Her shoulder was on fire.
Every running step Dean took, every time his foot landed on the ground beneath, the impact sent searing pain through her body. She fought for breath as unearthly, keening moans escaped her lips at the agony she was enduring.
"Sam!" Dean shouted as he reached the campsite, and his brother appeared from behind the tent.
"Dean! What happened?" Sam leaned inside the tent, grabbing a blanket and tossing it down, then helping Dean lay Devon on the ground. She was clenching her teeth, trying to keep from screaming, her body quaking, her eyes rolling back in her head.
"The chupacabra. It's dead, but it was fast, got Devon before I could even get off a shot." Dean was kneeling down by Devon as Sam grabbed the medical bag and began rummaging through. "Sam, get me the whiskey. I've gotta disinfect this fast." He put a hand to Devon's face, his lips pressed tightly together. "Dev, we're gonna fix you up, okay? I promise. Hang in there, baby." Sam handed the bottle to his older brother and knelt on Devon's other side. Dean cut away Devon's shredded t-shirt, pulling it carefully from the wounds, and cut through her bra strap to remove it as well. The claws had torn three deep gashes from the top of her left breast all the way over her shoulder, deep canyons in her soft, pale flesh. Dean looked at Sam, tortured determination in his eyes. "You ready?" Sam's jaw clenched as he swallowed hard, then nodded, putting his hands on Devon's good shoulder and her thigh. Dean felt sick as he removed the cap from the bottle, closed his eyes for a second, then gritted his teeth and poured the alcohol over the gaping wounds.
Devon screamed, her body attempting to thrash about, but they held her down as much as possible to keep her from further injuring herself. When she lost consciousness, Dean squeezed his eyes shut tight, thankful that she had a few moments' relief from the pain. "Son of a bitch," he whispered.
"Dean. We need to get her to a hospital."
"Yeah. Okay. You drive."
Devon stood staring at her reflection in the mirror, her fingers absently tracing the scars that began on her shoulder and ended just inside the top of her bra. A year and almost eight months had passed, and the pain was still as fresh in her mind as if it had just happened. In fact, sometimes there was still pain, nerve damage from the deep wounds the monster they had been hunting had inflicted on her. And sometimes - a lot of times - there was other pain, too.
A pair of strong arms slid around her from behind, and she felt beard against her neck as a kiss landed there. "Hey, Devon. My turn for the shower? Or do you wanna join me?"
"I'm already clean, Jack, but help yourself." She shrugged him off her neck and turned, pulling out of his arms, walking out of the bathroom, heading for her dresser to pull out a pair of well-worn jeans and a soft old t-shirt. His blue eyes followed her for a moment before he closed the door, and Devon heard the shower start.
She dressed and sat down on the edge of the bed, guilt nagging at her. Jack was a good guy, a great hunter, they'd helped each other out on a hunt once and had been seeing each other ever since. But it was starting to mean more to him than it was to her, and she didn't like the voice in her head that was telling her she was using him. She stood, sighing, and headed for the kitchen.
She was sitting on the sofa, her legs tucked beneath her, when he came out of the bedroom, and she had to admire him as he finished pulling his shirt over his head. He was a big man, tall and solid, a redhead with striking blue eyes, any girl would be proud to be seen with him. She answered his smile with one of her own as he perched himself on the edge of the coffee table in front of her. "I have to go. Can I call you later?"
"Yeah. Sure. I'm heading to work in a bit. You have a case, or..."
"Nah, at least not yet. Helping a buddy work on his ride." He leaned in to kiss her softly. "So, I'll see you tonight, right?"
Devon gave him a vague smile. "Yeah, probably." His eyes searched hers for a moment, then she looked down at the mug in her hands.
"Baby..."
Her gaze rose sharply to his face again, tension evident in her clenched teeth. "Don't. Don't call me that."
Jack took a deep breath, looking away, and spoke softly. "Sorry. I forgot." He stood, turning towards the door. "I'll call you." Devon closed her eyes as the door shut softly, letting the pain wash over her once again.
She walked into the diner and almost turned around when she saw the hulking figure of Sam Winchester seated at the counter, smiling and talking to Nicole. Then she squared her shoulders and walked the rest of the way in, going behind the counter to deposit her purse on the shelf beneath. "Mornin', girl! Look who just popped in," Nicole said cheerfully, her eyes never leaving Sam's face.
"Hey, guys. Sam, how are you?" she answered, then went around to hug Sam, letting his long arms envelop her and his warm affection surround her for a moment before pulling back.
"I'm good. We just got back from a long trip, decided to hit Bobby's for a while. You doing okay?"
"Oh, yeah, you know me. I'm fine." She smiled at him, the best she could muster, and headed for the kitchen, Sam and Nicole's eyes on her the whole way.
Nicole looked up at Sam as he raised her hand to his lips. "I'm worried about her, Sammy. She's just - it's like part of her is closed off."
"Yeah. Dean's 'fine,' too," Sam answered quietly. "I've tried to talk to him, but..."
"I know, she's the same." Nicole sighed. "She's still seein' that Jackson - he's a really nice guy, but...trust me, it's just a distraction."
"Well, there's not much we can do about it."
Nicole smiled up at Sam, sorrow in her green eyes. "I know. They're both too stubborn to admit they need each other. And too stubborn to say 'I'm sorry.'"
Devon took a silent step back into the kitchen, flattening herself against the wall by the door as she heard Nicole's words. Her eyes closed, and she could hear their fight all over again as if it had just happened; Dean, furious with her as she packed for a hunt, throwing things out of her bag as fast as she put them in. Dean telling her she couldn't go, that she was done, that if she'd listened to him in the first place, she wouldn't have gotten hurt. Dean telling her that all she'd do is get one of them hurt or killed. Dean telling her that she had no business being a hunter.
God, it still hurt so much that it hurt to breathe. She had screamed back at him, told him to get out and never come back. That Winchester pride had reared its ugly head, and he had sworn he wouldn't, that she didn't have to worry about seeing him again. He had grabbed his bag and stormed out, slamming the door behind him, abandoning anything at the apartment that wasn't in that duffle. She still had his things, the few that there were, in the bottom drawer of her dresser. And she hadn't opened it since.
The rest of that day passed in near silence, Devon working to keep busy and out of the line of fire of Nicole's worried glances and "Are you okay, girl?" or "Do you need to talk?" She felt as if she were about to fly into a million different pieces, each blowing a different direction, and she longed for the day to end so she could get home and lock herself away, avoiding everything but the bottle of Irish whiskey in the cupboard. Sam showed back up as they were closing up, and she brushed past him with a quick good-bye to him and her best friend, mumbling that she had a date. Nicole met Sam's glance, shaking her head slightly as she locked the door.
"You okay, Devon?" Jack spoke softly next to her ear as she sat, his arm around her, at a table against the far wall. Smoky's was busy, it was Friday night, and a large group of bikers had taken up most of the front half. Fine by her, she wasn't in the mood to be social, was perfectly happy hiding in the shadows at the back of the bar. She picked up her beer and drained what remained in the bottle.
"I'm fine." She answered him without looking, fingers picking at the label on the bottle.
"I'll go get us another beer. Be right back." The big man stood and headed for the bar, leaving Devon without her shield against the other humanity in the place. A large, well-built biker with a blond ponytail smirked and took a couple of steps in her direction, but an epic eye-roll from her changed his expression, and he moved on to another target. She threw her Nike-clad feet up on the chair across from her and leaned her head against the wall, her eyes closed, trying to let the alcohol in her system wash away any coherent thought.
"Hey, Dev."
The sound of his voice snapped her eyes open and set her heart pounding, and she looked up into his startlingly green eyes.
"Dean." She was acutely aware of his gaze travelling over her, lingering on the scars above the scooped neck of her tank top as she put her feet on the floor and straightened.
"How are you?" He asked softly, and she met his eyes for another millisecond before answering.
"Half-drunk, working on getting all the way. You?" Jackson arrived just then, two beers in his hands, looking between the two of them before setting Devon's beer down in front of her. She muttered her thanks, taking a long pull from the bottle. "Jack, this is Dean. Dean, Jack."
Jack stuck out his hand, and Dean shook it firmly. "Winchester? Dean Winchester? Man, it's great to meet you. I've heard stories..."
"Yeah. I'll bet," Dean answered, glancing at Devon.
"I'm Jackson Munroe. Man, every hunter's heard about you - and your brother. Sam, right?"
Dean glanced around, but no one there was paying them any attention. "Munroe. Yeah, Bobby's mentioned you. Says you're good."
"Not Winchester caliber," Jack said, grinning, as he sat down next to Devon.
"Trust me, it's impossible to live up to that," Devon said, her quiet words sharp as she rose from her chair and headed to the ladies' room.
When she returned both men were seated at the table, engaged in conversation. She took a deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed for a moment before approaching, reaching down beneath her chair to grab her purse.
"Devon, you okay?" Jack asked, concern on his face as she slung her purse over her shoulder.
"Fine. Long day. I'm heading home." She turned to go, but a big hand on her arm stopped her.
"I'll drive you. You've had quite a few."
"I'm fine."
"No, you're not." Jack stood, turning back towards Dean. "Nice talking to you, man. Maybe we'll see you around."
"Yeah. Maybe," Dean answered, his eyes on Devon, who stared stoically at the floor. Jack put his arm around her and they made their way through the bikers milling around in the front of the place, the bell on the door chiming as they left. Dean stared after them, downing his shot, and gesturing to the waitress for another.
Devon locked the door, leaning back against it for a moment before walking to the kitchen, pulling the whiskey from the cupboard. She had told Jack she wasn't feeling well, finally talking him into going to his own place for the night, ignoring the guilt nagging at her about how she was treating him. She wasn't lying. She wasn't feeling well. She wanted to cry. She wanted to punch something until she was so exhausted that she couldn't stand up. She wanted to drink herself into oblivion.
She downed one shot after another until her head was spinning and her stomach was burning. Then she headed for her room, stripping down as she went, climbing into the shower and letting the water, as hot as she could stand it, pelt her head and shoulders as she finally, for the first time in months, let go and cried. She let the pain wash over her in waves as she sobbed until she could barely breathe, her throat raw and her body shaking. When the water began to cool, she shut it off and climbed out of the shower, drying herself numbly, then trudging to the bedroom to throw on a freshly laundered pair of panties and an old Metallica shirt. She pulled back the covers and fell into bed, letting exhaustion and alcohol send her into unconsciousness.
She woke a couple of hours later, a dull pounding in her head and her stomach rolling rebelliously at her treatment. She moaned loudly, sitting up, her head in her hands, before the awareness that someone was watching her set in. She turned her head slowly, very slowly, to see the large, dark figure leaning in the doorway. "What th' hell are you doing in here?" she said, her voice a little slurred and raspy.
"Are you okay, Dev?"
She rose to her feet, swaying unsteadily. "I wish everybody would stop asking me if I'm okay. I'm fine, damn it, just leave me alone!" She lurched into the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet, emptying her stomach into the porcelain. She felt his fingers pull her hair from her face, holding it out of the line of fire as he knelt on one knee beside her.
"Can't hold your liquor, I see," he said, a small smirk on his face as he put a steadying hand to her forehead.
"Screw you," she said, sagging weakly against him.
"I don't think you're up to it, sweetheart," he said catching her as she passed out once again. "Good thing I'm here, you'd have been sleeping on the bathroom floor," he muttered as he hiked her up, then lifted her into his arms. He carried her back to the bed, covered her and stared down at her, brushing the hair from her eyes.
He left the room, heading for the front door, then changed his mind halfway there. Instead, he plopped down on the sofa, one arm behind his head, closing his eyes. But sleep eluded him as that night played back in his mind, the night he left, the night she told him never to come back.
He did feel guilty. He had been really harsh with her, but she just didn't get it. He didn't want her hunting anymore. The thought of seeing her torn up like that again... He'd never forget it. And she never knew, never understood that she almost didn't make it. Sam had driven like a Formula One driver to get her to the hospital while Dean had held her in the back seat of the Impala, trying to staunch the bleeding from the tears in her shoulder and chest. But by the time they had gotten there, she had been in shock, and she almost didn't pull through. And then the cleaning of the wounds, and the stitches... So many stitches. And he had refused to leave her, sat at her side as she clutched his hand, at least when she was conscious. He couldn't go through that again, and he knew that the only way to make sure of that, to make sure she wouldn't carry on the hunter's tradition of dying young and bloody, was to force her out.
I worked for a while. He lost her, but she was alive. And safe. For a while.
And then she got the itch. He kept tabs on her, through Bobby. Through people he knew, connections he had in the life, Nicole. But none of them could get through to her, and none of them could stop her. Sam even tried at one point, but... She was just as bull-headed as Dean himself, so that didn't work either.
He finally drifted off, wondering why he had come to the apartment in the first place.