Will the torture never end? Not if I have anything to say about it. Please review, and as always, I answer all reviews at my blog. No, I don't own the boys. If I did, we wouldn't have to wait until the fall to see this story play out.
Dean feels them coming long before he hears them. The hair on the back of his neck pricks to attention and a shiver of dread corkscrews up his spine. He can feel them just out of sight, waiting, slavering, quivering against their bonds. He wants to run, wants to run like hell, but his legs are dead weights, refusing to obey his commands. They are coming and running won't do any good. He's fast, but he can't outrun time.
Sam is arguing with Ruby, oblivious to the oncoming of the pack. He's still battling the inevitable, grasping at any straw to stop what's coming. Any other day, Sam's terse "Shut up" would have earned him a solid punch in the shoulder. Not today. All Dean wants to do is crush Sam in a hug, but he knows that if he does he won't be able to let go. Those devil dogs would have to bodily tear him away from his brother, and he's not going to do that to Sam.
He feels every second ticking by, one by one, faster and faster. He knows that there is no chance now. It's time to say goodbye. Sam fights it, fights him, he is so caught up in the search for salvation. Dean tries to comfort Sam, to calm him, to show him that he isn't afraid. Despite everything, his last moments on earth are going to be a lie, because Dean feels like his body is vibrating with sheer terror.
The doleful tone of the grandfather clock stops them all cold, strikes them still as statues. This is it. It's over.
He hears Sam take a sharp hitching breath, sees tears welling up. Dean smiles, trying to reassure his brother, to paint his face with a serenity that he doesn't feel, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes.
Ruby speaks, words quiet and seemingly sincere, but Dean ignores her. His eyes are only on Sam, trying to communicate every word he wants to say but can't. Sam is battling his tears, the corners of his mouth pinching and his nostrils flaring, but the tears escape nonetheless, painting shining tracks down his cheeks.
A low, baying howl, basso and quiet, sounds across the room, and Dean feels dread rise in his gut. His eyes are dragged unwillingly toward the sound, and he resists the urge to squeeze them shut in a childish moment of If-I-don't-look-it's-not-really-there. He's seen too much in life to believe that would ever be true. Best to face the terror head-on.
And there it is. The one supernatural beast he had hoped he would never see with his own eyes; a hellhound, a silver-eyed, bristle-backed beast with claws like talons and teeth like sabers. Another sidles up behind the first, licking its fangs with what looks like a mocking grin.
And without intending it, Dean is running. He's running harder than he ever has in his life, thighs burning and tendons trembling. He's not even cognizant of Ruby and Sam pounding after him. He skids to a stop, trapped in a room with no exit, and when he turns he sees Ruby and Sam holding the doors shut, trembling and struggling as the demon dogs fling themselves against the doors again and again and again. With shaking hands, Dean spills goofer dust across the threshold and windowsills, trying to still his drumbeat-heart.
He hears Sam and Ruby again, faintly hears her asking for the knife. When he turns to look and his eye catches the gruesome shadow of her demon-self, realization slams Dean like a Mack truck. Oh God, no, no, no…He calls to Sam, tries to warn him, but can't hear his own voice over the baying of the hounds, though it is clear that he's the only one hearing them.
But then, with a strange sense of detached amusement he finds himself flying through the air and slamming into the table, breath knocked from his chest with a spine-rattling whoomph. The howling of the hounds recedes, rushing to the background in an echoing whirl, and Dean tries to lift himself from the table. But it is as if a ton of weight is planted squarely on his chest, pressing him against the table so firmly that he has to struggle to breathe. As he watches, Lilith presses her mouth to Sam's and Dean nearly screams, desperate to step between them, to stop that god-awful-bitch. To save Sam. The pain of the fall joins with the pressure of terror in his chest as he tries to distract Lilith, to give Sam a chance to escape.
But she's no fool.
With gleeful slowness Lilith slinks to the door, almost licking her chops in anticipation. Her mouth is curled in a sick parody of a smile, a smirk of triumph. The pressure in Dean's chest rises to a crescendo and he wants to scream, but there's no time. Lilith pulls the door open, scattering the goofer dust and allowing a rush of fetid air to blast into the room.
The hounds are on Dean before he can gather his breath, and he feels himself being ripped from the table by strong, crushing jaws. He tries to grab the edges of the table, to kick them away, but then he feels a ligament in his leg snap, sending a river of fire from his knee to his hip and he clenches his jaw around a scream. He lands flat on his back and his skull bounces once off the floor with a dull, echoing thump. One of the hounds grabs his shoulder, biting so deeply that Dean feels its teeth grinding against his bones.
Rolling to his stomach, Dean tries to gain enough purchase to get to his feet and run, but steely claws plant themselves deep in his side and shoulder, tearing the flesh and sending a gout of blood fountaining from his skin. He howls again, raging against the pain as the mammoth weight of the hounds forces him onto his back. They tear at his chest, his legs, his arms, shredding his clothes and his skin, soaking him with hot blood. One of them plants a massive paw on his chest, gouging down to the bone, splashing blood onto his face, his hands, the floor, the ceiling.
Oh, God, the pain, the searing, burning, tearing pain of it is unbearable, like nothing he has ever felt. Faintly, as if from far away, he hears Sam screaming, screaming like he's never heard before, but he doesn't even care. There's nothing but the pain, the tearing of claws and the ripping of teeth and the burning of blood.
He tastes bile in the back of his throat, bile and blood, and suddenly all sound ceases, as though a switch has been flipped. There is still pain, yes, but the growls and the snarls and the screams are gone. Numbness rushes inward from his toes and fingers, and the pain spirals to a pinpoint, intense and unbearable in his chest. He wants to look at Sam, to fix his face in his mind, but he can't force his eyes from the ceiling. His vision begins to swirl, darkness creeping in from the sides, and then a flash of blinding light burns his eyes, and from the silence comes an echo of Sam's scream.