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Okay. He is pretty damn shaky and freakin cold and can feel his body drenched in sweat. He doesn't remember tying one on but that is sure as shit how he feels. He wracks his brain to figure it out. Sam and him were... uh... they were... yeah, tracking an evil son of a bitch of course. They... they followed her to... dammit, why can't he remember? Ah hell, good old Sammy can fill him in. Shit, if he didn't know better he'd say he was coming down from the bingiest binge of all time but he can't remember drinking a damn drop. This blows.
"S..Sam?"
What the frick, his throat is dry as a bone and the sandpaper that seems to reside there brings a damn tear to his eyes. But as he peels back an eyelid he instantly hopes to hell that his brother doesn't answer; that he can't answer because he's as far from here as fricken possible. He tries to force himself to concentrate, to get a damn clue about where the hell he is. As the shakiness and chill ebbs off ever so slightly by force of will alone, he becomes more aware and in control, using his senses to zero in on his surroundings.
Touch. It tells him he is laying on a cot. A very uncomfortable and itchy as hell cot. He tries to move and lets out a frustrated growl as he discovers he is strapped down to it; his hands and feet tied to the stupid frame. He feels his breath start to increase and a flutter of panic starts to invade his thoughts but he shakes his head and tries to focus on one thing. Sam. Gotta make sure baby brother is not in this shit hole right along side him.
Sight. It tells him he is almost completely in the dark, with only a small sliver of light to help pierce through the veil of blackness.
Hearing. It tells him absolutely nothing. He hears absolutely nothing besides his own rapid heartbeat and the ever increasing intake of air into his lungs.
Taste. His tongue darts out and he almost gags at the copper tinge that makes his taste buds react. Blood.
Smell. He breathes in and is bombarded with the worst odour of all. It's overpowering and undeniable. Death.
As his eyes become more accustomed to the lack of light, he peers down at his body and fights to keep the bile where it belongs. Well ain't this peachy. Okay, so it ain't exactly sweat that clings to him. He doesn't need booming flourescent lights to know that he is sporting an amount of blood that can't be from a nick while shaving. But hell, he doesn't feel the pain or lightheadedness that he has become all too familiar with in past experiences with blood loss. Which can only mean one thing. The red ooze that seems to coat him from head to boots is not his. He closes his eyes and tries to remember; tries to rationalize where it could have come from but comes up with not one damn image. He growls again at his inability to think.
Well shit. Okay. This much is obvious. He ain't at the motel. And from what he can actually see he ain't with his brother. So, that would mean he's with...
Click-clack go the high heels on the concrete floor. He is sure he has heard that before. The sound is coming up behind him and he pulls at the binds that keep him stubbornly in place. The noise stops and he's pretty sure he stops breathing altogether in that moment. The voice is there again, right by his ear.
"How you feeling Dean? You gave me quite a scare, I thought you weren't going to wake up. You did really good though, you should be very proud."
... with the evil son of a bitch herself.
TBC... Thanks for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed! :D
