2. SKIN

This was the place where Dean had unceremoniously left her to die alone. Bela had come to kill Sam in hopes of wriggling out of her own demon deal, so when the brothers had tricked her here alone, she'd had nowhere to go at midnight. Dean had supposed she'd stayed in the room, tried to barricade it, but eventually the hounds had got to her. Yet there had been no body – Dean knew because he'd checked. He'd wanted to give her a proper burial, but the hellhounds had left nothing behind when they'd torn her apart: No blood, no weapons, not even a damn sign of a battle.

Dean dug up his duffle bag from the trunk of the car, holding steadily onto his shotgun that he'd already loaded with salt. He was ready to pull the trigger and dig a grave, yet he wasn't so sure that he was ready to find the obnoxious and selfish woman he'd known fully intact.

He approached the door with determination. It'd be over quickly if she was changed, but he didn't think he could drive right on back home afterwards. He would need some time to drown the demons she'd awoken inside by just calling. Her voice had awoken something else as well, something he couldn't quite place, but knew he'd lost when he'd lost Sam. Maybe it was hope? If Bela had escaped Hell maybe she knew something…

Even the room was the same, he realized upon searching his perimeters. He hadn't walked into that room for two years. He'd avoided coming back to this motel, knowing that being here would force him to confront her death. Dean tried to be a good soldier up to a fault; he tried to follow the example his father, even if it meant less to him now than it had while his father had still been alive. But the tendency to avoid emotions, to avoid contact, it had failed sometimes and he'd let people get to him. Perhaps he'd chosen Lisa, because she was safe and shunned countless others, because he'd known they were not. Bela had been anything but safe.

Gripping his shotgun he opened the door and realized it wasn't even locked. Dean entered the pitch black darkness and he was embraced by a thick silence. A moment after he began hearing the quiet sobs. He reached for the light switch, ready to act, to blow her and anyone helping her to hell, but when the light came on in the doorway, he quickly realized this didn't look like a set up.

Something moved in the back of the room near the beds. "Dean?" the sobbing voice asked, drawing his attention fully. He could see a humane shape sitting between the beds and he chose to approach with caution. The closer he got, the better the view began to open up to him: The figure was bald and wrapped in a blanket. He could easily see she was drenched in blood, for she was completely red in the thin light. Feeling pity fill his insides, Dean ignored his teachings and put the shotgun on the bed, walking up to her.

"Bela," he whispered hoarsely, finally seeing the horrifying truth now that the distance between them was short: This naked being in front of him was without skin, but still vaguely recognizable as the snarky woman he'd once known. What Dean had perceived as mere blood was in actuality muscles, tendons and bone, all bloodied and bare. Her bloodshot eyes spoke the truth when he saw hope light in them.

Dean had seen demons do a great deal of horrifying things to both mortals and one another, but the sight of her still made his insides crawl. He knew Hell in its sadistic glory, because he had once been one of its torturers, but seeing her like this made him think he still hadn't seen enough, didn't know half of what the demons were capable of. He didn't avert his eyes from her though, not even when he lifted the bag on the bed and kneeled before her. He had no words for this.

"So this is what happens when you stab a Winchester in the back too many times?" she asked softly, trying her best to summon back the old carefree illusion of herself. Dean merely blinked at the comment, all of his witty remarks stuck in his incredibly dry throat. So Bela reached for him with her bloodied hand, touching gently at his chin, as if to make sure he was real.

Dean pulled away when her bloody finger touched him and he pointed his attention towards the bag, starting his search for gauze. He wiped the blood from his chin a moment later, still feeling a chill to the bone because of her touch.

"I wasn't sure if you'd come," Bela confessed, knowing full well that she'd screwed Dean and his brother enough times to be considered an enemy rather than a friend. Yet she'd hoped and hope had kept her alive.

"I didn't think I'd come either," he responded, anger seething through his voice and the violent way he conducted his search. Yet when he found what he was looking for he seemed to calm down finally.

"Why did they let you go?" he asked, holding onto the gauze, nearly crushing it. She'd caught him caring for her, and he didn't like that. Things would've been so much easier, if she'd just been a demon and he could've blown her brains out and remembered Bela in kinder light, because of that tragedy.

"They didn't," she responded her eyes following his figure almost obsessively. She hugged her skinless knees, craving for warmth. Her skinless body was yearning to be touched and all he could do was accuse her. "I ran," she explained with irony conviction.

"Bullshit!" Dean yelled, throwing the gauze at her feet. "No one escapes Hell. Trust me, I know: Needed an angel to pull out my sorry ass!"

Bela looked pensive for a moment before sighing, "I wasn't in Hell, Dean. I chose something much worse."

Dean didn't know what to think. Worse than Hell? Fuck, no way! He'd lived through it and he didn't believe anything could compete with it. Anger was soaring through his body for her lies, but he had to remind himself of the horrors she'd lived through. Who was he to say she was even right in the head at the moment? Thinking this helped him calm down some and Dean approached her patiently beginning to bandage her hands with the gauze. He didn't say anything, but Bela could see the disbelief. She chose silence as well and settled to watch his silent efforts to help her.

Once her hands were bandaged Dean made an uncomfortable sound and looked as she rose silently and removed the blanket from her shoulders. She stood before him, completely naked and vulnerable. He found it difficult to continue but moved next to her anyway and looked at her bloodied flesh. The sight brought forth memories he'd tried his best to bury: nightmares and death and the smell of blood. He'd given up the life of a hunter because of this. Dean cleared his throat with unease. "I need more bandages. There's no way I'll get everything covered," he explained, unable to look away from her.

She was still recognizable, especially when he looked into her eyes. Her expressionless face burned his memory, forced him to imagine her the way she'd been: beautiful, confident, and treacherous. Had she changed any? He knew he was a different man, than the Dean Winchester, who'd gone to hell and risen to stop an apocalypse. Her sentence had been three times as long. He could picture them peeling her beauty and confidence step by step and leaving behind nothing but a young girl. He'd felt his own mortality and adolescence clearly in their hands.

"Please don't go," she begged and her voice shivered. These weren't crocodile tears meant to deceive him. They were the tears of a victim. She moved her hand slowly, as if to show him she meant no harm, to his shoulder and Dean let her. He watched her closely, sensing the anticipation in the air. Was forgiveness an option? Maybe not, but he needed to help her, because had asked him. He didn't owe her anything. It was simply the truth that was carved into his heart: Without Sam and Bobby, this could've been him. If he didn't help her, he was rotten to the core.

"Fine," he said and moved out of her reach. He then went to the closest bed and tore off the sheet. Dean held the white sheet in his hands for a moment before he turned back to her and wrapped it around her. The white sheet was quickly stained in blood and as Dean's hands still lingered on her shoulders, he too felt its moist touch through the sheet. He could feel her shivering in the cold as she had nothing to shield her. Bela's eyes were avoiding him. He too felt uncomfortable near her like this.

"Take the bed," he said, turning his eyes towards the wall. "You need to keep warm or we'll have more problems on our hands."

She nodded in silence and took a small step away from him, but his hands were still on her shoulders and their grip prevented her from going further. Bela breathed loudly, hoping that he wouldn't make her say the words, but she could tell things were far from clear between them. "I don't know if I can repay this," she finally admitted. Fear clutched her breast and she no longer knew whether he would strike her down or embrace her. For a long moment the silence brewed between them and breathing hurt like hell.

"Worry about that later," he finally answered and glanced at her. She could tell he was in disarray, but didn't comment further. Bela sat on the bed and buried herself in the sheet and blankets there. She laid on the bed quietly and watched as Dean paced around the room, not knowing what to think or feel. Eventually she allowed herself to fall asleep and the exhaustion to catch up. She hadn't slept in a long time.

Dean watched her sleep gun in hand and he sat on a chair near the window. He had no idea what to do. This wasn't what he'd expected and he knew very well this was the easy part of this gig. The hard part would be when someone or something would come after her, or when he'd need to find a way to regrow her skin, because he couldn't hide her like this. The hard part was looking at her like this and feeling something inside him move slowly: a knot made of hurt and regret.

TBC