A/N:
Just a brief warning that this chapter contains some rather descriptive torture. So, read it or not based on you own discretion.
Tied spread-eagled to the bed and waiting for the full extent of Molly's wrath to unleash itself, Sam was in so much agony that he couldn't stop himself from hyperventilating as he wondered what was going to happen to him. Whatever it was wasn't going to be pleasant; the brutality with which the incensed spirit had strapped him to the bed made that perfectly clear. And the severe constriction of the cuffs binding his wrists and ankles, along with the punishing inflexibility of the iron chains racking him helplessly to the bedposts, further illustrated how intense her anger was. The cold metal shackles encircling Sam's wrists and ankles dug viciously into his skin and he could tell without seeing that his hands and feet were all drenched in his own blood. If his arms and legs hadn't been so excruciatingly wrenched out to his sides, he would have noticed that a lack of circulation had left all his extremities completely numb.
Sweat covered both his face and body as he struggled to gain control of the insufferable pain. He closed his eyes and waited; afraid of what he might see if he left them open. Not being able to see Molly didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to see whatever it was she decided to torture him with. God knew there were a multitude of weapons stashed everywhere around the room. Dean's bowie knife was probably still hidden between the mattress and box spring of his bed and there were other various types of guns and weaponry stowed underneath the beds and tucked into drawers and different places throughout the cramped room.
After ten or fifteen long-drawn-out minutes, the torment he dreaded still hadn't materialized; in fact, nothing at all had happened and Sam began to wonder if Molly had had a change of heart. Or, maybe, her initial fury had sufficiently abated after she had so maliciously trussed him to the bed. Sam let a few more minutes pass before he cautiously opened his eyes. But what met his wary gaze made his heart skip a beat and he promptly squeezed them shut again.
Because Dean's large bowie knife was hovering hazardously close to his right eye.
And he had watched Dean sharpen the damn thing just the day before.
He immediately realized he had made a critical mistake; opening his eyes just long enough to witness the demented spirit's intentions. She had undoubtedly been waiting patiently for his apprehension to wane, more than willing to delay the torture until Sam was fully aware of what type of punishment was in store for him.
Gulping down his rising panic, Sam squeezed his eyes shut as the razor-sharp blade of Dean's knife pressed down on his cheekbone; the exerted pressure not quite strong enough to perforate his skin. The highly-sharpened cutting edge of the blade meandered slowly down the side of Sam's face, chafing its way right down to his jaw. The knife was then tilted up onto its tip and the finely-chiseled point shoved harshly into his skin. Sam flinched, drawing in an agonizing breath as blood spurted forth from the small, circular wound. But acting as if nothing at all had happened, Molly leisurely dragged the extremely sharp edge of the knife along the underside of Sam's chin, upholding the pressure on the knife so that it sliced a bloody, pencil-thin line all the way across his jawbone.
The unbearable torture now much more than he could bear, Sam drove the back of his head deeply into the pillow as he gritted his teeth to stop from screaming out; regardless of the misery she inflicted, he simply wasn't willing to give Molly the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in anguish. And as much as he could have easily slipped into a more-than-welcome state of unconsciousness, he knew that, at the present time, Molly was vindictive enough to stop torturing him the minute that he wasn't alert enough to feel it. And that she would only recommence tormenting him after he had fully reawakened.
The malicious trek across Sam's jawline completed, the blood-soaked blade was yanked away from his face. But the grisly torture didn't end there. Molly grabbed Sam's shirt, lifting it just far enough off his bloody, sweat-ridden body for the knife to hack through the cotton fabric of the collar. With the initial slice in the neckline completed, the knife was repositioned vertically so that, with each additional downward slash through the shirt, its finely-honed point stabbed callously into Sam's well-muscled torso. Each cruel jab into his body caused him to groan out in agony from the unbearable pain. On the final thrust through the shirt Molly pushed the finely-honed tip of the knife into Sam's abdomen, grinding it deeply into his flesh as she vindictively twisted it back and forth. In response to the evil affliction, Sam raised his torture-ridden upper body minutely off the bed, only to be halted by the unyielding chains that held him tight. Collapsing back onto the mattress, the evil blade was finally withdrawn from his groin and Sam raspily sucked in a wavering breath before emitting a low, disparaging moan.
Fearing that the sadistic torture was still at its onset, Sam braced himself for the next round, mentally distancing himself from his body by trying to focus on happier times. But no matter what direction his mind took, it always came back to the same thing:
His brother.
Dean had always been there looking out for him, protecting him, comforting him and, even fighting his battles for him. Everytime it was needed, Dean could also be counted on to patch up whatever injuries he had sustained in whatever situation they had been involved in. But he couldn't expect his brother to do any of those things now; it was far too dangerous for him to step foot anywhere near here now. Because, with the mood Molly was in, she'd be more than willing to suspend her torture of him and go at Dean with every evil ounce of her being, not stopping until she killed him.
And, if Sam's time perception was still worth anything, he knew that Dean would to return very, very soon.
So against his better judgment, Sam decided to try to talk to the incensed spirit; see if he could get her to calm down a bit before his brother arrived. "Molly?" he ventured quietly.
There was nothing by way of a response, not even the slightest movement from the large hunting knife that still hovered in the air above his head.
"Look, I'm sorry," he offered hoarsely. "I really only wanted to help you."
The knife lowered to his throat.
"Molly," Sam persisted, even though his anxiety had excelerated so that it was nearly through the roof, "I know you're mad at me, but this really isn't any way to treat a friend."
Molly thrust the sharp blade into his neck, just below his collarbone, forcing Sam to take another deep breath.
"Could we just talk for a minute, Molly?"
There was no reaction to his request.
"Listen Molly, I was stupid to keep inquiring about your boyfriend when you specifically told me to stop. I know I should have listened to you. But I can't change what happened. I can only promise I won't do anything like that again."
Molly slowly removed the knife from his neck, but still kept it swaying in the air, just a few inches from her captive's face.
Sam hesitated as he stared at the deadly blade, unsure whether it was actually a good idea to continue. But he also realized that he could quite possibly lose everything if he didn't persevere. So, swallowing what little pride he had left, Sam decided it would be best to just concede defeat.
"Please, Molly," he pleaded timidly, "I promise I'll do everything that you want me to from now on."
No sooner were the submissive words out of his mouth when the knife dropped harmlessly onto the bed. Even though it had come at a trouble cost to him, Sam breathed a huge sigh of relief. He had just verbally given away what was left of his own free will. But, all in all he viewed it as a fair trade. Not only had he been able to placate Molly enough that she released the knife, he had also been successful at stopping the horrible torture. And now that he had managed to get himself away from any immediate danger, with any luck at all, he'd be able to ensure that Dean stayed out of harm's way as well.
Molly shifted her weight, moving from the bottom of the bed over to Sam's left side, jiggling the entire bed as she prepared to lie down beside him. Her abnormally cold body snuggled up to his, the abhorrent sensation making him gasp as he tried to avoid shuddering from the unwelcome closeness. Molly tucked what remained of his tattered shirt underneath him before setting her hand down on Sam's bare chest, seemingly unaffected by the sticky blood that had begun drying on his torso. The frostiness of her touch involuntarily caused Sam to jump and he was somewhat afraid that his instinctive reaction would once again upset the unstable spirit. But he relaxed a little bit as Molly cuddled closer up to him, laying her head gently on his shoulder.
As disturbing as the bizarre situation was, Sam forced himself into complacency. After all, he had agreed to abide by her demands. And, if what she wanted was to lie down next to him, Sam didn't see any logical reason why he shouldn't be able to cope with that. But just as his harried nerves began to settle down, the pain of his injuries took hold and a rapid quivering came over his entire body. It was a natural reaction to the blood loss and torture Molly had inflicted on him and had undoubtedly been made worse by the fact that her frosty body was now nestled tightly up against him. Unable to make the incessant shivering stop on his own, Sam decided it might be better to broach the subject before it ended up annoying her.
"Molly, I'm...I'm cold. And I'm...shivering. Please help me."
The spirit didn't move.
"I think it's from the blood loss that's making me shiver."
She still gave no indication that she was paying attention.
"I really, really need your help, Molly."
She pressed a cold finger against his lips.
"Molly," Sam persisted, whispering softly underneath her finger, "Please help me."
Sam's desperate pleading must have had some effect on the spirit because he heard the the bottom drawer of the dresser at the far end of the room slowly slide open. The blanket that was stored there drifted slowly up into the the air, spreading itself out as it approached the bed and gently floated down on top of them., Sam watched as the blanket fell across both himself and his invisible companion, more than a little surprised to witness a very distinct outline of her body come into view underneath the blanket. Quickly warming up underneath the thick covering, the trembling in Sam's body gradually slowed and he whispered a quiet thank-you to his captor.
But the extreme discomfort in his strongly tethered arms and legs kept him from feeling any sense of well-being and the horrendous pain that tore through his arms and legs, coupled with the severity of his recently inflicted wounds, intensified the longer he lay there. And even though he tried not to dwell on it, the overly-taut bindings were much too torturous for him to ignore. Still he opted to suffer in silence for what seemed like an incredibly long time, before he decided to push his trepidation aside in a last ditch attempt to get Molly to create some much-needed slack in his chains.
"Molly," he proposed lightly, praying his statement at least came across as sounding sincere, "If you'll let me, I'd really like to put my arm around you."
But once again, nothing happened. Sam tried to readjust his position on his own, but was not surprised by the complete futility of his efforts.
Sighing, he tried one more time, this time getting more to the point. "We could probably both be much more comfortable if you'd just loosen the chains a bit and let me hold you."
Molly clasped her freezing-cold hand viciously over Sam's nose and mouth, all but suffocating him at the same time as it forced him to be silent. He twisted his head back and forth rapidly, trying to dislodge her hand in order to breath. But Molly clamped down harder, the pressure increasing tenfold and ensuring that her unspoken order was coming through loud and clear. This time, Sam knew better than to continue pushing his luck. He stopped struggling and lay quietly on the bed, resigning himself to whatever spiteful punishment Molly was going to render and silently hoping that his obedience would lead to her removing her hand very soon. Just as he felt he was going to pass out from lack of oxygen, a loud crash shook the door to the motel room. Molly's hand jumped off Sam's face at the same time as a second loud smash reverberated around the small room. Sam breathed in thankfully and turned to look just in time to see the door being violently kicked open.
His heart skipped a beat.
Dean had arrived.
Sam wanted to call out to his brother, tell him to leave, warn him about Molly. There were a million things he wanted to alert him to but his mind was a blur; he couldn't think straight. Nor could he find the ability to speak. The prolonged torture, mixed with his overwhelming pain and recent deprivation of air, had completely starved both his body and mind so that now he felt like he was only a participant in some psychologically-charged dream and that none of this was really happening. Not that he was in any position to stop it, even if it was.
Dean burst into the room, spraying holy water in all directions. Flinging the phantom-repelling liquid on as many objects as his fervent tosses could reach - lamps, tables, chairs, dressers, the television and even his own bed – Dean quickly drained the overly large flask. Grabbing another flask from inside his jacket, he hastily turned it upside down, dumping the entire contents over his head and saturating his body before he discarded the two bottle on the floor behind him.
Then, Dean grinned maniacally at the hidden shapes on Sam's bed.
"Come and get me now, Bitch!" he challenged loudly.
A strong whoosh of air traveled across the room, stopping dead only inches from the oldest Winchester brother and, although the wind gust had been powerful enough to knock him from his feet, Dean somehow managed to stand his ground.
"You can't touch me, Sweetheart!" declared Dean haughtily, "Not as long as I'm drenched in this stuff!"
Without warning a lamp that had been too far away for the holy water to splash flew across the room directly toward Dean. It was followed quickly by a small table chair and the telephone. Dean easily sidestepped the first two items and ducked out of the way of the third but when he looked back up, a drawer from Sam's night table was headed straight for him.
Deflecting the drawer with his elbow, Dean taunted, "Sure you can throw things at me Molly! But sooner or later the only items you'll have left will be the ones I poured holy water on!" With a uppity grin he added, "And you can't touch those!"
That said, Dean quickly pulled out another flask, once again dousing whatever its contents could reach. As he worked to ensure that most of the items in the room would remain untouchable by Molly, other smaller items, most of them from the bathroom, came soaring toward him: first an iron, then a blow dryer and a small shelf flew across the room. The toilet seat, a mirror and other items followed next, coming in such rapid succession that Dean's only choice was to dive behind his bed to avoid them. When the assault was finally over, he rose slowly to his feet, chuckling lightly to prove to the irate poltergeist just how futile her latest mode of attack had been.
But, standing up and glancing toward his brother's bed, the lop-sided grin fell instantly from his face.
Sam was sitting up, Dean's large bowie knife rammed tightly against his throat.