Demons choose their vessels for a wide variety of reasons. Convenience, for one. When they first come out of the pit, they might be desperate enough to grab the first human they see, regardless of gender, age, race, or other factors. They might want a vessel with a special talent, such as strength or speed. If they remember what they looked like when they were human (which is pretty rare, especially with older demons), they might want a vessel that resembles them. And then, sometimes, they choose whichever vessel we, as hunters, are least likely to hurt. A little kid, or a young woman, or someone in a wheelchair. This is just one of many ways demons will try to trick mercy out of you, and if you're going to hunt them – and you're probably gonna have to at some point in your career, with all the demons cropping up lately – then you can't fall for any of them.
If the demon can keep its vessel alive, it'll usually have enough moisture to squeeze out at least a few tears every once in a while. Usually right before you start in on an exorcism ritual, or an interrogation. They'll plead, beg, sob, do and say whatever they think will make you hesitate. The second you start feeling any sympathy for a demon you've got in a devil's trap, though, is the second that the demon wins. And then you, and everyone with you, are as good as dead.
Demons are some of the smartest, most dangerous creatures you'll ever come across. A handful are almost as old as humanity itself, which means that they're some of our first monsters, along with dragons and the Leviathan. They were never intended to be underestimated – or pitied. A demon is concentrated sin. Pure evil. Everything bad in a human soul, twisted further into something even worse by torture and a long stay in Hell. Always keep that in mind, even when a demon is crying out in pain. It isn't real, and you're not going to gain anything by falling for it, except failure and, eventually, death.
Your kindness, your humanity, is nothing more than a tool that demons (and other monsters, for that matter) can use to hurt you. And let me drum this into you now: they have no intention of paying you back for sparing their life or letting them go. This is a species that has no concept of gratitude or compassion; it's all been tortured out of them.
- Demons and Other Biblical Monsters, Sam Winchester
The pills were chalky and bitter where they sat on Sam's tongue, their lack of any sort of coating glaringly obvious as he filled a plastic cup with water and wrestled with his gag reflex. When it was full and he could finally gulp them down, he eagerly did so, sure that he would have puked if he'd had to keep them in his mouth for so much as another second. The taste of them was still there, though. Laying like a film over the back of his tongue.
He drained the glass, trying to get rid of it, but water seemed to have no effect on the taste. So there was nothing else he could do for it right now. He'd already eaten breakfast and brushed his teeth, and he was pretty sure that he couldn't stomach anything else with more flavor than water right now. It was just going to be another bad day, then, but it wasn't like he hadn't already known that. Grunting with the effort, Sam pushed off of the bathroom counter, which he'd been leaning against, and grabbed for the handle of his cane.
It was actually pretty nice-looking, without sacrificing any of its functionality to beauty. It had been custom-made for him by a hunter he'd helped out about four years ago, a very grateful man with no little talent for woodworking. Carved from ash, heavily polished and glossed, it had apparently cracked in some pretty interesting ways while the wood was drying out. So the guy had decided to plug them with hot copper instead of starting over, creating an effect that Sam was exceedingly fond of. The handle was shaped almost perfectly to his hand and fingers, it was exactly the height he needed, and it was more than strong enough to support his full weight without a single creak. There was no rubber cap at the bottom – just a large, solid knob that could crush a humanoid skull. Sam had needed no explanation to understand that this cane was meant to double as a weapon.
He'd been thrilled when he received the finished product. Well, not "thrilled," exactly, but still pretty happy to be able to toss the ugly metal thing he'd been using since he got off of the crutches. His dependence on a cane had waned slowly as the last of the infection cleared up and he healed in earnest, until he reached a point where he only needed it every once in a while, when his leg was really bad.
Like today, for example.
Sam left the bathroom. A very long, very hot shower had quieted whatever was ripping up his leg from the inside, but it was still too depressingly weak to put weight on. Not for the first time, he wished that he had a tub, so he could've soaked it. He took the bottle of painkillers with him, sure that he'd need it again later and really not feeling like going back to the bathroom to get it.
A few bottles of water. A box of crackers. A couple apples. He just needed to get all those things, and then he could spend the rest of the day sleeping in his room. At least until Vaughn had to be fed, but he'd deal with that when the time came.
He crossed the floor. It was slow, painful going. He hadn't had to get the cane out in a while (which was probably a good thing, considering that his last use had ended with him sinking into a frustration-and-rage-fueled meltdown), so the muscles of his left shoulder and bicep were already protesting the unfamiliar strain. He'd be aching for days, even once he could walk on his own again. The bottle of pills that the fingers of his right hand were clenched around rattled with every difficult step. He didn't even realize he'd entered the demon's line of sight until he called out to him.
"Well, good morning, there, Dr. House."
Sam stopped, and glanced into the cell, blinking. The loud, almost warm greeting had caught him completely off-guard, and all he could think to say was, "You don't watch that."
The demon shrugged at him. "I've been back on Earth for a while now. Might not spend too much time watching TV, but who says I can't pick up on pop culture?" He shifted in the chair that he was strapped to. "I thought you died last night."
"Sorry to disappoint you," Sam replied with a humorless snort, turning back in the direction of the kitchen. Something suddenly occurred to him, and even though he knew that it'd be a spectacularly bad idea to engage the demon in conversation, he was just too curious now to let it go. "Can't you hear my heartbeat?"
"What the hell d'you think I am?" the demon replied, looking nearly indignant. "I'm not a vampire. Maybe I can hear it when you're a few feet away from me, but outside this shithole you've got me in?" He shook his head. "No way. I did hear you wake up after a while and drag yourself into your bedroom, though."
Where he'd spent the night on the floor, too weak with pain and exhaustion to lift himself up into his bed. He'd never been more grateful for the thick rugs that he'd laid down over the wooden floorboards, though he didn't actually do much sleeping. Curiosity satisfied, Sam leaned on his cane and took a laborious step in the direction of the kitchen, but the demon stopped him by calling out again.
"Hey." Sam ignored him, and continued moving. Whatever he wanted, it couldn't possibly be good. "Hey. Conan."
Sam glanced over his shoulder, still-damp hair swishing over the back of his neck. He thought about telling the demon he had a name, which he knew, then decided that he preferred the nicknames to hearing his real name come out of his mouth.
"You didn't watch that, either," he said, shaking his head,
"Saw it when it hit the theaters, actually," the demon replied, then continued before Sam's tired brain could sort out the implications of that. "C'mere. Gimme a look at that cane."
Sam snorted again, and shook his head. "Like hell." Pun completely intended. "I'm not coming anywhere near you ever again." Kitchen. He had to get to the kitchen, then back to his room. "Leave me alone."
"Wanna tell you something," the demon answered, prompting a sudden swell of frustration in Sam's chest.
"So tell," he snapped. "I'm listening."
"I'd kinda like to do it to that Paleolithic face of yours."
Sam felt his eyebrows rise despite himself. This wasn't the first time he'd been called a Cro Magnon (his heavy brow and solid jaw were, admittedly, pretty distinctive), but he was a little impressed that the demon had managed to get the time period right. That didn't mean that he was going to do what he wanted him to, of course.
"Why? So you can spit in it again?" he asked, finally reaching the kitchen. Crackers, water bottles, apples. He stuffed his painkillers into his pocket and started looking for what he needed. There was silence from the demon cell for a few seconds, and he was just starting to feel triumphant when the Knight spoke out again.
"You left your first-aid kit in here," he called. Sam twitched one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. He had plenty of first-aid material outside of the kit. Okay, well, maybe "plenty" was kind of an overstatement, but he'd be okay for a while. "And my door's not locked…and my one ankle's not strapped down. Remember? You wanted to straighten my knee out?"
Sam stilled, his food gathered into a small, neat pile on the counter in front of him, between his hands. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, the demon's attempts to lure him back into his cell were starting to work. He needed to at least lock his stupid door, even if it was only to give himself a false sense of security, and it would probably be a good idea to go and get the first-aid kit, too. There was a tube of muscle relaxant cream in there that he was sure would help his leg.
Looked like the benefits of going back into that cell outweighed the stupidity of it. Sighing heavily through his nose, Sam headed over to the gate. He stopped on the way to drop the rations on his desk, so that he could pick them up again when he was finished with this. After pushing open the gate, he limped into the cell and over the carvings that made up the Circle of Solomon. He stopped as far away from the demon as he could – namely, right next to the first-aid kit, which he stooped down to pick up with his right hand. The demon spoke to him as soon as he'd straightened up and was looking at him.
"I really hate you," he said roughly, after clearing his throat. Sam snorted again.
"Is that seriously what you wanted to tell me to my face?" he asked, a little incredulous. "I'm pretty sure I could've figured that out on my own. And I'm not exactly president of your fan club, either."
"I really hate you," the demon repeated, "'cause I have to tell you this." The way he said "have to" made it sound like he really didn't have a choice in the matter. Sam, unimpressed, watched him squirm in his chair. After about thirty seconds, he spat out, "I'm sorry."
The pain medication must have gone straight to Sam's head and made him hallucinate. He was probably passed out, drooling and twitching, on the bathroom floor. "Excuse me?"
"I said I'm fucking sorry, jerkoff." The demon glared murderously at Sam, looking like he'd taken a huge bite out of a lemon, rind and all. "I know you're not deaf. I'm sorry for kicking your gimpy leg. Is that so hard to believe? I was pissed. I wanted to hurt you, sure, but…" He trailed off, the glare softening into something else as he stared at the cane Sam was leaning on. "Not that bad. I think."
Sam just stared. All the research and reading (and there was a lot of it) that he had to do for his job had given him a large vocabulary in more languages than just English, but he couldn't think of a single thing to say right now.
"And I need to thank you for patching me up like you did," the demon added, albeit grudgingly. "I'm healing a lot faster 'cause of your Band-Aids." He tipped his chin up, regarding Sam apathetically. His voice was caustic as he tacked on, "The torture kinda cancels it out, though."
Sam just stood there for a few seconds, then blew out a deep, shocked breath and turned around, first-aid kit in hand. He heard the demon make a disbelieving sound behind him as he shoved the gate open and left the cell, and felt sure that he was shaking his head.
"What, not even a 'apology not accepted'?" he complained. "C'mon, man. Were you raised in a barn?"
"Uh, car, actually," Sam replied without thinking, setting the first-aid kit on his desk as he passed it and heading into the kitchen. He felt like a tortoise could have outpaced him at the moment, but he did eventually make it, and then he eventually made it back to the demon cell after picking up one of his light, flimsy kitchen chairs. He was very glad that he'd left the gate open, and that he'd never gotten around to investing in more robust chairs.
He dropped it in front of the demon, who stared at it, obviously not understanding. Then he realized that he had to go back out again to get the first-aid kit, and cursed himself the entire way. When he was finally able to settle into the chair, inches away from the demon, with the kit on his lap and his cane leaning against his thigh, he almost moaned with blatant relief. But he bit that sound back, and instead made quiet eye contact with the demon.
"It's probably the dumbest thing I've ever done," he told him, voice soft with the foreboding that was all but choking him right now, "but I accept your apology."
The demon blinked at him, then broke into a wide, crazy-looking grin, made about a million times more savage by the blood in his teeth.
"Yeah, I'll say," he agreed. "Did your dad throw you outta that car he raised you in, when you were a baby? Headfirst?"
"Well, if this is a trick that I'm stupid enough to fall for, then why aren't you kicking or spitting at me right now?" Sam challenged, popping the clasp on the white plastic box that held the kit and opening it up. "I'm more than close enough."
The demon was silent (and, thankfully, cooperative) while Sam changed the wrappings on his knee and the bandages over his stab wound. It didn't take long, and when he was finished, he didn't strap the demon's ankle back against the chair. Instead, he grabbed his boot, lifted his foot straight up, got a surprised yelp out of him, and then settled his calf down on the seat of the kitchen chair as he stood up. His foot was sticking out through the cutout in the back, so that his whole leg was supported.
"How does that feel?" Sam asked, leaning on his cane as he watched the demon stare down at his tightly-wrapped and now straight knee.
"…better," he admitted gruffly, though he didn't look at Sam as he said it. "Hurts like a bitch, of course, but that's nothing new."
Demons can't feel the pain of their vessels. It doesn't mean anything to them. "Would painkillers work on you?" Sam asked, balancing on his good leg in order to reach for his pocket with his left hand. His right one was busy with holding the first-aid kit.
The demon shook his head. "I don't want any painkillers," he declared, so Sam put his hand back on his cane. "Think you've done everything you can for me right now. Well, short of taking these chains off of me." He rattled them, then smiled tightly. "But I guess I can't really blame you for keeping them on."
Sam smirked with one side of his mouth, then glanced around the cell. There were still dirty washcloths and bandages littering the cement around the demon's chair, and a stainless steel bowl filmed by soap scum (the water he hadn't spilled must have evaporated), but he'd clean all of that up later. When he was less tired and his leg felt better.
He heard a light flicking sound all of a sudden, and looked up to see that the demon's eyes had shifted to black, for the first time today.
"Still afraid of me?" he asked, voice shining with the hint of a challenge.
Sam looked at the demon's shiny black eyes, so similar to those of a bird, and swallowed. It was a reflexive gesture, though. Not a fearful one. Instead of answering his question, he quietly said, "I'm not gonna hurt you anymore. No more salt, no more holy water, no more exorcism rituals. No more torture."
He turned around and left the demon blinking at his back, locking the gate behind him after depositing the first-aid kit on his desk. He made a couple of trips to bring it and his food into his room, where he spread himself out on his bed with a soft sigh. He needed to give the leg that he'd been pretty much dragging around all morning a break. He'd put that cream on when he woke up. And take another couple of pain pills.
As he drifted off, he couldn't help feeling like he was going to regret the promise he'd made to the demon. About not torturing him anymore.
But it was a bit late to do something about it now. He was already asleep.