Dean had no idea how it had come to this, stitching up a half-naked demon in some model home while Sam slept upstairs. Ruby sat on the kitchen table while he hunched over, doing his best with the mess Alastair had made of her thighs. The cuts were deep, and he was just some guy with a needle and thread. He wished for better light, more gauze, and that Ruby would stop shivering.
After he finished wrapping her legs she let her breath out in one heavy sigh, like she'd been holding it the whole time. He stood up, stretched his back, and took a swig from the whiskey on the counter.
"Shouldn't you be the sober one?" Ruby asked, holding out her open hand. Dean shrugged and gave her the bottle, then washed the blood off his hands in the sink.
"Stomach's gonna be worse," he said, looking over his shoulder at the towel she'd been pressing to the wound, "and you need to lay down so I can get to it." Dean turned off the water and dried his hands while Ruby situated herself. He approached the table and took a steadying breath, then lifted the towel. She cried out softly; the little pieces of fabric that had clotted their way in to the wound were tugging on her jagged skin.
"Want me to knock you out?" Dean asked, utterly without humor. He glanced over as Ruby shook her head, lips pressed together so tight that they were nearly white. Dean worked quickly to clean her mutilated flesh and thread another fifty stitches into her skin, which oozed each time he ran the needle through. Ruby didn't make another sound until he smeared on the nasty smelling paste she'd pulled out of her bag.
"That's my part," he said after applying the bandage, "and I guess your hoo-doo is gonna take care of the rest." Dean carefully pulled Ruby into a seated position then went back to the sink. He looked out the window, blind to the rapid descent of the sun. His thoughts were all screams, blood, and begging, and looking up from the bottom of the slippery slope he'd warned Sam about.