Chapter 4 :- Despair
Dean looked at the wall less than ten feet away and almost laughed at the fact that that seemed too far, dammit he'd only had fifteen minutes with this bastard, Sam had endured at least an hour and had managed to walk out of here. There was a half hearted protest from some inner voice, the one that normally buoyed his confidence, something about the Demon cutting him deeper, hitting him harder, but he didn't believe it, so he dismissed it.
He was just being weak, pathetic.
He drew in a deep breath, that was not how he was going to die, pushing himself up he took a careful step, fighting the light-headedness, the next step was better, and the next. He reached the wall and tried to resist the temptation to lean into it with relief, drawing in another deep breath as he acknowledged what he had to do. He positioned himself, bracing against the pain that he knew was to come. He cursed silently, Mel Gibson had made this look so easy. He could do this.
Without giving himself more time to think he slammed his shoulder back into place, marvelling for a moment at how the pain and relief could strike so simultaneously, before allowing himself to sink to the floor panting heavily. Eventually he turned and sat, cradling his arm once more to his chest. His breathing had just about evened out when the he saw the tell tale swirls of black, felt the grip tighten again around his wrist and then there was just a sheer white wall of pain.
When his senses settled he was lying close to the stone table, his shoulder throbbing as badly as before, his arm trapped at an awkward angle. He shifted, biting back the sob, as the pain pulsed, and a grey wave of cold nausea swept up across his face, blanketing him in a cold sweat. He fought the urge to retch, holding himself as still as he could on his shaky arm as he waited the sensation out. Finally, he allowed himself to move, slowly. He brought himself to a sitting position, and drew in several long deep breaths. His shoulder had been wrenched out of the socket again. It had followed the same action as the first time, same action, same result, more pain. The bastard was playing with him. Slowly he pushed himself to standing, staggering across to the wall, needing to return to the state of blissful relief he positioned himself once more. This time he hesitated, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. This time he knew how much it was going to hurt, but dammit he wasn't going down without a fight. Now that Sam was safe there had to be something he could try. There had to be. . . . The 'something' of the thought was swallowed by the sharp pain of impact as he slammed the shoulder back into place again, and his thoughts stalled. The world greyed out, and he came to sitting leaning awkwardly against the wall, unsure of how much time had passed.
He glanced around nervously, looking for the tell-tale wisps of black that would swirl into view just before the pain hit. He hugged his arm protectively against him, trying to block any chance of the Demon grabbing it for a third time. He had to think. There had to be something that he could do. He needed a weapon, something, anything that he could fight back with. Maybe he could catch those black swirls, maybe if he caught it just right, maybe. . He caught the movement only in his peripheral vision and then the claw dug into his shoulder and raked down, and his only vent for the pain was the low scream that was ripped from him.
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Sam ran. His lungs burned, his cut and abraded skin protested, the stitch in his side stabbed painfully, and still he ran. He was too far away now to hear the screams, but the last one he had heard still echoed through his consciousness, still fuelled movement from muscles which should have long ago given up. He was not going to let Dean die. He was going to stop this. He was. .
The determination was interrupted by a stumble as he caught his foot on a tree root, off balance he staggered forward, barely catching himself on the nearby trunk, to avoid a painful fall to the ground. Even in his adrenaline overloaded system there was a reaction, his heart pumping faster, his vision spinning. He righted himself and stood, holding himself upright, as he dealt with the falling sensation that persisted even though he was now still. It took a moment, and he gulped air gratefully into overtaxed lungs, his body now taking advantage of this brief respite from running. He blinked in the dimming evening light and took his bearings. Not far to the cabin now, not far.
All he had to do was start running again, push himself away from the tree and start running. If he hadn't stopped he was sure that he would have made it all the way to the cabin. So why was starting moving again so hard?
He tried to ignore the trembling in his arms as he pushed away from the security of the tree, tried to ignore the residual weakness that was making taking the next step hard. He had to start running again, had to. He took another step that was far too slow and then another, forcing the limb forward faster, faster, faster. He deliberately leant forward, giving himself no choice but to bring his leg through quickly in an effort to stop overbalancing, and again, and again until his pace had built up and he was running again.
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Dean drew in another painful breath and tried to force himself to move from his prone position, to not just lay there and wait to die. The fight had drained out of him, it had been slow, it had been painful, but he no longer had the will to fight back. He had tried to pull himself together enough to strike back against it, had managed to force his shoulder back into place at least once more or was it twice? He'd stumbled back to the table more times than he could remember, looking for anything he could use as a weapon against it. In desperation he'd even thrown the candle wax at it. Hot wax aimed at where the Demon's eyes should have been. He'd been slammed into the table for that, pulled away and slammed again and again until his ribcage was on fire, until breathing hurt. Then he'd been left long enough to recover. Long enough to sit up and start moving around. Long enough to think about making for the door and the outside, and a possible new source of weapons. Long enough to make his move, and be tripped by the entrance so that he went down hard, inches from the threshold, as a clawed hand slammed into his side and drew new rivulets of blood. Long enough to take away his hope.
Now he just wanted it to end, just wanted the pain to go away. Finally, it was too much, and the admission cost him a piece of his soul, because life was not something you gave up easily. Life was something you fought for tooth and nail until your last breath, but he couldn't fight any more. The pain was too much, the thought was there, mixed with guilt and regret. He just wanted it to end.
He raised his head shakily, scanned the silent seemingly empty room. "Come on you bastard," he shouted as loudly as his protesting ribs and raw throat would allow. "Finish it."
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Sam fumbled with the latch on the door, almost falling through as it gave, and the door to the cabin creaked open. He allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment, scanning the dim interior for the fireplace. It was just off to the left up two wooden steps to what had once been the main room. He lurched forward, his ungainly half falling run now the only way he could force his limbs to move. He headed for the fireplace, but diverted at the last minute to drag the torn and dusty drapes apart to allow the fading sunlight into the room. He coughed as the dust spread in a cloud around him but ignored the irritation as he moved to the fireplace. His eyes scanning as he dropped to his knees. His fingers then took over as he traced around every stone, looking for any sign that one of them was loose, ignoring the scrapes as the rough stone took the skin from his knuckles. He moved as methodically as he could. Ignored the voice that was screaming in his head, that he was taking too long, that Dean didn't have the time. He should work faster, move quicker, ignore the detail. He ignored the voice because he knew that it was wrong, knew that his best chance was to remain calm, to search thoroughly, to miss nothing. The next stone could be the one, if he skipped any he might miss it, and so he suppressed the biting frustration and worked as carefully as his trembling muscles would allow.
He was halfway through when the cold fear hit, and he stopped abruptly. Panic swept through his mind in an unreasoning tangle. What if it wasn't here? What if he was too late? What if the Demon had already . .? What if he couldn't find the crystal? The shaking of his hands increased as his breathing rate kicked up and his chest tightened. Spots danced before his eyes. What if. . .? He felt himself drop to his knees as the rising panic response wreaked havoc on his already weakened system. Darkness started clawing in at the edges of his vision, and the questions abruptly ceased as despair took over. He was failing and if he failed his brother would die. Dean would. . . He closed his eyes tightly against the tears that welled. No! he was too close. . too close. No, just no, he couldn't let this happen, not now. He drew in a deliberately slow, deep breath, forced his mind to blank all thought, concentrated on his breathing until it settled out slow and even.
He opened his eyes and let out a breathy curse. He couldn't afford the time. .he cut off the thought before it had time to form further, knowing that it wouldn't help, that it had the potential to debilitate him again. With deliberate care and a single focus he went back to searching, his mind only on the crystal. He would allow himself the luxury of thinking about his brother again only when he had the crystal.
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"Beg."
Dean blinked, considered for a moment if he had spoken, if that was what he had heard. No, he was fairly sure that it wasn't him, didn't sound like him and why would he have. . ?
"Beg."
The single word had been uttered just behind him and to the left he was sure now. He was sitting hunched forward in the middle of the floor, curled around the pain from his chest, from his arms. He turned awkwardly to look for the source but there was nothing, not even the tell tale slivers of blackness. Was he hallucinating now? Was there. . ?
He froze, hot breath blew across the back of his neck, this time from the right. He tensed, waiting for the onslaught of pain. He waited, the breath continued to tickle across his skin, sweat ran down his face and dripped off his chin, his own breath was held against the ache in his lungs. What was it waiting. .?
"Beg for death," the tone was a mellow tenor, soft almost lilting, persuasive. "Beg me to kill you and end your pain."
Dean let the air escape slowly, as the voice invaded his senses, and blanketed him in a soft calm acceptance. That was what he wanted, needed. He needed the pain to end.
"Beg me," the voice insisted.