Little Do You Know

Dean's POV

    "No, don't, stop, please—" Dean cut off in a agonized scream. Something hot and sharp shoved its way in between his ribs, hissing as it made contact with his flesh. It seemed to hook into him, and Dean screamed again as it was removed. He saw that it was a scythe, glowing white hot. Again it was inserted into his ribs, wiggling around and slicing as much up as possible. The pain was crippling. He'd been under for over ten years, but the pain they inflicted here only got worse and worse each day. Then the scythe twisted, and Dean went limp, slipping into blissful unconsciousness, the pain being too much to bear. Seconds later something slapped him awake again. The pain in his chest was gone, but he knew that something else was right around the corner. He closed his eyes, just wanting it to be over.

    The squeaking of wheels approached him, but Dean kept his eyes squeezed shut, feebly hoping that if he didn't know what was coming, it wouldn't be as bad.

    "Oh, no no no," Alistair's sickly sweet voice crooned. "Let's get those eyes open, now shall we Dean? Seeing's half the fun!"

    Dean heard the snap of fingers and his eyes were forced open. He whimpered when he saw the cart full of surgical tools and sharp objects that was parked in front of him. Alistair stood before him grinning wickedly, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

    "Oh come on Dean, don't be a wuss!" He cackled. "This is going to be fun." Alistair picked up a six inch scalpel and fingered it fondly. "Let's get started, shall we?"

    Dean stared apprehensively at the approaching scalpel. He tugged on his chains, trying to get loose, trying to do anything to get Alistair away from him. "Don't, don't you dare you son of a bitch—"

    "Dean!" A girl's voice snapped Dean back to reality. He sat up quickly, his hand searching for the gun under his pillow. His gun was missing. Where was his gun?

    "Dean!" The girl's voice said again. Dean noticed the girl sitting in the bed with him, gently stroking his arm. She was a pretty girl with long, jet black hair, pale skin, striking blue eyes, and an impressive pair of breasts.

    Who the hell— Then it clicked. The girl from last night. Adeline. It was a good night, he thought, eyeing her breasts.

    "Dean, are you okay?" Adeline asked.

    Dean focused on her face. "What?" He asked, relaxing. He hadn't realized he had been forming his hands into tight fists. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

    "You were shaking," she said, her eyes wide. "And jumping like a scared animal. What's wrong?"

    "Nothing," Dean said, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to clear his head. "Just a dream."

    "More like nightmare," Adeline said. "You kept telling someone to stop, like they were hurting you." She ran her fingers down his shoulder. "Are you sure you're alright?" She asked, still worried.

    "Yes, I'm fine," he insisted, getting up out of bed. He grabbed his clothes and began to dress.

    "What are you doing?" Adeline asked.

    "Oh, uh, I think I gotta go," Dean said, buckling his belt. "My brother is probably wondering where I am."

    "It's five o'clock in the morning!" Adeline protested.

    "Yeah, well, uh, we have... work," Dean told her, avoiding further conversation. "I'm really sorry, but I have to leave."

    Adeline slumped slightly.

    "Hey, don't get me wrong," Dean said, looking her in the eye as he put on his jacket. "It was an awesome night, and I would totally love to stay, but duty calls."

    "Okay," Adeline sighed, getting out of bed in just her bra and panties. "But before you go," she said, walking up to him slowly and putting her hands on his chest. "Let me give you my number." She slipped his phone out of his pocket and typed her number in. Giving it back to him, she leaned in. "I guess I'll see ya around then, Dean."

     I seriously doubt that, Dean thought wryly. But nonetheless, he gave her the kiss she was looking for, said a quick goodbye and let himself out of the house. The air outside was crisp and chilly, and the first signs of dawn were beginning to show in the dark sky. He found his car and got out of that neighborhood as fast as he could.

    Dean drove in silence for a few miles, going nowhere in particular, trying to keep his mind off his nightmares. They were getting worse, and he knew that. Each night they got more vivid, more real. His experiences in hell haunted him wherever he went, but never so much as they did in his dreams. He was becoming terrified to go to sleep.

    He thought that if he distracted himself with girls or alcohol or sex, the night wouldn't be so bad. For a while it worked, but eventually the nightmares had won. And they had come back swinging.

    He knew that Sam was right—if he just talked to his brother about it, about everything, the pain wouldn't be so bad, but he couldn't bring himself to do that. He didn't want Sam to see how weak he really was. He had to be strong for his younger brother. It was his job. Besides, he wouldn't understand how he felt when he was on that rack, mercilessly tortured by countless demons. He wouldn't understand the dread of each new day, when all the sufferings of the previous day would vanish and his body would be whole again, only to be carved up even more than it had been the day before. And he definitely wouldn't understand what it felt like to get off the rack and pick up the knife and start torturing souls himself.

    No, Sam wouldn't understand that at all.

    Dammit. So much for keep his mind off it. Dean tried to think about something else, anything else. How much fun last night was. How Sam would have wasted away the hours searching for a new case. How he needed to spend as many nights away from him as possible, lest Sam see how bad the nightmares were getting. How the last thing he needed was his little bro worrying about him. How he knew he needed to open up to Sam eventually.

    Dean clenched his jaw. He wasn't very good about not thinking about something.

    Dammit.