Page 39 of Still Beating

It’s over.

I hear skull cracking, and I clench my eyes shut, shouting, “Dean, stop!”

“Fuck you, motherfucker.”

Thwap. Crack. Thwap.

“He’s dead, Dean!” I cry. “He’s dead. He’s dead. Please stop.”

My voice finally infiltrates the vengeance-fueled haze that has consumed him, and Dean stills his fist mid-air, his chest surging with weighty breaths, his body shaking with rage. His eyes widen as he takes in the gory scene in front of him—a horrifying, ugly mess he created with his own, bare hands. A life taken.

End scene.

Dean propels himself backwards when the image sinks in, scooting himself away from the blood-spattered body and pulling himself to faltering feet. “Fuck… oh, Jesus…” He holds his hands out in front of him, staring at the bloodbath, his breathing intensifying and becoming unhinged.

I want to run to him, console him in some way, but I’m still chained to this goddamn pole. I tug at my manacles. “Dean, please get me out of these. I want to go home.”

He snaps his head up, and the look of incredulous horror on his face will be ingrained in my mind forever. Dean looks back down at his hands, then starts scrubbing them against the front of his jeans. “Yeah, okay. Fuck… okay...” He’s out of sorts, pacing around in a circle, tugging at his hair.

“Dean.” His name breaks on my tongue, and I bob my knees up and down, desperate for freedom. “Please.”

He swallows, blinking at me and nodding his head. “I’m sorry… yeah, okay...” Dean jumps into action, putting the grisly truths aside until we are out of here.

He pauses to glance at Earl’s body, and I think he’s going to search him for the key to the handcuffs.

Instead, he runs back to his pole and slides down to his knees, his hands roving over the cement to find the pin of the belt. He locates it, then stumbles over to me with wild eyes and blood-stained skin. “This might take a few minutes.”

I nod, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at the mangled body lying in front of me. I can feel Dean’s breaths beating against my hair as his hands shake and quiver while they try to unchain me.

It takes a long time. Ten—maybe fifteen minutes. But when the cuffs finally slip loose and clatter against the cement floor, I pull my arms free with a cry of relief. I hear the pin follow with a tiny clank, and Dean’s forehead falls against the pole beside me while he takes a minute to regroup. I turn to him, watching his eyes close as he tries to control his breathing. His sticky hands cling to the pipe—the same piece of metal that has held me captive in this hellhole for almost three weeks.

I reach out my own unsteady hand, placing it against his shoulder, stepping forward until we are almost fully touching. Dean’s jaw clenches and unclenches as he twists his head to the side, still leaning against the pole, finding my face. I rub my hand along his back, much like he had done at the veterinary hospital that dreary afternoon with Blizzard. Our eyes hold as I try to quiet the demons so clearly wreaking havoc on his mind.

And then, in one fell swoop, Dean tugs me towards him as he stands up straight, crushing me to his chest, his arms wrapping around me and holding tight.

My own arms slink around his middle, my face buried against his racing heart. I can smell blood and fear and terror and victory. I feel him trembling in my embrace, his body coming down from the massive adrenaline spike. He hugs me tighter and tighter, and I don’t even care that my ribs are screaming in resistance—he could never hug me tight enough.

Our emotions begin to settle and we slowly pull apart, our eyes lingering for one potent beat before he takes my hand and pulls me to the staircase.

I don’t spare Earl, or whatever’s left of him, a final glance as we race past his body. He’s not worth another second of my life.

We won.

Dean is scrubbing his hands and arms in the kitchen sink with a bristled brush, erasing all remnants of Earl off his skin. He’s relentless and harsh, washing and cleansing until his flesh is pink and raw. I watch the water run red as Dean’s eyes stay laser focused on his task. Even when all of the blood has disappeared down the drain, he keeps scrubbing.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

“Dean,” I say gently, coming up behind him in an attempt to distract him.

He doesn’t hear me.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

He keeps scrubbing. Dean is trying to cleanse more than just his skin.

Tiny specks of blood begin to form along the surface of his arms, and I finally reach my hand out and place it against his shoulder. “Dean, stop. You’re hurting yourself.”

---