Harker pushed the needle deep into the crook of Dean's unmoving arm. He barely felt the small prick. It was lost in the inescapable throbbing that ruled his body.
When she pushed the plunger down, however, he felt it all too clearly.
The salted holy water gushed out of the needle and into his bloodstream. His traitorous heart pumped the poison away from his arm and throughout his body. It burned like acid. He felt his blood and tissues steam inside him.
He had no energy left to scream. Instead, a guttural, growling moan fell like the blood dribbling from his lips. With each heartbeat, the water was forced farther and farther through his helpless living corpse.
He had lost track of how long he had been chained in this too-bright room. It had to have been more than two weeks by now. Maybe even three. His beard was dark with congealed blood. His chest looked like a Jackson Pollock painting, the red crisscrossing lines and smeared blood covering his once smooth skin with countless shades of red. But the worst pain of all was his separation from the First Blade. That was what was killing him. Slowly.
It was as though burning rusted iron teeth had clamped down on his mind, and they were made of a single thought: kill. It ran through his mind on a loop, a ceaseless, painful pounding from which there was no escape. Each syllable reverberated through the dazed caverns of his mind like a physical force, echoed by the spasming pains in his chest. He could feel the undeniable, insatiable need thrashing inside him, tearing him apart far more effectively than the angelblade. How Cain had given this up, had lived through this torture, was beyond Dean.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Despite his Wolverine-like healing abilities, fresh blood trickled down Dean's torso like a forgotten tap left dripping. Wounds inflicted by angelblades, Kurds knives and even ordinary silver, when laced with salt and holy water, took a lot longer to heal that an ordinary cut. In his first week, he had recognised the lines Maalik had carved in his skin as a spell-form, a demon-warding symbol which he and Harker kept fresh by retracing the half-healed wounds every few days. Having a sigil that repels your very existence carved into your chest was surprisingly uncomfortable. Even through the bullet from the Colt had finally worked its way free of his flesh, the wound wasn't healing and still throbbed angrily with every breath. His ribs stuck out in red-tinged ridges and his breathing was laboured. His wrists and shins were numb and his spine and shoulders were in desperate need of release from the constant tension and lack of movement.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Oh how he welcomed it. He found an odd sort of solace in the physical pain. It distracted him from the thunderstorm of need blazing through him, burning him more than the sanctified water.
Maalik and Harker had taken turns torturing him. When Harker was about to collapse from exhaustion, Maalik would stride in, always wearing the immaculate suit and shiny shoes (which Dean used as target practice for spitting blood), and he would take the angelblade or the syringe or the scalpels from Harker's shaking hands, and she would lumber away like something out of Dawn of the Dead.
Maalik was more precise, more controlled. Obviously a professional. Dean had complimented his techniques, asking if he was considering a change in vocation: he'd do brilliantly in Hell. Every bit as good as Alistair had been. Only more patient.
Harker, on the other hand, was enjoying this way too much. Dean had wondered several times if she was high or something, her eyes were so wild. He'd gathered that he had hurt someone she loved, but so far she hadn't said much. Not while he was conscious, anyway.
"Are you working with Castiel?" she asked now, as though asking a passerby for the time. So cheery.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"No," he droned. The tedium of hearing the same questions over and over was almost as bad as the salt. "Trench Coat's too good for me now."
His words were slurred and his brain clouded with a dense fog that made it hard to think. The constant beating of kill kill kill was hypnotising. With difficulty, he focused on Harker's dark eyes as she watched her blade twirl between her fingers.
"How many Knights have you created? Where are they?"
"On vacation. 'N Bali."
He was adamantly being as unhelpful and infuriating as possible. As far as he knew, angels couldn't kill Knights of Hell, but on the off chance they could, he wasn't going to risk giving Michelle and Lucius up. They were his family.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Cas he protected more out of habit than anything else, he thought. Whoever was pulling Maalik's strings clearly wanted an excuse to turn what angels were with him against Cas, and Dean was not going to help with that. He'd heard Cas had been doing well in Heaven, returning one angel at a time and giving them all direction. That had been a few months ago, though.
Harker responded with a graceless knee to his groin. He strained against the chains, trying and failing to double over.
"God dammit, woman!" he wheezed. "Seriously, what is with you? I'm a demon and even I don't go for the jewels!"
Harker shrugged and took a step back, taking him in. She smiled in satisfaction.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
He glanced down at himself. His front was completely crimson now, with splotches of a deeper burgundy where the blood had dried. His chest was an Etch A Sketch of deep cuts. The sigil, which he knew must be at least as old as Cain if not older, was one of the most complicated spell-forms he'd ever seen. Judging by the significant increase in pressure against his power, the elaborate sigil for warding and weakening demons was as successful in subduing a guy as was a knee to the crotch.
It was certainly effective. He felt even weaker than he had been as a human. If he was human now, he'd have long since died of shock or blood loss or of the pain alone.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Even now, keeping conscious for more than a few minutes at a time was becoming ever more difficult. Blackness sucked at his mind whenever he was awake, whispering sweet promises of an escape from the aches and stings and burns. Unfortunately for him, Maalik had cast some spell on the chains around his wrists. Whenever he lost consciousness and his heart rate slowed, the chains would burn like salted iron and he would be jerked awake, confused and disorientated.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Every few days (he assumed), when his responses were little more than mumbled gibberish, they did let him sleep. Or recharge, since demons didn't sleep.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"Y-You gonna tell me wh-where you stowed my blade?" He asked this question at least once a session, mostly just to annoy them. See how they liked being asked the same questions over and over and over.
Harker just smiled sweetly. "It's safe, demon. I keep telling you not to worry about your precious little bone."
She stepped forward and pushed her fist against his stomach, digging into his ruined flesh. She wore iron rings on both hands and they burned his skin like a red-hot poker.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"Whe-when I get outta this thing," he slurred, fixing her with his one good eye, "I'm gonna rip you apart, bitch."
Harker smiled and gripped his throat, forcing his head back against the Devil's Trap. She reached back to the table with her free hand.
"Will you, demon?" she taunted him. "How?"
"Just you wait, you little –"
His words were cut off by a container of rock salt being poured into his open mouth. He gagged, trying to spit the burning grains out, but the flow was too strong and he only succeeded in swallowing and inhaling more.
She released him and he heaved. Bloody blobs of it flopped dully from his bleeding mouth onto the floor between his feet. He gasped in desperate breaths around the corroding, burning salt.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
When the fit was over, he laughed.
"What's so funny?" Harker demanded.
"You," Dean rasped, the single word scraping up along his throat.
"Me?"
"Yeah." He spat out more blood and something stringy that was probably meant to stay inside him. "You. You must ... really ... hate me." His energy was flagging again, but he ignored the heavy pull of every muscle longing to rest.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Something flashed in Harker's eyes. She was debating something internally, he knew. He'd seen enough of her methods to know that this hunter had rules. And lots of them. It looked like she was considering breaking one of them now.
"Oooh," she cooed, snatching the long, shining Kurds knife up in her hand and tracing it from Dean's temple to his chin, eliciting another stream of bright red blood that trickled down his neck. "I do, Dean Winchester. I truly, truly do."
"Well," he whispered intimately. "It's just us h-here. Tell me a story, Melanie."
She cringed when he said her name. He grinned bloodily at her.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"C'mon, Mel," he sneered. "Tell me wh-at I did. Forget to ca-all you?" he mocked.
The knife flicked to his throat, the tip a hair's breadth from his Adam's apple.
"You murdered Max." Her voice was low and tight with hatred and grief.
"Max ..." He stared at her, nonplussed. "Boyfriend?"
"My brother." Harker's voice faltered as her eyes blazed with rage and pain. "My little brother. You stabbed him in a crack house. Over and over."
"Did I?" He made a show of thinking. "Nope. Don't re-member little Maxie."
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
With a cry of rage, Harker thrust the blade hilt-deep into Dean's abdomen, widening the hole left by the bullet. Dean gasped as the new pain lightninged through him and the area around the knife burned.
"You stabbed him!" She yanked the ancient knife out of Dean. "While he was high!" She stabbed him again. "He didn't even know what was going on!" And again. "He was only twenty!" Again. "And it wasn't" – she plunged the blade into him – "his" – and back in – "fault!"
She wrenched the demon knife out of Dean's gut and stood there panting as he tried to breathe.
"It wasn't his fault," she repeated in a defeated whisper. Her gaze was caught in memory and she spoke as though in a dream. "He just – he couldn't cope with it. With what happened. How could he? He was so little ..."
She glanced up at Dean still trying to suck in some much-needed air. He couldn't raise his head to look at her, but he could hear how desperate she was for him – for anyone – to believe her.
"He was so young when it happened, how would anyone expect him to handle it? He was only fourteen!"
She must have mistaken Dean's brief coughing fit as an invitation to continue.
"My parents. A demon killed them. In front of Max and me. He was only fourteen, we didn't even know demons existed back then. And it was slow." Tears shook the words. Her arms swung slowly around to cradle her ribs, as though trying to hold herself together. The knife glinted ruby-silver in the light of the buzzing bulb.
"It made us watch" – she took a quick, shallow breath – "every strike. I smoked out of the body it was in and into my dad's." Her voice caught in her throat as she remembered. "And th-then he started in on Mom. It – it –" She took a deep breath, suppressing a sob. "It was pure evil, that thing.
"And Max, he was so young, he just couldn't understand it." She spoke faster now, desperate to justify herself. "I tried to take care of him, I did. I left Harvard Med to look after him, but I just ... I dropped everything. I was barely functioning myself, but then he met this dealer who promised him a high so pure he'd forget his own name.
"And he did. For years he did. I ... I couldn't save him."
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
She looked up and met Dean's bloodshot eye. The steel returned to her eyes and voice.
"And so I started saving everyone else. I've killed more demons than any other hunter. I'm what demons have nightmares about."
Dean snorted.
"You don't believe me?" she asked contemptuously.
"I'm ... a ... Winchester ... bitch," he breathed in a coarse whisper.
She pursed her lips and gripped the blade's hilt more securely. "Max was in that house you raided all those months ago. If it wasn't for you, he would still be alive. You murdered him."
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"S-So?" Dean wheezed, his voice barely audible.
"SO?" Harker roared, furious. "What do you mean 'so'?" She slashed the air with the red-stained silver and a fresh line of crimson appeared across Dean's cheek.
"So ... if you loved him s-so much ... why d-didn't you s ... save him?"
Harker looked incredulous. "I TRIED!" she bellowed, her voice echoing. "For years I tried everything!"
"No," Dean rasped. "Why didn't you b-bring him back?"
"Bring – what?"
Dean's lips curved in a tired smirk. "If y-you loved him so ... so much, you could have m-made a deal." He swallowed a mouthful of briny blood. "You could've p ... protected h-him."
Harker stared at him in disbelief. "I – What good would that do?"
It was Dean's turn to frown in confusion. "W-What?"
"If I made a deal and brought him back, I'd be in Hell in ten years. Then who would look after him?"
Dean stared at her uncomprehendingly. He closed his good eye, struggling for breath and understanding.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
"But ... you could've ... saved him. Prepared h-him."
Harker stared at him, frozen with fury.
Dean let his head hang down, resting his chin on his blood-soaked chest and taking some of the pressure off his aching neck.
"You never ... give up ... on family." The words seemed to speak themselves without his instruction. Force of habit, probably. He was so tired. His brain ached as badly as his stiff body. He couldn't summon the energy to care or even consider what he'd said. Lucius and Michelle were his family now. Sam was better off without him.
Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill kill –
Harker caught his attention by slapping him hard across the face. Her rings left little burning rectangles on his skin, glowing like hot embers. She grabbed his chin and jerked it upward, forcing him to watch her over his cheekbones.
"You are the reason Max is dead. It was your fault. And I'm going to kill you for it."
Dean laughed a low, gurgling chuckle. "How?" he taunted.
Her response was to clench her fist around his windpipe. He struggled instinctively to breathe, his arms and legs straining futilely against the thick chains. Within seconds, he had faded into darkness.