Dean whimpered.
It was soft, barely a whisper that passed through his lips, so quiet that Alastair didn't seem to notice from the other side of the room. But Sam did. Even strung up by his wrists, the soles of his bare feet brushing the floor as he swayed, he heard it. It wasn't a sound he'd ever heard his brother make before – at least not that he could remember. Perhaps Dean had cried or whined as a child but even that was difficult for Sam to imagine. His brother had always been solid and strong. Untouchable.
Until now.
"Dean," he panted, chest heaving as he pulled against his restraints, knowing if he twisted much harder, his wrists would snap and he would be even more useless than he was now. "Dean, don't do it, okay? We'll figure something out."
Alistair came prowling back around to stand in between the brothers, eyeing one then the other, head cocked like a curious child. There were in a basement god knew where, the walls and floor wet, a suffocating darkness. Yet Sam could see with perfect clarity the glittering dark jewels of Alistair's eyes.
"Yes, Dean," he drawled. A knife twirled in the hand nearest Sam and a pair of green eyes watched it without blinking. "I'm sure you'll figure something out."
"Alastair." The word came out cracked; begging didn't suit Dean. "Alastair," he croaked again. "Please."
"Please, please," Alastair mocked. "Now, now Dean, you know what you need to do."
"Dean, don't," Sam warned and his brother's eyes flickered from the demon for a moment. How was it possible, Sam wondered, for someone's face to hold fear and worry and desperation and anger all at the same time? His brother had aged in the last few hours, looking so much more like their father than he ever had.
Dean's eyes left Sam's to scan the multiple lacerations over the younger Hunter's body, most of which were still bleeding freely, made worse by the fact that Sam hadn't stop moving.
"Tsk, tsk. I didn't ask for your input, Sammy, did I?" Alastair moved faster than either one of them could comprehend and then Sam had a fresh cut down his chest, deeper than the rest. Through the haze of pain, he saw Dean take several steps, not toward to him, but over to a table near the door.
"No," Sam gasped out and Dean flinched as if it was his chest fluttering open at every breath. Blood poured onto the floor, splattering Alastair's boots. The demon was using the bloody knife to trim his fingernails, quite content. He curled his tongue around his thumb, sucking off the blood.
Dean's fingers closed around the cold handle of a different knife, a wickedly curved blade the length of his own forearm.
"That's right," Alastair said, not glancing up. "C'mon, Dean. I know you want to."
And finally, finally, Dean's attention turned to the fourth body in the room, the prostrate figure splayed out on a table, gagged but wide-eyed with terror. He was a nobody, a poor soul brought here by a demon who had since smoked out, leaving behind a toy for Alistair.
A toy for Dean.
Alistair looked at Dean with the air of someone who was extremely bored. Irritation flashed across his ugly features, twisting them into an even crueler mask. Dean wondered vaguely what the body looked like without a demon it. He wondered if the guy had a family, if they were searching for him.
"Hurry up," Alastair drawled. He wiped the broad side of his knife against Sam's stomach, dragging the tip just enough to leave a raised welt. Sam tried to twist away but his pale face gave away the fact that he was slipping. He peered out at his older brother through drooping eyelids, fighting to stay conscious despite the blood puddling at his feet.
"S'okay," he slurred. "Dean, s'okay."
Alastair's irritation grew as still Dean hesitated, knuckles white against his own knife, the blade raised in mid-air.
"Enough," the demon snapped. "You'll do what I say, Dean Winchester. You are mine." He raised his weapon above his head and Dean saw it would be the killing blow, that he had dawdled too long, overstepped the delicate boundaries of Alastair's patience.
Before Alistair could strike, however, Dean sank the blade into the waiting man, burying it into his stomach until the hilt kissed flesh.
Very slowly, Alastair lowered his arm. Sam's eyes were closed, whether he was unconscious or simply broken, Dean did not know. Hot blood ran over the Hunter's fingers and wrist. He wore it like a crimson glove.
"I broke you, Dean Winchester," Alastair sneered. "I broke you again."
A/N: Found this oneshot hidden away on my computer. Any thoughts?