A/N: Warnings for torture and character death. Please R&R if you can, and constructive criticisms are appreciated!
Disclaimer: I am just a broke little chica from New York, please don't sue me.
Dean whimpered as the sharpened blade sliced at his flesh, aware of how pitiful it sounded but too weak to pretend he was in control. He'd learned to stop resisting a long time ago.
Dean was losing count of the how long he'd spent in this makeshift prison, powerless to escape. The days and the nights blurred together now, the only thing capable of breaking the agonizing monotony was the even more agonizing pain.
At first, the pain had been too much to bear. The first time the demon carved designs into his flesh with the jagged-edged knife, his throat had become numb from the screaming. Now, he barely made a sound during these "sessions", partly because he was exhausted and partly in defiance. The demon pleasured in his misery and tortured him often, and (as Dean soon found) keeping silent during the slicings and beatings was one of the few ways he could feel even the slightest bit empowered. The sessions were a near-daily occurrence, each time more painful than the last, although the increasing intensity was the least of his worries.
Sometimes, his demonic captor would come back to the house with the decapitated body of one of Dean's old friends or fellow hunters, throw it before Dean's bloodied and weakened figure, and let the heavily disfigured corpse degrade until the smell became unbearable. Other times, the demon would simply come to taunt him, or to slice more ribbons into his battered body. Dean relished the days when it left him alone, and longed for the occasional sip of water, or chunk of moldy bread or raw meat. Initially, Dean had refused all sustenance, but now, he did not care. The food was food and the water was water, and that was all that mattered.
He had nearly forgotten about the life he'd led before being imprisoned by the vengeful demon and locked to the sturdy, metal pole in the basement of Bobby's old house. He was slowly beginning to forget the little things that he used to take for granted... the taste of a delicious, juicy bacon cheeseburger on his tongue, the warm embrace of another human being, the feel of a warm shower, the comforting rays of sunlight pelting his body on a lovely, summer day. He had even begun to forget his beloved brother Sam, the memories slowly fading and being replaced with his pitiful life in the damp, dark basement of the surrogate Uncle, who the demon had murdered in cold blood at the beginning of his imprisonment, driving his severed head onto a post and leaving it across the room for Dean to stare at day-in and day-out.
Dean's skin was pallid from the lack of Vitamin D, and marred with scars of the torture he'd endured for the last few months. His trademark clean-shaven face and gelled hair had grown long and become matted with oil and blood. He had lost all sense of dignity ages ago, which in his mind was a lifesaver, since before this whole ordeal he could never have stomached sitting his life away in some dank basement, smelling like manure and sitting within a sticky pool of his own urine, blood, and a dozen other bodily fluids that he would rather not think about.
Some days he could feel the old fire begin to spark, convincing him to attempt an escape from this dismal existence. He must have tried a thousand times to escape his bonds, endeavoring to wring his wrists through the handcuffs and chains until the bones dislocated themselves and the blood flowed. He had begged over and over again that the demon just kill him already, and let him finally be done with this dreary and pointless life.
"Not yet, Dean Winchester." It would smile, the neurotic glare of pure and unequivocal hatred radiating from its being, "First, I want you to suffer as I suffered."
Once, Dean tried to take matters into his own hands and lunged forward when the demon was carving right over his heart, hoping that the knife would pierce it and end the incessant misery. The knife did pierce his chest somewhat, but not deep enough to reach the heart, and the throbbing pain of that wound stayed with him for weeks afterwards.
As the weight of it all came crashing down on Dean's soul, he let himself cry for the first time in a long time as he fast-forwarded back to the present, in which the demon was crouched over Dean's torn and abused body, reopening an old wound that had only just begun to heal itself. The demon looked up at it's prey, perverted joy in it's eyes as it saw the weary hunter finally breaking down before him.
"What's the matter, Dean?" It taunted in mock concern. "Did I hurt you?"
Dean looked up into the eyes of his captor, pitch black where the comforting brown eyes of his brother used to be.
"Just kill me already, Meg." He pleaded once more, eyes weak and filled with agony. The demon twisted Sam's mouth into a sickly smile, raised it's arm without saying a word, and set the blade on Dean's bruised cheek, drawing a few drops of blood in the process.
"Not yet, Dean Winchester." It said for the millionth time. "First, I want you to suffer as I suffered."
Dean winced in anticipation of the inevitable attack, tightening his muscles and bracing for the familiar sting of rugged silver cutting beneath his flesh. However, this time, Meg did something that Dean was not expecting.
It turned the dagger around and plunged it into it's own - into Sam's - chest, immediately fleeing the dying body in a stream of black smoke. Dean let out a cry as his brother fell to the ground in a heap, his blood flowing freely from the wound to the floor below him, enveloping the brothers in a pool of fresh blood.
"No! Sam!" Dean pleaded as he desperately grappled against his chains with more fervor than ever before. He hissed at the pain of his wrists snapping and dislocated at the pressure, but never once let the discomfort get in the way. Sam opened confused and terrified eyes, and looked at his brother.
"Dean..." Sam hoarsely whispered, voice terrified.
"Sam..." Dean responded in an equally hoarse whisper, his body still unable to break his bindings.
Sam's eyelids fluttered closed and the slow, erratic heaving of his chest ceased. Dean continued his struggle as he wept and prayed and screamed vain pleas into the air, his earnest and sorrow-filled words dissipating into nothingness... unheeded, unheard, and unanswered.