What is it about Fangirls that makes us love to torment those we adore? Please read and review...we loves reviews, precious. As always, Sam, Dean, John and Franklin (The YED) don't belong to me. I wish they did. I would sic Franklin on a few folks I know.
For a millisecond there wasn't anything but pain. Normally his brain was able to filter out physical pain and allow him to function despite it, but this was an all-encompassing, brain-searing, intestine-wrenching pain, and at the first shock of it there was no thought, there was only agony. But when a groan forced its way through his gritted teeth and he caught his breath in a gasp, his brain cleared enough to remember what was happening. What the demon was doing. What his dad was doing.
What his dad had said.
For an instant Dean almost wished that the thought-crushing pain would return, because hearing his dad's words again in his head was worse. Physical pain was a breeze. He was the warrior-son, raised to fight through pain, to master it. To enjoy it even, in a perverse, manly sort of way. But to hear his fears spoken out loud, affirmed, mocked, to have Sam hear his dark truth…that was torture he couldn't stand.
Another wave of pain, almost welcome now but just as excruciating, slammed his head back against the rotting wood wall, and over the pounding of his own heartbeat he heard himself moan, cry out for his father.
Dad!
His foggy brain heard him begging, crying. Weakling, his mind screamed, don't you show him fear!
Dad, don't you let it kill me!
Like a child again, begging for help, for salvation, while his father looked on, half-lidded eyes glowing amber yellow like a cat's. Gleeful. Gloating. Enjoying his pain. Enjoying the humiliation of his most hated enemy groveling, writhing.
Pain like fire slashed at him, like knives of flame and acid tearing apart his insides, wrenching from him another near-scream. Blood like a river, gushing from his chest, from his mouth, spilling onto the floor with audible splashes. More blood than a man should ever lose. He gave a small sob, then a choking gurgle as the blood in his throat stopped his breath for a moment, hot and tasting of iron, like fear sometimes tastes. Another gurgle, then the hot blood rolled down his chin, painting his skin with warrior stripes.
They knew. They knew his fears. And his fears were true. They didn't need him.
He needed them. Needed them both now more than ever before, as his life pooled around his boots and his knees began to sag. He needed them but there was Sam, trapped and helpless, and there was his dad, but-not-his-dad, standing before him with yellow eyes and a sneer of self-content.
Dad, please…
Another spasm of pain wracked him, but he was too weak now to even cry out. He choked again on the blood in his mouth, and he felt himself grimace, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. His vision began to ebb, darkness around the edges slowly creeping inward until all he could see were those yellow eyes and their hate. As his chin dropped toward his chest and everything turned to blackness he heard Sam shout, and a tiny part of him was glad that the last thing he would ever hear was his brother's voice calling his name.