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Sam stepped out of the church for air. I waited a few beats before sighing and looking back to the bloody half-demon confined to the chair in the center of the room.
His eyes had also followed Sam out and remained on the closed doors.
He looked resigned, anxious, thoughtful, but overwhelmingly tired. I guess gaining your humanity, or most of it, after so long would feel like the ultimate emotional bombshell. Every bad thing you’ve ever done being recontexualized through a sense of guilt that was absent and nonexistent up until then. 300 years of bad experiences needing to suddenly be processed. All this while being in grave danger, the threat of death very near and assured. Though maybe that part feels like a comfort. Does it feel like a comfort to someone who knows what happens to a human after death? Would he still die like a demon?
Not that I’d let that happen. I know they wanna close the gates or whatever but killing him afterwards is unnecessary. If I’ve learned anything from Frankenstein it’s that once you make a man, you gotta take responsibility for him. We aren’t in the people-killing business when we can help it. If Sam wants to ruin this guy’s life as he knows it, he can’t just discard him when he’s done. A fresh start is a fresh start. I can’t blame a demon for being a demon and I can’t blame a human for what they did when they were soulless. Sam of all people should know that.
His eyes drifted to me with a blink. No smart ass remarks this time. He looked crushed. Face still tear stained and covered in blood. The needle marks in his neck forming an angry patch of red dots.
I always had a soft spot for him a mile wide.
I broke eye contact to look at the things we brought. There were all of the necessities for what we were trying to accomplish of course, but there was also a first aid kit brought in from the car. I grabbed my own water bottle and some sterile wipes from the first aid.
He watched me. I could feel his eyes, though they weren’t as piercing as before. He was sort of spacey, which was completely different from his usual aura of caution and intensity. Resigned to whatever fate was in store and losing his will to resist it. It was unnerving on some level due to his sudden change in character but moreso because, I’ll admit, I was genuinely concerned for him.
I took the clean cloth and my water bottle with me as I walked closer to him. Stepping over the markings on the ground carefully as not to disturb them. When I looked back up at his face he just looked confused. Pouring some water onto the cloth before setting the bottle on the ground and getting close enough to touch him.
“Don’t bite me.” Is all I say before starting to gently wipe the blood from a tiny cut near his temple.
“I won’t.” Was all he said back. No quips, no threats.
---
They started at his temple. Far more gentle than was necessary. He had been looking at them the whole time, but at the feeling of the cloth he closed his eyes. The human blood in his veins had his nerve endings acting sensitive. He almost flinched at a particularly painful swipe.
They had apparently noticed anyway. Mumbling, “Sorry.”
He wanted to cry again. Not at the pain of course, but at the kindness he felt like he didn’t deserve and had not really experienced… ever? He was sure that in 300 years he had been shown kindness at some points but this… was different. He had hurt them. He had hurt their friends. But still they got close enough to his face to feel their breath while they gently wiped off the blood and dirt that had accumulated. To say sorry at the slightest cause of pain?
And why? For pity, or just some practical reason? Was it kindness?
The human blood made him more sensitive physically and emotionally in this moment than he had felt even as a human the first time around.
Their face, at this distance, looked worried of course. But because of the worry he noticed the shape of their eyes. He noticed their eyelashes and eye color and he wondered what they would look like in direct sunlight, what they would look like unbothered by flickering candlelight. Instead of here, looking exhausted in the dim greenish-blue light of the abandoned shack that passed for a church. They made eye contact for a second but then looked back and held it when they realized he was looking at them.
They didn’t say anything. Just blinked. Inviting his questions.
“Why?”
“Why not? I need something to do, and I like you.” They said simply. They refreshed the water on the cloth and started at a different point, moving farther behind him. There was less to do back there and they both knew it but it was the easiest way to avoid making conversation or eye contact. That seemed like a poor excuse for so many reasons, but he didn't have the capacity to question it right now.
He felt them working the cloth gently against the side of his head, moving to the back of his neck. He had to stop himself from vocalizing when their nails lightly scratched at his hairline. Damn that felt good. It all felt so good. Even when they got to the most sensitive place, the needle marks, they were so gentle he didn’t feel worried, just leaned his head slightly to give them better access. It felt relaxing, to pretend to be cared for. Sam was rough and didn’t care for his comfort in the least. When they touched him though, they were almost laughably attentive. He felt more like a child getting a cut cleaned by a mother (not that he would know) than a demon being… what, taken pity on by a hunter with a bleeding heart?
He felt a horrible ache in his chest for a moment when he realized it was all over but then remembered himself.
He was almost looking forward to Sam putting him out of his misery by this point.
---
The first time they had visited him where he was trapped in the Winchester’s “not a sex dungeon” sex dungeon, he hadn’t expected to miss them so much... But now, trapped alone and confronted with his own deepest thoughts and fears, things he couldn’t admit to even himself in his most honest moments, he found his thoughts often turning back to them.
When he was stuck in the trunk of the Impala, they visited him briefly to give him something to rest his head on. A last act before speeding off to find Cas for some reason. Considering the pounding headache and emotional state he was in coming down from the blood, it was a immense act of kindness. One that they didn’t even seem to think about before doing.
Of course, the fact that the “something” was one of their own flannels, that it was soft and smelled just like them… the state he was in…
He stayed there in the dark trunk, the only sensations those of discomfort and an old, worn flannel. He would never admit it now, but had anyone opened the trunk they would have found a man, barely a demon, face wet with tears and buried in a hunter’s ratty shirt.
His thoughts were scattered and despairing as he reflected on everything that had led there. His life, his death, his time in hell, and his actions afterward. Nothing about any of it really pleased him. After he became a demon - got a different perspective - he used his lack of aging to his advantage. He learned everything he could. Talked to everyone, experts, teachers, leaders. He taught himself everything he had neither the money, status, nor notion to learn in life. Death had freed him from the bonds of ignorance.
Yet he still wanted for something.
He could gain all the power and money and education he liked. Fine foods and clothes, things he had coveted as a simple tailor. He was certainly grateful for all that. But he still did not have a single person who cared about him, and you can’t substitute that with fear or respect (though he tried his best).
---
That first visit, they didn’t stay long.
A door, then footsteps, caught his attention before light flooded the room.
They gave him a weary smile.
“Hey.”
They sat down in a folding chair near the door and sighed, sinking low in the chair and turning their head towards the ceiling.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this… solo visit?”
“They want to bore you into talking. It’s stupid...” they finally looked back to him, “You aren’t stupid and you’re nowhere near weak-willed enough for a bit of solitary confinement to break you. Do you wanna hang out instead? I’ve never thought you were bad company, if you’ll have me.”
He kept an even face and steady smirk despite his inward shock. It took a moment for the question in the statement to register.
“I certainly won’t turn you down, although I must ask, did they put you up to this? You think you’ll get useful information out of me through idle chitchat?”
“No and actually,” they leaned forward and furrowed their brows, “it may be best if we don’t mention that I’m here now to them. They’ll make a stink and I’ll have to listen to them whine about it. I don't feel like getting a lecture like some child, like I'm too stupid to talk to you without screwing up,” they rolled their eyes.
Over the course of the next half hour they explained why they hunted with the Winchesters. While they had worked together or against each other on and off over the years, they hadn’t really had time to chat. He was not so altered in his thinking as to not be listening for useful information but to his own surprise he still found actual interest in their story. He kept the witty comments to a minimum for now and instead just enjoyed the respite from boredom and his own thoughts that the talking provided. When he did exercise his wit, he found another surprise in their genuine laughter. Where most people just rolled their eyes and got annoyed with his playful affect, they joked back and seemed to delight in his comments. Though they never came any closer than the chair they sat on, he wished they would. At first, he thought about how he would best exploit the situation and possibly find a way out. After a while though, he would’ve been grateful just for the closeness.
He unwillingly thought of the moment in the church when they had taken a clean cloth and wiped the blood from his face. He unwillingly remembered the feel of the flannel against his head. He unwillingly remembered the smell of them, the only comfort in that dark trunk. He unwillingly wished they would come closer.
They pulled out their phone and scowled at the time.
“Well, I should probably try to get some sleep. I’ll visit you sometime soon, but I can’t promise anything. If I disappeared randomly all the time without explaining or being in my room I’m sure the boys would get suspicious,” they stood and smiled.
“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, surprised to find that he meant it.
---
After they left he mulled over the visit. He replayed it in his head in full at least twice before actually starting to analyze it. He came up with many questions.
First, why?
Was he not their enemy? Had he not tried to kill them? Had he not killed their friends? To be fair, he could’ve tried harder. His goal was never really to have them dead persay, his goal was always to improve his own chances. Maybe they saw that, but it would be an awfully generous way to read him. Maybe they had lied. Maybe they thought he would spill a secret or that by getting closer he would come to trust them. That seemed unlikely as well, as they had talked for most of the time and didn’t really ask him anything. And they knew him well enough to know he was more careful than that even with his “friends”. Never trust anyone was his motto.
Second, how could he use this to his advantage?
They may work with the Winchesters closely, but they didn’t seem like the type to spill secrets and he suspected that they wouldn’t rise to any bait. Their temperament was too calm and they seemed like the cautious type. Though wasn’t talking to him behind the boy’s backs a reckless move? Wasn’t it a risk?
Third, how was he going to deal with his own newfound humanity?
He supposed the blood must still have loosened something in him. He was more aware of the temperature in the dungeon, the dusty “library basement” smell, the feeling of the uncomfortable chair he was stuck in. In the darkness, his head swam with memories of the church. Then with the time before it.
He was still a demon. He was still bitter, and selfish. But for the first time since his childhood, he wished he wasn’t. The feeling was nowhere near as strong as when the blood was still fresh in his veins, back in the church when he had been ready to beg for forgiveness. To confess to a priest, to God… anyone. Anyone to absolve him of his sins. Anyone to tell him that there was still hope, still time to become something less vile. While the feeling had dialed back, it had not entirely left. The whole thing had left him truly shaken.
He wondered if missing them was a side effect of the blood.
---
The second time they visited him, he was more ready.
“Why are you really here?”
They looked annoyed, but not really. Rather than sit, they leaned against the doorframe, looking ready to leave at the first sign of trouble.
“Is it not enough to enjoy the company?”
“No. Not if it’s me. I’m your enemy, the King of Hell. You’re a hunter and I’m a demon. We’ve regularly tried to kill each other.”
“You’re also incredibly clever and one of the few people I know with actual survival instincts. You’ve helped us almost as many times as you’ve harmed us. The blood may not have finished the job but if it made you even slightly more human, that’ll be enough for my company. Though…” they sighed and rubbed their face, “if you’d rather I leave you alone, I will.”
“No.” He said, just a touch too quickly for his own liking, “No, I’d rather have the company. The walls aren’t exactly chatty, and they don’t appreciate my humor half as well as you.”
Their lips quirked into a half-smile again. They sat down.
This time their stay was a just a little shorter. They complained a bit about some research the boys made them do and contemplated what to make for dinner. Dean was a surprisingly good chef apparently but they ended up cooking more often. Dean had not had the benefit of a full kitchen at his disposal growing up. He learned recipes online and could do wonders with mac and cheese, but he was not the one to ask for a balanced dinner. They were teaching him some things when they had the time though.
None of this was useful or practical information, and at any other time he might’ve found the conversation exceedingly dull. Yet after they left to cook (they had decided on spaghetti) he found himself still replaying it. He figured that anything was better than nothing, though he still wished… well, he wasn’t sure what he wished.
---
After the third visit, he narrowed it down.
He wished… for just the company. Not even for the conversation. It could’ve been about anything or nothing. The words, the act of talking, was irrelevant.
He was startled to realize that he felt lonely, not bored. Well he felt bored too, but it hurt less.
He had many years of life, actions, decisions, and plans to think about. He was always thinking. He was used to spending time alone with his thoughts. When you don’t sleep or have human needs to distract you, you can think for hours on end. Never were his inner thoughts so raw and frayed and colored by emotion, but still, it wasn’t something he wasn’t used to.
But loneliness however, that was something he wasn’t used to.
---
He was visited occasionally by someone other than them. Usually with them in tow. He found that these meetings didn’t satisfy him the same way. Not at all. It was all business. Like he was a tool at their disposal. An unruly book that they needed to draw information out of and then forget about until the next time he became useful. He treated the others as he always had. For them though, he could no longer bite. Any harsh words he directed at the others, and anything more civil he spoke to them.
For their part, they acted the same as they always had. Cautious, yet oddly relaxed. They still found his quips funny and didn’t seem to hold any malice towards him.
It was after seeing this that he realized that they had never really changed. He had noticed their kindness in the church and after, but he had chalked it up to… well actually he hadn’t really questioned it. He supposed they felt sorry for him, but he hadn’t seen pity in their eyes. Could it be that they actually were just a genuinely kind person with a sick sense of humor? Beyond what was necessary in the moment, they hadn’t ever really seemed to dislike him even. The most he could remember was concern and annoyance. Some brief anger and surprise maybe?
So if they hadn’t changed… had he?