The screams aren't Dean's. That's what I keep telling myself. It's not him. I've heard Dean scream in pain. I've watched him be cut and sliced and punched and kicked. I have watched him be beat half to death and back. I've watched him be knocked unconscious more times than I care to count. I know what his screams sound like.
Those screams aren't Dean's.
Make no mistake, I've watched him beat the hell out of more than one monster. Sometimes more than one at a time. It's the job. They might not always die easily or fast, but they have to die. I've seen him punish, and I've seen him take satisfaction in a good fight. I've seen him get information when it was needed. I've never really seen him enjoy it. And I've never heard screams like that.
That's not him screaming. And that's all that's keeping me rooted in place. It's the only thing keeping me from breaking down that door to get to him. That, and the order to not move. How can I defy that simple request when he is facing the monster that lurks in his darkest places.
I don't know what he is actually doing, not the blow by blow. He doesn't want me to know. I don't need to. I don't want to. All I want to know is that the man I love is safe. That the anchor of my world is going to walk out of that room in one piece. I want to know that my world will not be shattered again.
"I wonder sometimes," I say as I sense rather than hear Castiel approach behind me. I am so tense, it's like he disturbed the waves of worry that must be radiating from my body.
"What do you wonder, Jane?" Curious in his powerfully naive way.
"I wonder what my life would be like if the vamps had never come across my mother. If my father hadn't died defending us. If the state had been unable to find Uncle Bobby, or if he'd refused to take me."
"Why do you wonder this now?"
"Because I also wonder where I would be at this moment if I had never met Dean Winchester. If I had never fallen in love with him, or if he'd only ever seen me as a young, hero-worshiping piece of ass. If he'd never loved me back. Where would I be, Castiel? Can you tell me that? Would I be here, listening to him tear himself apart behind that door?" I don't mean to yell. I can't seem to stop myself, either.
"That is not Dean screaming in pain," he says, utterly confused.
"I know. I know. I just-" I sigh, unable to even explain what I mean to myself.
"You are here for him now, Jane. That is what's important. Isn't it?"
"Yes. Yes, it is." I sigh again because there is just nothing else to do. Another thought grabs hold, taunts me, shows me another thing I can't fix. "He took a bottle in there with him, did you notice? Just to get through it on his feet. He takes a bottle everywhere these days, to cope. The memories, the nightmares. This will make it worse. Being as drunk as functionally possible is his only escape, the one crutch he relies on without a second thought."
"He has you. And Sam."
"He worries about me and Sam."
"I see," the angel replies, but he really doesn't.
"This isn't who he wants to be. And I don't want to be here watching it. It's too hard to think he could be slipping away. I'm afraid he'll get lost inside himself, Cas." I don't know why I'm telling him all of this. I guess, at the moment, he's all I've got.
"I wish I could send you back to Sam. I'm sorry."
"Never mind. I wouldn't leave him even if I could. I can't. Because the what if 's never happened. I do love him, he does love me. I can't leave him to face this alone." And the traitorous tears begin to flow despite my strangled efforts to stop them.
Before I can wipe my face dry, the overhead lights begin to pop, eerily reminiscent of the moment of Castiel's arrival in our lives.
"Uninvited guest, Castiel?"
"Yes. Stand close to me." I don't have to be told twice. Just as I reach his side, finally moving from the exact place where Dean left me, I see familiar red hair atop a self-important swagger.
"Anna," I sneer.
"Jane," she responds, with no emotion in her voice. Her eyes tell a slightly different tale as she gives me a once over. I feel weighed and measured, but if she wants me to feel as though I've been found wanting, she's going to have to bring it in a rather more slammin' body. She has no cause to be smug. He chose me, bitch, I think to myself. He chooses me every time.
And I smirk. I'm good at it; my boyfriend taught me how. Anna is not pleased by my reaction, but I am. All it took was one look at this angel hell bent on getting in my man's pants, and I've found my strength again. Enough of this whiny damsel bullshit. Enough of the what if's. Dean needs me now.
Before she can respond to my not so subtle challenge, Castiel unleashes his confusion again.
"Anna. Your human body?"
"It was destroyed, I know. But I guess I'm sentimental. Called in some old favors." She looks to me when she says this. I raise an eyebrow.
"Should have traded up for one with bigger boobs."
"You don't like me."
"No more than you like me," I assure her. We lock eyes for a moment, settling in to this fact. At least we know where we stand with each other.
"You shouldn't be here," Castiel warns her. "We still have orders to kill you." Now these are heavenly orders I don't mind so much.
"Somehow, I don't think you'll try." I don't like the way she said that. I don't like the way she spoke to Castiel. She's too sure of her rightness.
"What makes you special? What makes you better than him, or Junkless out there?" I ask, referring to Uriel with Dean's not so affectionate nickname.
The gleam in her eye as she turns back to me is fanatic in its bold confidence, and I find myself taking an ill-considered step toward her. Every fiber in my being is screaming to smack the smug right off her face. Our catfight is postponed by another unholy shout of pain coming from beyond the steel door. The sound shifts Anna's attention from me to Cas.
"Why are you letting Dean do this?" Anna asks Castiel. I want that answer, as well. The real answer, not the Uriel-approved one. Not the confused blow off. Why?
"He's doing God's work," Cas tells her. For once, Anna and I agree; neither of us buy that, and she argues her point with her former subordinate.
"Stop him, Cas," she finally begs. "Before you ruin the one real weapon you have."
Before I can ask just what in hell she means by that, she turns her full attention to me again, just in time for her to see me involuntarily cringe at Alistair's latest shout. I curl inward, as if by protecting myself, I can somehow protect Dean, too. I see a new look in her eyes. I think it's sympathy. At the very least, I see understanding in her gaze.
"Go to him," she says. And then I'm landing again, this time on the other side of that steel door.
I see and hear and feel so much at once, a sensory overload of torture and hate and evil. Alistair is steaming and screaming and dripping with what can only be holy water. There is blood, and knives, and all manner of hooked and sharp blades haphazardly tossed on the once meticulously neat cart. The air is hot and damp and thick. The smell of blood and sweat nearly makes me gag, but amidst the frenzied presence of pain, I have to focus.
Dean, as in every situation, captures my attention first and foremost. The beacon within me, that draws me to him always, does not fail me now. He is pouring holy water in the demon's face, and he is as yet unaware of my sudden presence. I know that will change in seconds. He has his own beacon. And as soon as the idea is thought, he turns with eyes widened.
"I knew I'd ping your radar," I joke, trying desperately to mask the profound shock I feel at the scene before me. I am woefully unprepared for this reality.
His eyes, though showing bare hints of surprise and alarm now, are still nearly as dead as when first I arrived in this small room carved from Hell. Dead eyes and a sneer that appears so comfortable on his face, it's as though it has always been there. Gone completely is the man I know. The man I love is stowed away somewhere safe, I hope, away from the darkness that has claimed the man in front of me. I'm scared. Not of Dean, but of everything he is battling.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" he growls, angry. Concerned, yes, but most seriously pissed.
"I don't know," I tell him honestly. I have to make sure he knows I didn't defy his request, his order to stay put, on my own. It wasn't intentional. "I think-"
"She was sent in here, Dean," the monster on the rack informs him in a sickeningly delighted voice after spitting blood and water from his mouth. He smiles. "This pretty, soft, sweet, tender little girl was sent in here by an angel. What's your name, little girl?"
A/N: I am so sorry. I just couldn't get the flow right. I'm still not convinced I got it right. Hope it doesn't suck!