Spoilers: None
Warnings: Allusions to starvation, torture, ritual sacrifice, non-consensual drug use, necessary murder *grin*
Notes: Third (and final) installment to the Between The Lines prompt story Perfect Offer finally. You can thank Irene for the extra time on my hands. I can thank her for no electricity. *sigh* Perfect Offer and Perfect Rescue can both be found in my stories list.
Disclaimer: Still not mine, still don't own, would definitely take better care of them if I did, I promise. *snuggles Dean and rubs his tummy*
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Sam was actually proud of Dean. For the first week he was the embodiment of a model patient. Of course, in his weakened and injured state, he was not really up for much beyond sleeping 23 hours a day. But still, when he was awake he allowed Sam to clean and dress his wounds, bring him food - pretty much everything short of fluffing his pillows.
He had to draw the line somewhere.
He was still on a steady diet of protein shakes and smoothies, his abused body trying valiantly to recover enough to process solid food without being too much of a shock to his system and making him nauseous. Detoxing from the drugs they had force-fed him only intensified the stomach upset as well as inducing cold sweats, headaches and trembling. Sam was right, though, he was craving burgers if for no other reason that to replenish the iron and proteins that had been stripped from him during his month in captivity. He just could not keep it down yet.
By the second week, Dean was awake more and starting to get restless, but was still far too easily exhausted to stage a proper revolt. A fact for which Sam was simultaneously intensely grateful and incessantly concerned. Seeing his normally boisterous big brother so wan and listless for so long was bordering on frightening. A simple trek to the bathroom and back knocked him out for hours. The dark bruise-like smudges under his eyes and parchment-pale skin accentuating his freckles like tiny faerie footprints across his cheeks and nose.
The third week rolled around and it seemed as though all bets were off. Dean was still worryingly pale and the worst of his wounds were not completely healed, but the elder Winchester was simply not wired for inactivity. Sam did the only thing he could think of to defuse the situation without a brawl or resorting to sitting on his bull-headed sibling.
He brought in research materials.
They both knew Dean was every bit as good at the research as Sam, he just chose to leave the task to his little brother. Dean instinctively preferred to be up and physically active, working towards wrapping a case by going door to door if needed, while Sam found it almost meditative to sit and pore through text and documentation. Dean did the leg-work, Sam did the reading. It worked.
Right now, however, Dean could help with the research in bed until he toppled back into a healing sleep - both getting the recovery time he badly needed and still feeling like he was accomplishing something.
A win/win as far as Sam was concerned.
By the end of the week, Dean was predictably growling and snapping anyway, but it was then that they caught a break and his mood brightened considerably.
The dagger was the key.
The sacrificial dagger that was to have been used to bleed Dean slowly to death in order to summon their god Rolmke. He could not suppress a shudder at the memory of being tied - naked, unconscious and vulnerable - to that structure where he expected to die.
Once they finally found the information they were after (and if Sam had maybe withheld some resources for a few days, it was not something Dean needed to know) the legends spoke of the "soul-blade".
The ritual had been passed down from priest to priest for centuries. Like one giant game of telephone, somewhere along the way a few key word pronunciations had been skewed. Between the two of them, the Winchesters discerned the appropriate corrections. Corrections that led them to substitutions.
The original purpose of the ritual had been to free the sacrificial soul - the soul being the bait (and snack) for the god. Sam thought Dean would preen and joke when they discovered the sacrifice must be one of exceeding attractiveness, physically fit and with a decidedly heightened intelligence. Instead, he just looked like he was going to be sick - no doubt thinking how accurately that description fit his Sammy as well. With a few little adjustments to the incantation they were fairly certain the dagger could be used to trap a soul.
Or souls.
In order to break the chain of annual sacrifice, they would need to make sure they got the ringleader as well as any and all of his chosen acolytes. Anyone who may have been entrusted with the performance of the ritual. Once they accomplished that, they could turn their attention to the destruction of the blade itself.
One thing at a time.
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Dean was still pale and moving as though he was not quite as pain free as he would have liked Sam to believe, but there was just no keeping him confined any longer. Not without violence or major narcotics. Sam had briefly entertained the notion of slipping him a mickey somehow, but the detox from whatever drugs his captors had pumped him full of was difficult enough. There was no way he was adding to that misery, not even for Dean's own good.
So, under cover of darkness, they crept through the little town seeking out their targets.
The dagger proved slightly more difficult to locate, but just before dawn broke high and bright they discovered a small shrine just inside the edge of the woods bordering the town. A quick once-over revealed a trap drawer almost perfectly concealed in the base.
As the brothers crept silently back to where the Impala was hidden, Dean found he felt better than he had in weeks. Mentally at least.
That night would finally be the end of it. He was surprised by the intensity of his relief at the thought.
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They say it is always darkest before the dawn, but Dean and Sam know that is not entirely accurate. The dead of night, The Witching Hour some call it, the time when the night feels the heaviest and people sleep the deepest. 3 AM.
That is the time to strike.
They moved together as one, like the well-trained fighters they are. No words, just instinct and a lifetime of having each other's back. First, the dagger. The little catch under the lip on the left side releasing the spring mechanism, the drawer popped out and the black hematite dagger glared up at them. The malevolence oozing off the blade was palpable, like an icy touch instilling a deep discomfort.
Sam felt his anger rise at the sight of the artifact, looking on the very thing that had been meant to kill his brother. Dean felt his stomach turn as the memories surfaced once again. He swallowed hard and shook the feeling off. There was work to do.
One by one the acolytes were next, each found in their spartan monk-like dwellings at three of the four corners of town. The three who had helped tie Dean to the structure, who were going to take such pleasure in his death. The brothers took no pleasure in the killings, making them as quick and painless as possible.
Leaving Brother Joseph at the last compass point.
Dean looked into his eyes as the dagger greedily gulped down the bastard's soul. Looked into his eyes and admitted - if only to himself - that he finally felt safer.
At least, as safe as he possibly could knowing the bumps in the night always bump back.
Dean suspected Sam might try to drag his heels on finding their next hunt. He thought maybe he would actually let Sam get away with it this time. A couple weeks at Bobby's figuring out how to destroy the blade safely might be just the thing they both needed.