Terror was a wedge of ice lodged in Sam's throat. He shoved the poker in front of him, a measly defense against demons who not only had numbers on their side, but supernatural abilities. Fuck, they could fling him into the wall and crack his skull open like an egg. With a thought.
"What's that noise?" The smaller of the two asked, tilting his head down and back. Sam dared to glance their way. The candles. Shit. One had toppled over onto the concrete, extinguished. The candles were rapidly growing dimmer, the wax heavy against the wood.
"Don't worry about it," the other commented, his smirk curling wider. The candlelight danced on his filmy black eyes as if small hellfire was imbedded in his iris.
"What do you want?" Sam spat.
"There's a bounty on your head, Sammy."
Sam's stomach soured. That meant this wasn't a hostage situation. These monsters wanted him dead. With the possibility of his death shining horrid and bright in his eyes, Sam's muscles wound as tight as a violin string.
"From who?"
"Just a little friend of mine. Might have heard of her. Her name's Meg."
"That so?" Sam licked his lips. "Why couldn't the bitch come herself?"
The other demon laughed, "She's busy, Sammy-boy. You know, children to disfigure, widowers to disembowel. That sort of stuff."
Sam's eyes flickered to the entrance, willing, praying, for Dean's swift arrival. But Dean could be blocks away.
"Hey, what are you doing down here, anyway?" The taller demon cocked an eyebrow.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Sam said dryly.
The imp giggled, actually giggled. Sam shuttered, his throat tightening.
"That's why I'm asking you." He said and shoved his hand out. Sam was tossed against the wall. The fire poker flung out of his grasp, clattering to the concrete. His lungs seized, the back of his head thumping against merciless metal. Pain exploded behind his eyelids. He choked, inhaling deep, rattling breaths of air, desperate to get oxygen back into his burning lungs.
The demons approached. The demon with the knife tossed the blade up into the air, catching it smoothly, like a knife thrower at a carnival. Sam had a scuttling, dark feeling that he was the rotating target. Sam thrashed mindlessly against the invisible force keeping him at bay.
"I hate to cut this short," the taller demon said, caressing one finger down Sam's cheek. "But we don't got all night, you know?"
"No!" Sam spat through his teeth, clenching and releasing his pinned palms. "Fuck you!"
"You sure gotta mouth on you, boy," the taller demon laughed.
The shorter demon leaned in, his putrid breath ghosting Sam's ear. Sulfur. "Say hi to Mommy for me."
In the next second, the demon thrusted the knife into Sam's stomach. For a slit second, Sam felt nothing. Then, pain exploded inside his body like an atomic bomb. It wasn't like anything Sam had ever felt before. He'd been strangled, burned, cut, and flung into more walls than he could count, but he had never been delivered a blow like this. And it was a death blow, Sam understood. From the agony ripping through his nervous system, sending every nerve alight, a small, murky part of Sam's psyche-the primal part that thrived when humans were just shivering, weary primates huddled around fires in the dark-understood his time had just run out.
With trembles licking up and down his arms, Sam's eyes flickered down to the hilt of the knife, the blood rapidly soaking into his shirt. Chuckling, the demon grasped the hilt and brutally jerked the knife out. Sam let out a scream.
"Sammy!"
The voice shook the room not with anger, but with naked, bare terror. The invisible hold ensnarling Sam released, and the youngest Winchester slumped to the ground. The demons twisted around to face the voice.
"What the fuck?" One of the demons uttered, vocal cords tight with shock. At the entrance of the room, Dean rapidly slithered inside. Two catatonic slaves stood, rigid, on either side of him. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what happened to the other slave, if the bulge in Dean's serpentine tail was any indication.
The demons must've never seen a Naga before because they didn't know how to respond. Sam thought, distantly, that the expression on their demonic faces would've been amusing if he wasn't clenching at the gushing wound seeping putrid blood and bile between his trembling fingers. Dean struck with the brutishness and velocity of a viper. His teeth found the closest demon's chubby neck. Blood spewed in a fountain, droplets of blood dotting the ground like a macabre painting. Dean spat out a chunk of flesh. Comprehending the sudden turn of events, the demon threw back his head. Black smoke exploded from his lips and gushed from the new hole in his gorge.
Dean turned to the other demon. The demon tilted back his head and expelled from his host seconds before Dean broke his neck. The body landed with a thud. The smoke hurriedly snaked out of the room, leaving two corpses behind. Dean glided over to Sam, his face drenched with terror.
Sam weakly stared up at him. He had begun to go numb. It had started in his hands and feet and had rapidly spread through to his chest. Sam felt so tired. The blood was everywhere, and he was so tired of pressing his hand against his stomach. He didn't have the strength. His hand fell away.
Dean hefted him into his arms, pressing his palm against his stomach, trying to staunch the blood flow.
"No, no, no," Dean blubbered. "You stay with me, Sammy. Don't close your eyes."
Sam hadn't realized he'd allowed his eyes to slam shut. He peeled his eyes open, but it felt like little weights on his lids. A roar had begun in his ears, growing louder with each passing second. It sounded like the ocean. Sam stared up at Dean's blurring face. Even with his serpentine eyes, Sam could peer past that to see his brother like he used to be. His companion. His lover. His savior. With the life they'd lived, Sam couldn't say he was surprised he was going to die in his brother's arms. In fact, he was surprised the fates had kept him alive this long.
With his features soaked in wild desperation, Dean gasped, "No, open your eyes. You can't, man. Stay awake, Sammy."
"M' trying." Sam uttered, but his tongue felt fat and heavy in his mouth.
"Shhhh," Dean said, gently jostling him. "Don't try to talk."
Sam noticed the tears spilling down Dean's cheeks. He ached to reach up and brush them away, if only he could move his arms.
Suddenly, a new expression lit up Dean's cheeks. His brother pressed his sharp teeth against his own wrist, biting down and drawing blood. Sam's brows furrowed. Fat droplets of blood bubbled up from Dean's skin and fell, pregnant, to the floor.
Dean pressed his bleeding wrist to Sam's lips. "Come on, Sammy. Drink. Baby, drink."
Sam did not understand. But Dean wasn't giving him a choice.
Dean's blood, salty and pulsing and hot, trickled past Sam's lips. He closed his mouth over the cut and sucked. Blood flowed into his mouth and trickled down his throat. The more he drunk, the more he felt alive. His wound was shifting, moving. Knitting.
Dean's tortured expression lightened with relief. One by one, the candles fizzled out. The room was plunged in darkness. Only Dean's jade orbs hovered in the inky black.
Sam drew his lips away and Dean wiped the blood from his mouth with one careful, tender thumb. "That's it, baby. Just rest."
A single thought flowed through Sam's mind before sleep swept him into her lovely arms.
Healing. I'm healing.
