Not my favorite chapter, but useful in relating Dean and Sam's moods to their situations. Remember to leave me some reviews!!
This is just the beginning to what's coming in chapter seven.
The image of the peeling gray wall wavered, threatening to disappear into the speckled dots that invaded Dean's already swimming vision. He coughed, angry at the fresh taste of copper filling his mouth and drizzling from the corner of his lips. He let his head drop back to his chest, too tired to resist the beating he expected to continue. He wasn't bound to the ceiling anymore, but he knew there was no escape after only the third time he felt his head jar against the wall; and then the fourth, the fifth. He eventually lost count. His chest heaved, wracking his lungs with unbearable pain with each shallow breath he took.
"Payback's a bitch," Meg's new voice filtered through Dean's nausea as she whispered in his ear, straddling his slumped form.
"And I thought it was just you," he said gravelly with a meek smile.
She grasped his shoulders, digging her fingertips deep into the skin, savoring the quiet wince he desperately tried to hide before slamming his head into the wall once more. "Keep sweet talking me, baby," she smiled as he fought the darkness she could see clouding his eyes. She held her hand to the back of his head, taking a handful of sticky hair, wet with blood. "I haven't even started yet," she whined, leaning her sparkling new face closer to his, "but it's nothing compared to what I'm going to do to Sammy."
Dean forced his eyes open to hers, lifting his head in resentment, leaning closer than he'd like to with a renewed hatred welling under the surface, "Stay the fuck away from my brother," his voice broke, cracked by the pure rage pumping through his veins. No way was he letting this bitch touch his brother; his Sam. No fucking way.
She just smiled her menacing smile, "Or what?" She shoved herself up, off of Dean's unmoving form propped against the wall. She threw her hands up in a mock of fear, "You'll kill me?" He looked away, biting his tongue, trying to keep the knot in his stomach from growing. She stopped a few paces in front of the door and spoke with a cool voice, "Do you think you could even look at yourself after doing it once?" She looked over her shoulder to smile, "Could Sam?"
Dean refused to look at her cold, black eyes. He pressed his lips together, loosing the battle within to control the emotions he had kept in check for all these years.
"But don't worry Dean," Meg's casual tone nearly sent him over the edge, "he won't have time to be disappointed in his brother. He'll be too busy choking on his own blood, watching you do nothing to stop it." Her hand rested on the door as she continued before Dean had the chance to respond, "'Cause I'll be sure it's nice and slow so he can get a good look at how worthless you really are."
The door slammed, leaving Dean alone with the echo of his strained voice screaming an incoherent threat of rage that faded to a low sob. He let himself slide down the wall to his side, unaware of the small trail of blood he left smeared against it. He coughed bitterly, resting his head against the cool floor, fighting to keep his shudders under control to no avail. His ribs pulsated painfully, making it difficult to take the shallow, raspy breaths he would have struggled with anyway. The recent encounter with Meg left his shoulder boiling with hot pain accompanied by fresh blood seeping through the remaining cloth that covered it; he was vaguely aware of the unhealthy amount of blood loss he had. He could barely bend his fingers without feeling the repercussions in his wound. He tried to ignore the sticky substance he knew to be his own blood pooling beneath his cheek as a heavy blackness began to creep into his vision, relieving a small fraction of the indescribable pain in his undoubtedly cracked skull. He was done holding on to the land of the conscious. The only thing rooting him there were the thoughts of his brother. His unprotected, utterly alone, little brother.
"Damn it, Sammy," he let himself whisper aloud, wishing he could see him one more time; wishing most of all that he wouldn't come. He glared accusingly at the door separating him from freedom and from Sam, regretting all the things he never said. He tried assuring himself that he would get around to opening up whenever Sam decided to prod him next, to pay attention when he tried to help him. Hell, he'd even stop cracking psychic jokes. Mostly he'd blurt out how much he cared, how grateful he was for Sam's constant parade of annoying questions and worried glances he didn't know Dean always noticed. He tried to tell himself he would, that he could still manage to survive to spend hours on the road with Sam griping about how rotten Dean's music choice was. He had a job to do after all, a brother to watch out for; he couldn't die yet.
His empty assurances did little to ease the sinking feeling he had but he couldn't bring himself to admitting that he probably wouldn't make it through this one, if only for the sake of his brother. Salty tears stung the new cuts covering the clammy skin on his face, blurring his vision even more than the growing number of spots had. Sam was walking straight into this one and he knew it. If he were in Sam's shoes he'd probably be there sooner, ready to break down the front door if it meant getting to his brother sooner and he hated Sam for it; hated the demon more than anything for dragging his baby brother into this. His last thoughts before his eyelids grew too heavy to handle and unconsciousness sunk in were of his brother and praying silently for him to keep himself safe.
Don't come.
---
Sam drummed his thumbs nervously on the steering wheel and accelerated, trying to keep his heart rate down. This was not the time to have a breakdown. Dean didn't have much time, if he had any at all. The demon's voice rang in his ears, "you won't make it in time." He shook his head to clear his mind, almost forgetting he was thirty miles over the speed limit and in the middle of a not-so-legal turn. The tires skid, burning rubber as Sam struggled to keep the Impala on the road. Dean would have his ass for this if he was still alive. No, not if; Dean was going to be alive and kicking, smart mouthing and swearing, cocky and confident when Sam arrived. Dean was still alive. He had to be. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, reminding himself a second time that this was not the time for a breakdown.
He glanced quickly at a road sign as he sped by, calculating the miles he had left to cover. Hours' worth of constant driving presented itself to Sam. It would be nearly a day before he reached the tiny town the demon had instructed him on. The word instructed left a sickly taste in Sam's mouth and an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He knew it was a trap, but he continued running, driving ninety to nothing, straight into it; he grinded his molars, not caring one way or the other. He had to get to his brother. If it meant running into a trap that he knew Dean would do in a heart beat, then so be it.
Sam was ignorant of the silent prayers from his brother to do the exact opposite and turn back, away from the danger and away from Dean. He accelerated, anxiety peaking.
Hold on, Dean. I'm coming.
---
Dean stared blankly at the familiar demon, tired of listening, tired of being incapable of stopping anything. He had awoken to a kick to the ribs several minutes earlier. Ouch didn't even begin to cover it. The demon had freaking ranted; was still ranting, talking about plans and the meaninglessness of Dean. He only raised his head protectively when Sam's name was mentioned. Dean let his head slip back down, too exhausted to care what he had to say. He was vaguely aware of the threats he received from the relatively stupid move of ignoring a demon, but was too far gone to fully acknowledge them or really care. His face was beaded with a cold sweat. He shivered, despite the temperature of the room he knew to be warmer, feeling the full effect of his multiple wounds.
"You always were the dumb one," his voice was cold, amused.
"Bronze over brains," Dean mumbled sarcastically in response, trying to smile, not expecting the sudden burst of pain as he was pulled by unseen forces to his feet and pressed against the wall. The yellow eyed possessed man lifted a hand in front of Dean's face, smiling a toothy grin at his pained expression. Dean attempted to move, tilting his head back against the wall, unable to move beyond the single action.
"Son of a bitch," he groaned thickly, fighting to regain a steady breathing pattern. "Injury to insult is so not necessary," he slurred necessary, loosing the consciousness battle fast.
"Probably not," he replied calmly; unnervingly. He held his hand up with a sudden interest in his fingers, curling them to a fist and then relaxing them. His yellow eyes turned back to Dean's, his hand inches from the Winchester's face. A blue spark emitted from his hand, pulsing between his fingers almost hungrily.
"Did that stupidity induced electrocution hurt?" he asked, eying his hand with admiration, referring to the time Dean had nearly died, should have died, from an accidental electrocution. Dean didn't respond, just watched the demon turning his hand one way, then another, the blue flicker dancing between his fingers. Electrocution was not on his list of things to experience more than once. Dean swallowed, fear momentarily lingering in his eyes. "It won't compare to this." He pressed his hand to the side of Dean's head before he had time to draw a breath.
Dean couldn't hear his mangled screams filling the room with a shrill echo, didn't feel the impact of the concrete floor as the demon allowed his body to fall, crouching down to clutch the other side of his head with another hand. His jaw clenched, teeth bared, as his back arched, incapable of taking the pain. His body screamed with white hot fire charring his insides and burning his skin as he remained silent, no longer able to scream. His arms thrashed helplessly, tearing at the hands gripping the sides of his head, drawing blood with no effect.
The demon only squeezed tighter.
Dean writhed. His eyes rolled beneath his tightly shut eyelids. Energy pumped into his consciousness, searing his veins and puncturing his blood vessels. He felt the singe through his teeth and the overwhelming pain coursing through his head. He felt it all. His muscles were taut, stretched to their limit and beyond as he continued twisting through the pain, incapable of controlling a bone in his body. All he knew was the pain, the blinding pain that wreaked havoc on his forcefully conscious form. He couldn't even scream to voice his anguish, unaware of the blood leaking steadily from his eyes, his ears, his mouth, his nose. His lungs were useless, preventing his body from gulping the air it so desperately needed until he was incapable of even thrashing against the agony, too close to fading than the searing in his body would admit as pain continued to rack through it.
Then it was over.
He didn't feel his head connect with the floor, his breathing coming in shallow rasps that came farther and farther apart. He didn't notice the amount of blood that drizzled from the corner of his mouth as his eyes began to glaze. His chest barely rose and fell with a breath so shallow he didn't appear to be alive at all. All he noticed was the sudden enclosure of darkness; the darkest darkness he'd ever seen, taking away everything he held protectively in his mind, his memory, his heart. Everything was pouring out, leaving him empty and barren; alone inside the dark.
Preview for what's coming in chapter seven :
A voice somewhere far away from the dreaded blanket of black called to him, a familiar voice filled with a love Dean never thought he'd live to feel again. He followed it, chased it, fought back the darkness with an unmasked need for it; an unbearable need for Sam.