Sam was struck by the haunting silence as he stepped out of the Impala. The soft thud of his car door closing seemed inordinately loud, and he inwardly cringed. There was another thud as Melanie stepped out and closed the passenger-side door. She circled around the front of the car to join him, and together they assessed the old factory building before them.
"You got the blueprint?" Sam asked in a low voice. Melanie nodded and dug into her small backpack, pulling out the factory's floor plans. The paper was covered in scribbled annotations.
"If she's got him in here, it's gonna be in one of these," said the blonde huntress, indicating several blue stars inked over what had once been manager's offices and storerooms. "They're smaller and farther from the exits."
"Which makes it harder for us to find him and get him out," Sam grumbled, examining the blueprint. Melanie nodded and made a face.
"That's kind of the point. It's what we'd do, though," she pointed out.
"Yeah. If we were sadistic, psychotic witches."
"True." A small, wry smile tugged at the corner of Melanie's mouth. "You got your charges?"
Sam patted his jacket pocket in response. "Right here. You?" She nodded. "Good. Remember, we only use these if we absolutely have to. I'd rather not tell her exactly where we are if we can avoid it."
"Got it." She handed him the paper and re-shouldered her bag. "Ready?"
"Let's go get Dean."
Dean lay curled on his side on the concrete floor, every inch of his body throbbing with each heartbeat. Despite the icy floor, waves of heat pulsed through him, and he couldn't move without a stab of pain. So he simply lay there, fading in and out of consciousness, a part of him always listening, waiting with awful anticipation for the footsteps that would herald the witch's inevitable return. A coughing spasm shook him, and Dean choked and spat a globule of red onto the floor. The fit died off in a low moan, his chest searing. His breath puffed out in front of him, and he started to shiver as another wave of chills swept through him. The elder Winchester closed his eyes and pulled himself into a tighter ball, doing his best to ignore the pain the movement caused.
Footsteps. Dean's eyes snapped open, flickering towards the door. There was a soft snick of the lock disengaging, and the heavy door swung inwards.
"How are we feeling today, honey?" The woman's soft Southern drawl made Dean's stomach clench. A hand, the long nails painted a bright turquoise, gripped his shoulder and forced him over onto his back. He quickly bit back the groan that tried to escape him, determined not to give her any satisfaction.
He lost that battle a second later as her sweet smile vanished. The witch leaned down and grabbed him by the hair, forcing up to his knees before viciously slamming her booted foot into his stomach. Dean doubled over with a gasp as the air whooshed from his lungs and a stabbing pain shot through his abdomen. He coughed again and spat blood onto the floor.
"Bitch," he managed to choke out, feeling blood run down his chin. The cuffs on his wrists prevented him from wiping it away, and the crimson liquid dripped onto his shirt, further dirtying the torn, bloodstained fabric. The witch slapped him across the face, hard, and her sharp nails cut into his already bruised, bloody skin.
Dean looked up at her in alarm as she spoke a short incantation in a low voice, tossing a grey powder into the air over his head. He opened his mouth, not even knowing what he was going to do - plead? scream? curse? but his eyes widened as he realized he couldn't speak. The only noise that issued from his mouth was a strangled groan. He looked up at her in fear as she began to chant again.
White-hot pain ripped through every fiber of his being. Dean found himself down on the ground again, writhing in absolute agony, his body feeling as though it was tearing itself apart. And he discovered something.
He might not be able to talk, but he sure as hell could scream.
