Devil in the Detail

The door opened and Dean raised his head expecting to see that Louis had returned. His gut clenched and retched and he panted behind the gag, fearful he would choke.



He was drenched in sweat as he hung limply from the chains holding his arms outstretched. His lips were swollen and blood red, around the dirty cloth that was tied around his head. The bruise above his eye had drained into the socket, shading it blue and purple. The cut on his forehead was crusted with dirt where Handel had slammed it into the floor earlier.



Sam ran forward, crying slightly and angrily wiped his tears on the shoulder of his shirt as he took the weight of Dean’s body. The green eyes focused on his face in disbelief. He loosened the rag with one hand and Dean spat the dirty piece of flannel from his mouth. “Sammy,” he murmured, like a prayer had been answered. “Are they …”



“Shhh, I have to get us out of here, we don’t have long. Can you stand?”



Dean nodded weakly and dragged his feet under his body. Sam moved swiftly, as the chains fell away Dean fell forward against him. Sam held him tight, his big brother lay against him very still as Sam wrapped the blanket around him, watching with concern as Dean flinched as it touched the weals on his back. “Dean, we have to move. Willis is going after Handel, but Louis is still out there somewhere. We need to put some mileage between us and them, maybe get you to a hospital.”



“No hospital, Sam,” he croaked. The last thing he wanted anywhere near his abused body was a doctor with a sexual assault kit.



“OK, no hospital, but we gotta go.” Dean sniffed hard and seemed to pull himself together, wiping his face on the blanket draped over his arm. After staggering like a couple of drunks to the door, Sam hoisted him onto his shoulder. It wasn’t very dignified and Dean groaned in pain, but didn’t protest, which worried Sam more than he wanted to think about.



By the time he reached the Impala, Dean was barely conscious. Sam wrapped the blanket around him further, jumped behind the wheel and drove. Vicky was collecting their stuff from the motel, clearing the room, leaving no trace the brothers had ever been there. When the coast was clear they would come back for it.





They moved every few days, physically Dean healed, only the welts on his back and the heaviest of the bruises remained, although his nights were filled with nightmares and cold sweats. Regularly he woke screaming, refusing Sam’s offers of comfort and suggestions, throwing the pills he offered him so hard that the container shattered against the wall.



Late on a Friday they pulled into yet another roadside motel. The new room was cleaner and nicer than normal. The old couple at the reception had seemed genuine, which caused Sam a minor pang of guilt as he dropped bundled up the bloodstained sheets from Dean’s bed and shoved them into a bag to be disposed of later.



Dean stood in the bath tub, shivering despite the heat of the water running over his body. He leant his forehead against the cool tile wall and let the water course down his back. Eyes closed, forcing the tears back behind his eyelids. He had finally accepted the pills Sam had offered after he had redressed the wounds on his back. Dropping back onto the bed, glad to sink into oblivion where the nightmares couldn’t touch him. He hated the role reversal, hated relying on Sam, hated Sam for being there to see it all, hated the look in Sam’s eyes this morning, glancing at him when he thought he wasn’t looking. Hated himself most of all. He banged his head into the wall, as Sam wandered into the bathroom. “Sam, get the fuck out.”



But Sam wasn’t listening. He reached forward with a towel. “The old couple on the desk said the hot water goes off at 9.30.”



“Would you stop looking at me like that. Just leave me the fuck alone.”



“Can’t do that, you need to talk about this. And even if you don’t wanna talk, you need someone to deal with…” Sam’s voice petered out and he cleared his throat awkwardly. Jesus, they had both been beaten to a pulp more than once, but somehow even the faint remains of bruises on his brothers skin seemed to make him want to cry.



“What I need is for you to stop looking at me like some soppy teenage girl,” Dean shouted. Jumping back as the water ran cold. The fact that Sam was right about this too, just snapped something inside him and he flew at Sam, fist connecting with his jaw, knocking him back against the wall. Sam raised his hands to protect himself from the onslaught. “Dean, stop, Dean, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”



They wrestled on the lino, until finally they lay on the floor, Sam hugging Dean tightly against him, refusing to hit back, refusing to hurt his brother anymore than he had to, to make him stop. Finally exhausted and wretched Dean lay limply on the floor, sobbing. Sam struggled but lifted him up. Growling with frustration as Dean batted away his hands. “Do you think this was easy for me?” he said, voice cracking, “watching what that sick freak did to you and powerless to do anything about it, thinking any minute that you might disappear into skin and ink. Dean, I…” Sam finally cracked and the tears flowed too easily.



Dean flopped his arm onto Sam’s shoulder and they leant there for a moment foreheads pressed together, breathing heavily, neither wanting to make the next move.



Slowly without conscious decision they made it to the bed and lay quiet in one another’s arm, each feeling they were comforting the other, without admitting the reality of their own need.



Sam woke first, his right arm numb, under the dead weight of Dean’s body. His brother shifted in his sleep, finally looking peaceful and calm. Carefully Sam pulled his arm free and settled onto his side watching his brother’s face. “Stop that Sam,” Dean said, lifting his eyelids very slightly, and grinning for the first time in over two months.



The smile which grew on Sam’s face, teeth shining like a lighthouse beacon in the early morning light, reflected the singing of his heart.



Dean lifted himself onto his elbows. “I’m hungry, let’s go eat breakfast”





Gradually over the weeks, the old Dean resurfaced. They had a brush with a poltergeist, and took on a couple of middle level demons and life returned to near normality.



One morning as he stood shaking the clothes he had just brought back from the laundrette and folding them with the military precision with which he instinctively did everything, Dean said casually, “We need to kill him.”



“Huh?”, Sam stuck his head round the door of the bathroom, razor in hand, face partly covered in shave foam. “Kill who?”



“Louis, you asshole. We need to find him and kill him.”



Sam pulled a towel from the bathroom, wiping the remainder of the foam from his face, not sure what to say next. The determinedly casual look on Dean’s face wasn’t convincing his younger brother at all.



He opened his mouth to speak and then thinking better of it, he closed it again.



“Ok Sammy, enough of the goldfish impression, spit it out.”



“Don’t call me Sammy,” he said, throwing his towel at Dean. “I’ll call Vicky, if you’re sure you’re ready…Jesus Dean, it’s only been six months.”



“And who knows what damage the fucker has done in that time. We need to track him down and kill him.” He carried on folding, nonchalantly. “And no Dad!” It was an old argument now, but Dean remained insistent. “This stays between us.”



Sighing, Sam said resignedly, “I’ll pull up my research on how to kill the demon.”



Dean continued to fold his clothes.





The sun beat through the roof of the shopping mall, Louis stood blinking in the light, scoping the young man he had been following for a week now. Learning his habits and seeking his opportunity to lead him away from his family and friends. He had befriended him in a bar a few weeks previously. He found this part so tiring. He missed Handel, it had been so much easier to pay someone else to acquire his food, but that door was closed forever. He thought momentarily of Dean and he felt the demon stir, it was weak. Only one feed in eight months, some drug addicted boy prostitute, a feeble meal, compared with the strength and vitality of Dean, it needed more.



Louis made his way to the bathroom. He pushed open the door and round the corner to the stalls. Someone was stood peeing, Louis eyes linger briefly on his arse, until the man turned and he looked straight into the eyes of Sam Winchester.



Louis realised he was going to die. It was almost a relief, no more looking over his shoulder. At least he would die quickly, the place was too public for any slow revenge.



Sam could see the mixture of fear and acceptance on Louis’ face. Poor bastard didn’t quite realise what was happening here. Dean appeared out of the dark stall behind Louis’ left shoulder. “Should have carried on looking,” Dean observed dryly, as if he had read Louis’ mind. Louis’ face contorted in agony, as Dean stabbed him with the syringe, leaving it stuck empty between his legs. How wrong could he have been. His mouth opened in an unsounding scream, as his heart began to pump frantically. The blood began to seep into the fabric of his cream linen trousers, spreading like spilt red wine across a table cloth. The demon writhed and tore at him from inside as it died.



Dean blinked slowly, stepping forward from the shadow into the sunlight. Louis stared fascinated as the pupils shrank to pinpoints in the deep crystalline irises. He fell forward onto his knees, as his body shut down systematically. His heart still beat furiously, spreading the poison around his body and he writhed like a rat, kicking out it’s last, falling to the floor.



Dean spat on the marble tiles in front of his face and walked away with his brother, leaving the twitching wreck to fade out, unable to scream for help and unsaveable if by chance it came.



Finis