Btw when I reference to an 'it', I mean the demon. I switch a lot and I don't like to continuously repeat 'the demon'.
The wooden floorboards creaked under the weight of Sam Winchester's slow, steady steps. His voice seeped through the cracked glass and unsteady walls of the townhouse, just outside the small town of Pepin, Minnesota.
"How do you feel, Dean?" he asked in a calm drawl.
"I mean," he added, "it's not every day a guy like you...meets a guy like me."
A slight pause followed, only interjected by the sound of metal angrily being slammed against wood.
His voice gradually got quieter and deeper, "Or is it the other way around? I mean.. here I am in front of Dean Winchester. The Dean Winchester."
"It's a shame I'm going to have to kill you."
Pulling a knife out from his belt, the man looked up at Dean and smiled. The expression was essentially meaningless, gloating, and dripping with acid. Sam got up from his kneeling position to look him in the eyes. The brown irises suddenly flickered to a pitch black only the pits of Hell could find.
"Real shame..." he repeated as his eyes converted back. The edge of the knife glinted in what sparse sunlight made it's way through.
"Real shame..."
Dean's heart was pounding. Sweat beaded his forehead. His muscles strained and blood rushed as he violently thrashed against his bonds. 30 minutes ago, he and his 'brother' had stepped into the house, supposedly to look for clues relating to a recent job. But Sam hadn't been Sam. Not for a long time.
"Drop the gun, Dean. It'll be easier for both of us that way."
"Never, you son of a bitch."
"Okay.."
Kicking away his weapon as if it were a mere child's toy, aiming a gun at his head, and placing a foot on his throat. That was what Dean remembered before his arms and legs had been secured to a large, thick piece of wood they had found outside, using a mix of twisted coils of metal and rope. It felt dark and cold, despite it being the middle of a sunny day. A gag had been shoved into his mouth, and shallow cuts criss-crossed down his arms. There was a bit of dried blood leading from his bottom lip to his chin. Blood from his arms was spattered on the floor, and he desperately, wildly, looked around, searching for any single sign of safety, of Hey, Dean, you'll be fine!
There were none. All there was, was Sam--the demon's taunting voice. Suddenly a panic engulfed him. He had no clue what caused it, but his heart rate accelerated, it felt like he couldn't breathe. His senses shut down. The only thing making itself truly clear was the feeling of utter hopelessness and imminent death. One thought surfaced
I'm screwed.
In all honesty, the only time he ever remembered feeling such true and obvious terror was when he had gone to--
His breath caught and held fast as the demon dug the blade into his skin.
It's lips formed a malevolent grin to match Dean's heaving chest and struggling attempts.
The fabric of Dean's dark shirt tore as it glided the knife's edge from his shoulder, diagonally down to his waistband. His body arched and he released a muffled yell through the cloth in his mouth.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Let me take care of that." the demon reached over and yanked his gag out.
"You son of a bitch!" Dean yelled as soon as it was removed.
