A/N: Warning for torture. Also, the language is just a touch harsher than usual. Thank you to Hunnique who was kind enough to beta for me and helped make this happen, and to everyone else for your continued support. Much love *insert pixilated heart here*.
"I'm here, aren't I?"
"Not entirely. You left part of yourself back in the pit. Let's see if we can get the two of you back together again, shall we?"
"Let's get started."
- Dean and Alastair, 'On the Head of a Pin'
Chapter 4
It had been laughably easy to locate the bar and kidnap the small group of hunters. So easy, in fact, that Dean's convinced that some divine intervention is funding his 'kill everyone' spree. For example, earlier he had decided that he needed to switch vehicles because Chryslers aren't really ideal for body transportation. He had spotted the perfect set of wheels when he was dejectedly exiting Sam's motel room. The pickup truck that he had lifted had been a hunter's, not a supernatural hunter's, but a plain ole' game hunter's. The great thing about that was that it already came equipped with rope, knives and his favorite part, a tranq gun.
Like Dean said, it had been laughably easy.
Admittedly, he had felt a little bit like an amateur while hiding in the shadows with the gun, waiting for Tim and his buddies to exit the bar. Satisfaction washed it away when he pulled the trigger and saw the first man go down in the parking lot, without even seeing it coming. He took a few seconds to relish in the others' panic and useless defense positions before he buried the darts in the other three, one right after the other.
The hardest part of it all had been hauling the unconscious men to and from the back of the pickup truck. Honestly, the simplicity of it kind of put him on edge, but Dean isn't about to question it; he has work to do.
He pulls up to the deserted warehouse with the hunters in the back of the cab, still out cold. They'll probably be under for at least another twenty-five minutes, which gives Dean plenty of time to set up. It's harder than he thought it would be; to walk back in the warehouse. When he crosses the threshold, his senses are completely encased in death and blood, making his stomach churn dangerously with sickness. Immediately, like an unwanted reflex, his eyes fix on Sam's body, still lying lax where Dean had left him. Dean swallows hard, his Adam's apple catching as he sweeps his gaze over his brother's corpse. It hasn't been long enough for any real decay to set in but Sam's skin is light gray and looks like wax. Dean swears he can feel the cold temperature of the flesh from where he's standing. Dean finds himself wondering how he's going to be able to get through this with his dead brother just lying a few feet away. How's he supposed to act like it's not affecting him when really he's struggling to think, to breathe, to just be? But he knows this is what he has to do. He wants Tim to feel every inch of pain and terror that Sam felt, and then some. He wants him to see it exactly as Sam saw it.
Dean can't allow himself much time for this last moment, he needs to keep it together if he wants to carry this out properly, but there's one thing he needs to do. He forces himself forward, moving methodically until he's close enough to Sam to touch him. Then he shucks his leather jacket and drapes it over Sam's upper body gently, intending to pull it up over his head, but he pauses. Sam's face is broken but unguarded, and without all the defenses, Dean can see it. He can see the nine-year-old who was so smart yet still so innocent, the annoying sixteen-year-old, angry and defiant, the twenty-two-year-old college geek that he practically stole from 'normal,' the twenty-four-year-old who was terrified of his destiny and his older brother's deal, and the twenty-six-year-old, who lost it all. In short, he can see his baby brother and all he stood for, and all that Dean ever cared about. It hits him like a kick to the chest because until this very moment, it didn't completely sink in that Sam is gone, and this time, it's forever.
And what's Dean supposed to do after he gets his retribution? Save the world? Let it burn? Eat one of his own bullets? Christ, that last option sounds pretty good. But…
Dean rubs this thumb lightly over Sam's icy cheek. Sam would never forgive him if he did that, not ever. But honestly, Dean doesn't know if that'll be enough to keep him from loading up his gun, because he knows from experience that trying to live without Sam is like trying to live without one of his lungs.
With a deep sigh, Dean pulls his hand back and tugs his leather jacket over Sam's face, effectively blocking him from the world, protecting him from the eyes of his killers. Stepping away, Dean builds his walls up again and erases everything inside him that isn't anger, hate, or driven by revenge. It's time to get this started.
He exits the warehouse once more and backs the truck up so that the tailgate is directly in front of the door. After that, he goes through the grueling yet necessary task of dragging the four hunters into the warehouse. The physical strain has sweat dripping off his nose and collecting at his hairline, but the jolt of glee that passes through him at the sight of having them all at his mercy is enough to make him not care. He sets Tim up first, lashing him to the chair that Sam had died in, the chair that is still streaked with his blood and has grains of salt stuck to it. Then, in the rickety, abandoned offices that are covered in dust, he locates extra chairs and carries them out to where Tim is bound. He clumsily puts the other three men in their appointed seats, knots their hands together, and restrains their ankles, making sure that any movement is either impossible or limited to useless struggling. By the time he's done, one of the nameless hunters is waking up, trying to blink the remaining haziness from his eyes.
Dean's smile is slow and feral, "Morning, Sunshine! Nice nap?"
The man squeezes his eyes shut before opening them again and then grunts, "Winchester."
"Don't sound so surprised," Dean replies with fake cheer, "You should've known that the second you set your sights on my kid brother I'd be coming after you."
The man visibly swallows as Dean stares him down, watching as something primal and malicious makes itself present in Dean's eyes.
He starts to shake his head frantically, "I didn't want to do it, Tim…"
Dean swings his fist without warning, cutting off the excuse immediately. The man lets out a grunt in surprise and looks back at Dean with wide eyes.
"Shut. Up," Dean demands and then directs his attention to the others, who are also starting to come out of their sedation.
He grins widely and goes down the line, slapping the hunters' cheeks, "Wakey, wakey!"
When he gets to the end, where Tim is lethargically opening his eyes, he hauls off and punches him in the gut, making Tim gasp and snap awake immediately. Dean waits until Tim gathers himself and looks up. Unlike the others, who are fearful and hesitant, Tim appears unfazed and amused.
"Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe," Tim says with a slight chuckle, "I gotta admit, I didn't expect this from you."
"And what did you expect? A thank you card? A round at the bar?" Dean asks with a secretive smirk as Tim's smile falters a bit.
"You ain't gonna kill us," Tim states. Dean isn't sure if he really believes that or if he's just trying to convince himself.
Dean laughs lightly, the sound tainted by maliciousness, "You're right. I'm going to do much more than that."
"Why? Because I took out your freak brother? Kid was evil, Dean, he deserved to die and you know it."
The urge to beat Tim senseless is overwhelming but Dean holds it in, telling himself that he needs to take this slow, that it'll be worth it in the end if he can just keep himself together. So he forces himself to ignore what Tim said and to ignore all the other bullshit that he's sure to spout off.
"Hmm," Dean hums with a smirk and a short laugh, "Well, what do say, boys? How 'bout we get this started?"
All of them except Tim glance at each other with panicked expressions, each of them silently asking the other just how the hell they're going to get out of this. Dean grins because he knows that they're not. He pulls his gun out from his jeans, unlocking the safety and pulling back the hammer with one smooth motion. A few of them look relieved to see it, like they were expecting something worse.
"A gun? That's the best you've got, Winchester?" Tim mocks with a snort, "And here I was starting to get scared."
"Oh don't worry, Timmy, I've got something special planned for you," Dean retorts with a dark, promising smile and a wink.
"Who first? Mick?" Dean quips as he directs his attention to the other three.
Mick's eyes go wide and he starts to shake his head, but Dean aims and fires, letting the bullet fly through flesh and bone. Everyone jumps as Mick's head whiplashes before coming to a standstill, blood drizzling down the hole in his forehead. The hunter next to Mick stares at the dead man in shock, his eyes wide. He and Tim, who is also next to Mick, have perfect airbrush-like splatters of red on their faces.
"Next?" Dean asks as he moves his aim to the man who was gaping at Mick.
He turns his expression to Dean and absolute terror visibly washes over him as he starts to struggle and pull at his bonds.
Dean looks amused, "Those are Boy Scout knots, Chuckles, you're not going anywhere. Last words?"
His last words are actually a frightened shout, cut off quickly by Dean's gun as the bullet does its damage to his head.
"You sonuvabitch," Tim grits, his body trembling against the ropes, "I'm going to make you bleed like a stuck pig."
Dean ignores him as his gaze locks on the last hunter.
"How about you, Sunshine?" Dean asks as he pulls the hammer back on his gun again, "last words?"
The man glares even though his eyes are shinning and his bottom lip is unsteady, "Go to hell."
The corners of Dean's lips pull up, "See you there."
Bang.
The last echoes of the gunshot fade and the warehouse falls into silence. Even Tim, who had previously been cussing up a storm, has shut up to stare at the massive blood pools under the three chairs. Dean tucks his gun back into his jeans and walks around the three dead hunters, tiptoeing around all the red on the floor. He stops when the object he's after comes into view. It's the lead pipe that Tim beat Sam with, lying dormant on the floor against a wall. It has rusted spots of red on it from Sam's injuries, making Dean wish that he had cleaned it first but he knows that it's too late now. He grabs the cold cylinder, hearing the metal scrape against the cement floor as he palms it.
The blood from the three other hunters smacks under his feet as he makes his way back to Tim. The sound reminds him of walking through rain on pavement. Dean comes to a standstill in front of Tim and he tilts his head down to catch his victim's eyes. A malevolent grin spreads across his face when he sees the badly concealed fear looking back at him.
"So," Dean leers with a smirk as he twirls the pry bar in his hand, "What do I owe you?"
Confusion flitters over Tim's face for a brief moment before it's erased by Dean, who lashes out with the pipe and strikes his face, hard. It's the perfect recreation of what Tim did to Sam.
Dark satisfaction settles in Dean's expression as Tim hollers in surprised pain.
"That, for starters," Dean comments, wondering if Tim heard him over his own yelling.
When Tim had done the same thing to Sam, Sam had yelped but then fallen silent as stubbornness and training took over. Much to Dean's pleasure, Tim doesn't do that. After the hit, he keeps shouting, despite the pain that must be shooting through his jaw.
Dean smiles.
"Boy, Timmy, that was just one hit. How are you gonna pull through the rest of it?" He mocks curiously as he tilts his head.
Tim glares but Dean sees right through the façade, Tim's scared shitless.
Good, Dean thinks, he should be.
"But first, you and I have some things to talk about," Dean says as he uses the pipe to motion to Tim and then himself.
"I have nothing to say to you, you bastard," Tim grits as he tries not to move his injured jaw.
"Oh, you don't?" Dean repeats as he pushes the pipe into Tim's face, relishing Tim's wince, "Are you sure about that?"
Dean doesn't give any warning as he whips the pipe away from Tim's face and slams it into one of his knees. A small crack sounds and Tim hollers.
"Are you sure you don't want to talk?" Dean reiterates as Tim tries to catch his breath.
All Tim does is glare and Dean nods, "I'll take that as a yes. Let's start with how'd you know about Sam?"
Tim continues to glower and then spits out some blood before answering, "Bobby Singer sent us out here to take care of a demon problem that your brother caused by opening the damn gates of hell. The demons told us."
"Uh huh," Dean replies as he rests the pipe on Tim's uninjured knee, "And then?"
Tim's gaze flickers down to the weapon on his knee and then back up to Dean, "Confronted him about it, got into a scuffle, told him we'd be back. We came back."
"And damn if that wasn't the worst mistake of your life," Dean says, "Cause I kill anything that comes after my brother."
"Didn't think it'd matter this time, considering all he's done. He's a fuckin' monster," Tim spits as he glares unabashedly at Sam's covered corpse.
Dean immediately twists his whole upper body and slams the pipe into Tim's other knee, without a doubt breaking it. Tim jumps as far as he can in the chair and screams, spit and blood spraying from his lips.
Dean grabs a hold of Tim's jaw, digging his fingers into the damage he's already caused, "Don't you dare look at him. You understand me? Don't even think about him."
Tim nods as his eyes squeeze shut in pain.
"Good," Dean says and releases Tim's face roughly.
Dean stands and sets the pipe down on the floor again, and then he draws the knife that he took from Sam's motel room from his leg holster. Tim stares wide-eyed at the long knife as Dean flips it over in his hand.
"Don't look so scared, Timmy, I thought you liked knives?" Dean questions as he slips the knife under Tim's shirt, and yanks it up fast, splitting the garment in two.
Tim flinches and gasps like he's expecting to have his guts spilling on the floor, and then sighs almost inaudibly when he sees the two halves of his shirt hanging off him.
Nervous, anticipatory energy flows over Dean's skin like water droplets, feeding right into the blade that's in his hand. He knows this is it, the point of no return, his last chance to back out.
"Don't worry," Dean says as he shifts his weight in front of Tim, "We'll start off nice and small. Oh, and feel free to scream, no one's going to hear you out here but me."
Tim's obviously shocked at having his own words thrown back at him and Dean takes a second to relish it, before he puts the blade on the edge of Tim's bellybutton, and drags it up mid-chest. The cut isn't very deep, but it's long and the position of it makes it more painful. Tim makes it through the laceration without much sound and a wince.
"See? That wasn't so bad," Dean says and claps Tim on the shoulder, "I can't promise about the next few though. How many times did you cut Sam? Five or so?"
Dean doesn't let Tim answer as he moves the knife to his armpit and slices a thin line in the sensitive flesh of his underarm. Tim's pain filled hiss quickly turns into a short shout as Dean digs the knife in further as he lets up on the knife.
"I mean, that's kinda overkill, right? To test for evil? How'd that go, by the way?" Dean asks with feigned curiosity, "With the salt, the knife, and the holy water, you'd think he would've sizzled somewhere if he was as evil as you say he was."
Dean moves to Tim's pectoral muscle and doesn't hold back, cutting in deep through flesh and tissue, making blood run down Tim's chest in rivers. Tim's full-blown scream echoes through the warehouse.
Dean hisses in mock sympathy, "Ouch. Maybe that was too deep. Wouldn't want you to bleed out ahead of schedule, we still haven't given you the full evil test. But you shouldn't have anything to worry about there, right, Timmy?"
Tim glares and Dean smirks, "Didn't think so."
Dean moves over to Tim's right side and pushes down on his ribs with his fingers as if feeling for something. He gets to the end of the rib cage and grins, "You know, I was in hell for forty years and I gotta tell you, you're getting off easy."
Dean flips the knife over in his hand and presses the tip into Tim's side, making Tim gasp and try to wiggle away.
"I mean, sure, I was the tortured for thirty of it and the torturer for only ten, but honestly, I think I learned more by being carved up than I did by doing the carving."
Inch by inch the knife slips into Tim's chest cavity, right in between the last two ribs. Dean watches with a twisted grin as red gushes and slithers out from the wound, curling lovingly around the embedded blade. It's in deep enough to cause extreme pain but not far enough to kill him. Yet.
Tim's yelling and panting, struggling to take in air through the burning agony. Dean smirks and shifts the knife a bit, scraping the edge of it along Tim's rib bone.
The howling scream that emits from his mouth makes Dean chuckle lightly in cruel amusement, "Sorry. Accident."
"Just kill me," Tim gasps before he coughs, causing blood to splatter out of his mouth.
Dean snarls and yanks the knife free, making Tim shout roughly and curl forward instinctively. The movement against his restraints only causes him more pain.
Dean crouches down on his haunches so that they are eye to eye, "Don't worry about that, we'll get there."
He pauses to drag the knife across and into Tim's other pectoral muscle. Predictably, Tim yells and whimpers as the knife separates his skin.
"Now, let's see," Dean says as he puts his hand on his chin, "How many is that?"
He uses the knife to point to the various injuries as he counts them up, "Five, already? Well aren't you a lucky bastard? We're almost done."
Tim coughs as a string of bloody saliva trails down his chin.
"Don't cop out on me now, Timmy," Dean demands as he tips the chair over, watching as Tim lands on the ground hard.
Dean can tell that Tim tries to scream but the air has been knocked out of his lungs, so it comes out as a harsh wheeze instead.
"So, I don't have any salt on me," Dean starts as he takes his flask out of his back pocket and takes a quick swig, "But that's alright because I already know you're an evil son of a bitch, but I do have some Jack. Potato, potahto, right?"
Tim looks panicked, shaking his head while mouthing, "no," while Dean smirks and tips the rest of the alcohol onto Tim's bare chest. The whiskey washes away the blood and sinks into the wounds, making Tim shout and buck, trying to escape the sting. Dean watches him struggle until the burning calms to a bearable degree. Then, he grabs the back of the chair and hefts it up, "Upsy daisy."
Once Tim is upright, Dean wraps the rope that had been used to kill Sam around his neck. Tim's eyes go wide as he sees the bloody, frayed twine.
"Do you know what I want? I mean, more than to beat your ass bloody with that pipe like you did to my brother? I want you to know what it feels like to have the life choked out of you. I've been there before and let me tell you, nothing's more terrifying than not being able to feel your lungs expand, it's a lot like hell," Dean says and then grins.
Dean pulls the rope tight, constricting it around Tim's neck like a snake would its prey. Tim's eyes bulge and his face reddens as the air supply is cut off. His mouth falls open and closes again, over and over, like a fish on dry land. Dean waits patiently as Tim's eyes roll back in his head and his struggling dies down to nothing, and his chest stills with death.
Dean lets go of the rope but doesn't remove it from Tim's neck. Instead, he sits on the floor and scoots back so that he's not so close to the bodies, not caring that blood is soaking right through his jeans. Staring at what he's done, he's not sure of what to do next. But he refuses to feel guilty. The bastards deserved it and he won't feel guilty about it. He refuses.
