A SIMPLE MAN || Dean Winchester

A SIMPLE MAN

Bobby was sitting at her feet, keeping her legs shut together and I immediately flush red. Under all this mud and debris and grim the girl isn't wearing any clothes. Why would they chain her up naked in a cave?

But I ignored that and wiped all the dirt off of her face, trying to ignore her pleas and cries. It's the same way Sammy cried when he's scared and I've always hated that. Once I'd gotten most of the muck off, I noticed a shallow scrape on her cheek.

"Clean that well, bud," Bobby murmured to me, and then grabbed his own cloth from the bowl of warm water. Dad worked on her arms.

The more skin we cleared, the more horrified I felt.

Thin, shallow little cuts were at various stages of healing all over her body. Upper arms. Forearms. Back. Chest. Stomach. Legs. There was even a few under the dirt on her feet.

The girl screamed when Bobby had to clean them out, but they were infected. Quite a few were. I've had cuts get infected before, but never like this.

Me and Dad wash over most of her body again, taking off another layer.

Beneath that one is the scars.

Just as the cuts on her, they were thin enough to be done by a barbershop razor, or even a garrotte. And there were dozens of them.

Out of surprise Bobby reached a hand out to hover over some on her forearm, and all her attention went to him. He grimaced but got to work and went to boil some water to sterilize a sewing needle and some tweezers. I assumed he was going to stitch up some of the bigger cuts. The girl had passed out from either pain or exhaustion a little while ago, and Bobby probably wanted to get the worst of it cleaned up while she was out.

She looked small, laying on the floor. Me and Sam had dealt with the hardships of being raised by a single, grieving father on the road. But I made sure we were never that skinny. Something twists in my stomach while I look down at her. Imaging Sam in her place is easy, with them both being so small. The thought of him left like this. The screams. The begging and crying. The healed and fresh cuts all over her. The purple and black and yellowed bruises on her wrists and ankles. She was so small.

Someone should've looked out for her.

Someone should've taken care of her.

🥧⚰️📿

It had been three days since the girl had gotten here, and she still hasn't woken up. Dad gave me the job to sit beside her bed and wait for her to wake up, while he and Bobby talked about the case. There isn't much else to do, and she's quiet, so I don't completely hate it.

"Do you think she'll wake up soon?" Sam asked me. He'd come upstairs because apparently, all the grown ups were being boring. He was young, sure, but he was probably the smartest seven year old I knew. He was also the only seven year old I knew, but that's not the point.

He had a bucket of old Hot Wheelsp and was driving them around on the hardwood floor. The wheels were wobbly and occasionally screeched, and the deco paint was chipping, but he loved these things. These and those little green army men that get left everywhere.

Two cars are held awkwardly in each of his hands and he's looking at me with the innocent eyes of a seven year old who doesn't understand what's going on."Yeah, she will," I say, even though I'm not completely sure. "She's just really tired and is trying to catch up on all the sleep she missed," I explained as best as I could.

Listening quietly to Sammy making 'car noises' I almost fell asleep, and when I sit up properly again the sun is setting. It was lunch time when dad brought her home. Thank god he didn't see me sleeping.