Hey! Sorry for the long delay, I got a little sidetracked from writing this; but, I do assure you that I am not abandoning this story. Thanks for being patient.
If you haven't notice by now, I've been alternating perspectives throughout all three of our boys. It's Sam's turn!
Also, this is the first time I've tried writing anything along the lines of delirium, so I'm not sure if I captured it right. I am no medical professional, though I do a lot of research when I write my stories so hopefully it's not too unbearable. Feedback would be appreciated to help me know if I got this right!
Warnings/Disclaimer see ch.1.
Not that they could keep track of time, but Sam could assume that it was at least three hours until their captors returned. Most of the duration was spent in silence, and he couldn't help but cringe every time Dean drew in a raspy breath. His brother couldn't really move, but he tried and that got him right back where he started—flat on his face. Eventually he gave up and closed his eyes, claiming that he was simply exhausted. Which, they all were, but Dean needed rest if he was going to be able to help get them out of there.
Sam knew that both of his family members had understood his message, as after that the atmosphere seemed to be more hopeful and overall brighter. The problem was, he couldn't necessarily reach the paperclip. He had been stripped down of everything else, including his switchblade he kept in his belt and the lockpick in his back pocket, but the paperclip remained in place. In his sock.
He usually kept it in there in the fear of this exact thing happening. It's not like he knew how to use it, but he did know that it could unlock handcuffs, subsequently chains. They hadn't been trained in using paperclips, rather lockpicks, but it couldn't be that much different. Could it?
He'd tried to inconspicuously move his foot behind him and up, in case there were cameras watching, but the shackles had no give. He needed to Dean to get it. That...was going to be complicated though.
Dean was in no shape to be moving, let alone getting Sam out of his bindings. Most of the cuts on his back had clotted, but there were a few that still bled sluggishly. His white shirt was painted with red, almost like tie-dye, and Sam nearly felt like making himself believe it was in order to avoid the truth. His brother was bleeding out right before his eyes.
Sam and John had talked briefly about what letter to choose next—they avoided the paperclip topic completely because until either Dean could move or Sam was out of his chains, there was no way they were escaping—going through each letter one by one to try and guess the topics.
John had learned his lesson the first time. No matter what letter they were going to choose, the punishments would still be harsh. Sam knew that too, but if it meant that his brother wasn't going to take two in a row, then he would do it instantly.
"D?" Sam suggested. "Drowning?"
John cocked his head. "You think?" he asked.
Sam thought for a moment. "Well, it's got to be something they could do inside of a basement, which drowning is definitely in that category. I can't think of anything else. It could just be that simple."
"You think you can handle that?"
"I'll feel like shit after...but yes."
So when the basement door at the top of the stairs clanged open, Sam tensed and watched as Dean's eyes fluttered open. Letting out a grunt, he rubbed his eyelids and looked dazed to the door, Sam keeping an eye on him the whole time.
Soon, Mackel was walking to the center of the room, Dayne and Eli by his side. Dean, too weak, didn't resist as they dragged him back to the pole next to Sam, chaining him back up. His head hung limp on his chest, and Sam began to feel stabs of worry crawl up his throat.
"So?" Mackel started, rubbing his hands together. "Did you decide, John?"
John looked Mackel straight in the eye. "You're a son of a bitch, you know that?" he spat.
Mackel drew in a derisive breath through his teeth, sarcasm hanging heavy in the air. "Yeah, unfortunately, I do. What's it going to be?"
John cast a look at Sam, hesitating before saying, "D."
Mackel hummed as Eli handed him the slip of paper from his pocket, and turned it over. Sam watched as he laid it on his dad's lap, and noticed the faint smile curl at his lips. "I hope neither of your sons are afraid of the water."
Sam let out a breath of relief. So, it wasn't impossible to predict the choices. They just had to consider all of their options.
He didn't even hear his dad say his name, but the next thing he knew he was being dragged to the room's center, his legs burning up immediately from the sudden change of position. "Go get it, guys," Mackel said aloud, holding Sam by his hair and placing his pistol at his back.
Sam hated this. The whole thing with being pointed at with a gun. Just knowing that one pull of a trigger could end his life was terrifying. He didn't want to die yet. He wanted to live; he wanted to have a chance at normal. But most of all, he didn't want to leave Dean alone. Dean deserved a chance at a life, a regular one, not tainted by hunting and killing and training. He deserved to get a girl, live in an actual home, and have a family like everybody. But none of that would happen without Sam, and Sam understood that because it was a two-way street. With Dean gone...he didn't know if he could do this.
Dean was his stone number one, his whole life, and the only thing that kept him grounded. He could only presume that Dean felt the same way about him. They were codependent on each other, and they both knew it.
Sam, lost in his thoughts, was brought back to his present situation when he heard Dayne and Eli return, carrying something large. He couldn't see it just yet, but it was loud when they brought it down the stairs. He knew what it was though before it was even set in front of him.
A large, metal water trough that reminded him of those that were seen in horse stalls. It was filled to the brim with water, and Sam felt his stomach seemingly drop to his feet. Mackel pushed him forward with the barrel of the gun, and he found himself leaning over the edge, gripping the sides as his breathing started to speed up.
"Sam?" he heard his father say. "Sam, I need you to control your breathing. Deep, steady breaths, okay? In for eight, out for eight. It'll make this easier on you."
Sam tried, he really did, and he thought it was helping slightly, but when Mackel started the countdown he couldn't help but forget about that and focus on what was happening.
"Five." Sam took a deep breath, savoring the taste of the air, however musty, on his tongue. "Four." He tried to look sideways to Dean for any form of comfort, for assurance, but Mackel blocked his entire peripheral view. "Three." And down he went.
It was expected, really, for Mackel to do that—it was the dirtiest play in the book—but it still didn't prepare him for how cold the water was. It was freezing. It felt as though he had been dipped into a pool of solely ice, his face becoming numb within the first few seconds he was under. His hands still gripped the sides, but he knew if he were to resist it would take more endurance, more breath, and he couldn't waste anything at this point.
The first minute wasn't bad. For a sixteen year-old he was pretty athletic, and his stamina was decently good. It helped with running, and it was most certainly helping here. But as the 60 second mark surpassed, going onto 90, he started to feel his chest tighten and restrict, searching for the oxygen that he so desperately needed. He counted as the time passed.
It was two and a half minutes before he started to see black spots form in his vision and three before he started to struggle. He needed air, he needed air. He began to thrash around slightly, using his arms to push him up, but Mackel's grip on the back of his head held firm. Oh God, he needed air.
It was three and half minutes when he finally relented and opened his mouth, searching for any form of air, of breath, of life, but he was only greeted with water. He choked, feeling lightheaded, and then gave up on his struggling. He was going to die here. He was—
Just like that, he could breathe again. Greedily, he gasped in air as fast as he could, never knowing how much he appreciated the feeling of air respiring in and out of his lungs until now. Mackel still held the back of his hair, his fingers tightening in his messy curls, but none of that mattered to Sam right now. Air. Air mattered.
"Sam?" he heard his father shakily ask. "Sammy?"
He didn't have it in him to reply. If he replied, that would take breath. And if that took breath, that meant he had less of it. And if he had less of it, he couldn't breathe. Breathing was all that mattered to him.
So when he was harshly pushed back under the surface, he didn't know what to do. Focus on counting, focus on counting, don't think about air, focus on counting, he repeated in a mantra inside of his head. 27...28...29…
He was yanked back up.
"Stop! You're going to—!"
Was that Dean? Maybe it was. He couldn't tell though. Granted, he couldn't tell anything aside from the fact he couldn't breathe but it definitely sounded like Dean. He didn't get the chance to ask however before he was back under. 39...40...41...38...wait that wasn't right, was it?
He was pulled up for the third time, but this go-around Mackel released him and he fell to the floor, gasping and breathing and oh God he was breathing. He could breathe.
Far away he could hear someone calling his name. But why was everything so soft? And what was that distant ringing? Was he back in school? It was probably another one of the bumfuck cities that they were staying in again, with the crappy neighborhoods and the crappy people and the crappy schools. The bell was ringing and ringing and ringing. Why was it still ringing? And wait—which class was he supposed to be going to next? All the different schedules he had with all the different schools and all the different towns got confusing sometimes.
Maybe...maybe he should just sleep. Sleep sounded really good right now. Like, really good. At this point he didn't care if he got detention. So what? He would be able to sleep and sleep was a good thing.
If he could just close his eyes...only for a little bit…
He awoke chained back to his pole.
It wasn't surprising; honestly, he had spent the last however many hours restrained that it was starting to become the normal for him. Dean was still to his right, his dad was still in front of him, and the room was quiet once more. He lifted his head gradually, rolling out the kinks. His chest felt tight, and he needed to cough, but Dean and their father looked so...peaceful.
The faint worry lines were still there, but they were actually asleep. Sam didn't know when his dad had last gotten some rest. It had to have been at least since before they got here. He doesn't remember too much from the motel room's perspective, but he faintly can recall the pounding on the door, the scrambling to grab their weapons after waking from their fitful rest, and the backing up against the corner wall of the room. Dean had thrown himself in front of him.
He remembers the feeling of not being able to breathe, the water ice cold and suffocating, and he shivers. His hair and shirt is still completely soaked, and the humid air in the room does nothing to soothe the frigidness. They hadn't even been here 24 hours and he and Dean were already in awful shape.
The trough was gone but the water on the floor from the aftermath of his struggling was a haunting memory, and he willed himself away from looking at it. He had felt like he was going to die. He doesn't want to die. But...when he does go? He wants it to be normal and not being drowned by some psycho his father had a quarrel with nearly half of a decade ago.
"Sam?"
Dean's voice was calm and gentle, and Sam felt a pang tranquility by knowing his brother was by his side. He turned to look at him, but said nothing. What could he even say? He had just been drowned—Dean having to watch through and through—and Dean had just been sliced open, bleeding out before Sam himself. It's a mutual feeling, and to be honest he thinks that both of them aren't even thinking about themselves in this situation.
"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean softly asked.
Sam didn't really know how to answer that, but he figured the truth was better than lying in these conditions. He waited for a brief moment, before replying forlornly, "Not really."
Dean breathed out through his nose, sharp and harsh. "Dad said he would be watching over you while I got some sleep. Shit job he did."
"He's exhausted. I don't think he's slept once since we've been here. Anyway, I'm fine."
"You passed out."
"And that's true," Sam admitted, "but Dean, your guys' wellbeing is also important."
"Not when my little brother is being killed right in front of me."
Sam fell silent at that, but he allowed himself some slight hope. Because as long as he had Dean, they were going to be just fine. And as long as Dean had him? They were going to be perfect. All that they needed were each other.
tbc
