dean almost impales himself. He feels the knife cut into his side, pain shooting up in his shoulder and left arm.
He staggers backwards and the demon lets go of his hand, starts working on his other restraint.
Dean stabs the knife through his hand and pins it to the wrist underneath.
‘Fucker,’ he gasps, pressing a hand against the cut on his left side. It’s bleeding angrily, but it’s not too deep.
The demon bucks up in the chair, yelling out his frustration about the failed escape.
Dean gasps, and stumbles over to the wall, lays his hand on the switch for the electric chair. He flips it and lets the current run through the demons body until he’s pressed a makeshift bandage against his side. Then he turns it off.
Stan is a burnt mess. The demon coughs, blood and goo dribbles from his mouth.
‘No,’ he croaks. ‘No more, please.’
---
Dean exhales wearily. Then His features harden, and He looks at him. ‘You know the dude was full of shit, don’t you?’
‘Sure he was,’ Dean says.
He stares into the distance. ‘Shouldn’t have let the bastard get to me. I know better than that.’
They really should know better. Both of them. The same shit has been going around and coming around for years. But it still hits hard and He still reacts the same way Dean thinks he would. They don’t learn to shut off, shut everything out, no matter how hard they try.
Dean watches as He fists the sheets at His side, jaw working until it creeks.
‘I’m glad,’ Dean says.
It startles Dean enough to unclench His hands. With a frown He turns to him. ‘What?’
‘I’m glad you’re not a total robot.’ Not yet, at least.
Dean eyes him then shakes His head wearily. ‘You’ll wish you were.’
---
Continue to part two