Pitch Black – chpt 4.
by: sifi.
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He wasn't sure but he thought there might have been a little 'give' in the bracket by his right ankle now, not much, but maybe just enough to blow a trembling breath on that failing ember of hope in his heart. Please, then they're not anchored in! Oh God YES Please! With that one cold hope he turned, pulling with his right arm, jagged ends of torn flesh strained in the grainy dark. For the moment he was alone and for once in his life; as hope, fear and desperation battled over possession of him, as his lips clamped tight to a single white line, as tears shed for no one else magnified his once bright green eyes, and as his heart seemed to crumble like a dirt clod in the sun, he was glad of it.
Something tickled his right wrist so he turned his head, wondering what kind of thing he was going to have to face, Long as it's not a rat, I'm okay... yet to his amazement he saw not something alive, but what appeared to be a fine spray of what just might have been cement. His heart pounded his throat against the bracket there as he rolled his right arm experimentally. Something disbelieving burst out into the mildewed stale air when he saw a faint glimmer of wiggle in the piece of metal that held him there. Shhh! Was that really loud? Did that REALLY move?! God Yes please! Please Please Please! he closed his eyes against the flood of tears that hit like a tidal wave. This time when his heart stuttered in his chest it seemed that hope for the moment had managed to rally. How much time do I have? She'll freakin' KILL me... heh she's gonna kill me anyway, but, NO! I gotta get out of here! How long has she been gone? he stopped struggling, forced his breathing to even out, and his ears to strain for the sounds of someone else's torture. He wished forgiveness for WANTING to hear it.
--
He bit back a yelp as his right arm fell to his side, something inside the shoulder stabbing it seemed through him, bringing with it a deep, sharp unrelenting burn in his upper back midway between the neck and the shoulder itself. Despite the stab that stole his breath, elation filled his heart as he swallowed the groan and renewed his efforts to wedge off the brackets that held him at the ankles. At the same time, he slid his fingers under the one at his neck, pressing his head against the slick stone, arching his neck, pressing against his fingers until he saw spots dancing and had to stop for the cottony edges of awareness. He hoped his windpipe would hold up as millimeter by millimeter that sharpened piece of metal too began to move up and down.
A violent tremor shook his body against the wall as the sound of someone else, somewhere not too far away, sobbing, brought his mind away from the task. His throat was throbbing, and he was sure it was swelling, his fingers were being pinched and sliced by the sharpened edge, but he could feel it starting to pull from the wall. Sounds like a girl... he noted and barely conscious for the constricting blood and oxygen supply to his brain, wedged his whole hand up next to his throat for one final effort. He pressed back against the wall, the stabbing ache in his shoulder practically screaming for him to stop as he took a deep breath, and pushed with everything he had.
A thousand pains blazed to life, his tortured left arm screamed from punctures to break with lightning bolts of banshee-wailing hot up his neck and into his ear. Sweat coated him, his stomach filled with a soup of bile and acid then clenched, trying to squeeze it into his already swollen throat, frustration leaked from his eyes while teeth ground his lips to keep him quiet.
A soft hiss and the faintest 'plink' of metal on stone was the timid sound of release as the right side of the neck bracket slid free, leaving him gasping with technicolor pompons cheering him on behind his eyes. He wrapped his hand around the innocuous piece of metal heedless of its keen edge slicing into his palm as he cajoled the other side out of the wall, and with his weight now resting on his tortured left arm, the still wholly fastened bracket over his left ankle and one lone nail for the one over his right, he wanted only to collapse.
The tiny, hard-won victory cost him dearly. The effort to hold himself up was suddenly too much to bear, and that horrible stab in his shoulder grew in time with the release of his weight. He slid the bracket into his jeans pocket as wetness slid down his back. His heart and stomach conspired to try once more to make him vomit as he turned his quaking hand, sliding it between himself and the wall then examined it. Uhnoh... what now? hot tearful air pushed out from between his lips when he saw his blood-gloved hand and panic pawed the air, What is it! What's going on! what happened!? he wanted to scream, but every breath pushed whatever it was that was stabbing him deeper. He wanted to buck and flail, to just tear himself free, heedless of whatever damage might be done in the process. Terror clawed his spine, his breath came short and he would have sworn on a stack of hunter's journals that if he didn't get off that wall NOW he was going to completely freak out and explode out of his skin!
'Breathe Dean, breathe! It'll be okay son...just stay calm okay? We'll get you out of there, just stay calm,' he heard John's voice and nodded now, as he had within the memory. Dad would never let either of them get hurt, Dad could fix it, he just needed to stay calm. It was a time at Bobby's when his jacket sleeve got caught in the timing belt of one of Bobby's trucks. The gear had torn a good sized gouge into the boys' arm, as the sleeve turned dark red and shiny with his blood, then when the stuff began to drip onto the ground, John could feel his son about to panic and do himself untold damage. He'd stroked his back, ruffed his hair and smiled despite his own fear for what he might see once he got his boys' arm free. Quickly but carefully, he worked the gear back while prying up the timing belt, Bobby looked on anxiously, trying to keep his own fear down while blood began to puddle on the ground.
"Ho'kay...ohkay..." I can't stop shaking... PLEASE! God if I could just... STOP SHAKING... his arm moved upward, his hand starting at his neck, moving backward, down and out toward his shoulder. Midway between those two landmarks he felt an unnatural upward bulge in the area and sucked back another tremulous gasp while his fingers explored and his mind envisioned. From what he could tell, it was something spring-loaded. A device that probably had just lain against his body until the tension changed on it and like a snare, the sharpened hooked end was sprung, free to release, sliding into his skin, sliding under and through the bundle of tissue that made up the trapezius muscle just one more way to clamp him to the wall should the brackets fail. Please! he breathed pressing his head against the wall unable to stop himself. He pressed his one free hand over his face and for a time allowed himself to cry.
--
'Chill, damp, dark... it smells down here... down, yeah it smells like below ground, what IS this? There's almost no light here! This is NOT good!' he turned, his hands gliding over the slime slick cobbled bricks. Not far to his right was a vague shape he knew better than his own, 'Dean?' he moved towards him, uncertain if he was alive or dead in this horrible darkness, "Dean?" he spoke but there was no answer, "Oh my God Dean..." he reached out a hand into a wall of unnatural fever-heat and somehow, without being able to touch him, still felt his brother shudder, "Dean? Do you know where you are? Talk to me man! Do you know what took you? Hear me! Talk to me!" he pleaded. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he was able to begin to make out details. There were furious welts and jagged tears across his chest, rivers and tributaries of blood left glistening remnants of where they'd flowed freely down, the waistband of his jeans was nearly black but still glistened with fresh flow from somewhere behind him.
"Oh God... Dean, Dean you gotta hold on okay? You gotta hold on! I'm looking for you! I'm coming for you! I'm not gonna let you down, so help me God I won't..."
As if he'd been heard, he watched his big brother roll his head up, his eyes tearstained and bloodshot even in this pervasive darkness. He reached out, needing to lay a comforting hand on the man, wanting him to feel his presence but frustratingly unable to provide even the smallest comfort. He leaned down, looking closely at one of the longer rends, his finger hovering over the cruel tear and felt pain rake across his own chest, a flash of an image, a doll with an impossible accessory. A spider web of gray, held between her hands, swept into and across his brother in a nightmare twist on Scheherazade tormenting the Knights, only this time, instead of veils, her tool of torment appeared to be strands of barbed wire. "Holy crap! Is this real? Did this happen? Is that what did this to you?" he breathed.
Just as abruptly as it started, both visions stopped and Sam's head snapped up. "Oh man..." he breathed looking at the pendant in his hand, "Dean!" he stuffed it back into his pocket and loaded his messenger bag with whatever he thought he might need, Wait my ASS! Ain't happening! It was old, wherever he's being held, it's an old place. Okay, the historic section of town it is, just hang on Dean! Please!
--
Evil voices whispered cruel things even as he wiped away the evidence of hopelessness and tried to figure out how he was going to get out of there with half his body almost free, and a tortured half yet to be released. His battle was nowhere near done and each howl or plea that rolled into his little corner of hell from somewhere else was just another tock of the clock against him. If I don't get my shit together here I'm gonna wind up in a whole new world of bad, I can feel it! he raised his right arm up and felt the wall behind his back, this time on the left side. Sure enough his fingers brushed a spiny tip that felt serrated, resting against his skin on that side as well. He closed his eyes visualizing the device while his fingers kept tension on it, though apparently not enough. He got his answer as the tightly curved hook snapped upward around his questing finger, actually knocking the other out of the way. In the instant he felt it give he'd pulled away, hopefully enough to spare his left shoulder. The motion was too much against his right side which tore against its sister device sending fresh trickles down his back. Son of a bitch! At least I know how it springs out though. With the secondary means of restraint sprung on both sides now all he had to do was pull the one out of his right shoulder and he could try to break free in earnest! I knew there was a reason to keep you, he sneered reaching into his pocket with those quaking fingers and grasped that neck bracket as firmly as he could. He gritted his teeth raising his arm over head, sliding the end of the metal between his shoulder and the wall. His lungs worked like a steam engine to pull and push oxygen through his swollen and tightening throat, his earlier emotional release had only made it worse though in the end, he hoped the focus he'd been able to find once more would be worth the price he'd wind up paying.
He wedged the end of the bracket, pinching a slice through his skin, down to the deepest end of the hook's trough and pushed. No! No no no! he ground through clenched teeth as the flat metal band started to bend before the hook had even given a sign of budging. DAMNIT! NO! NO! I WILL NOT accept this! he flipped the band in the opposite direction, bracing the small bend with his fingers. Slowly he applied pressure, straight down, each millimeter bought with screams from some other helpless victim nearby.
--
Forced to bear half the man's weight, the single remaining nail from the one side of the ankle bracket, slid almost effortlessly from its mooring with the release of his upper body from the hook that shared the brunt of the work.
Dean's foot hit the floor, his ankle twisting just enough to remind him he hadn't used it in already far too long, his left side remained pegged and he was graced with a sudden insight into what an insect might feel like when pegged to a display board by an entomologist.
With his body's weight settling into his joints, the way it was supposed to, and the feel of earth under his free foot he felt a faint breeze fan that flame of hope once more, and this time the tears that streaked his face were pregnant with thanks.
"Guh...God..." he breathed looking at the left arm that remained pinned and looking altogether foreign to him. This wasn't his arm, this belonged in a picture in some medical journal, it didn't belong on the body of a healthy 30 year old man! In fact, it kinda looks like it belongs on a corpse... he thought swallowing hard against the gorge that saw fit to rise once more.
Give me strength... please... if there IS a god up there... anywhere... give me strength to finish this please! he sniffed hard, his continuously misfiring right hand reached up and pressed his left back into the wall, off the nail head it had been hung up on. His fingers grabbed futilely at the nail head, the nail of his fingers grazing the hypersensitive flesh, each brush the sting of a thousand paper cuts until finally, frustrated with himself, with his slow progress, and terrified by the wailing that had stopped and apparently been silent for long moments, shit... how long has it been quiet? Oh God no please! I'm sorry, please forgive me... please, but I need more time! he choked squeezing the head between his fingertips, the sour acrid, smell of infection and decay taking refuge in his nose once the seal over his wound was compromised.
His fingers slipped off the pus encrusted nail-head once, twice, and a third time before he lost his knees in prayer to the altar that had once been his good left arm. Please... he gasped once more, locking his fingers, pinning them with his thumb. Breath held in his throat, his right arm moved up and down, twisting holding, begging and slowly the nail began to move. Blood and ichor spat from the wound then oozed green, yellow and red over his twitching palm. His tongue remained firmly bloodily pinned between his teeth as the fingers of his right hand crawled up the distended purple flesh toward his elbow. He wasn't going to have such an easy time of this one he knew, but still, he had to try.
--
There was no way to tell how long he sat on his heels breathing the stench of his own retch as it dribbled from his mouth down his chest to find rest in his lap. Stars prickled in, behind, and all around his eyes where capillaries had burst as he pulled the nail in his elbow out through the bone, a feeling of indescribable torture, nothing like anything he'd experienced yet in this little hell of his as the steel was worked through the immensely vascular network that was his elbow. The arm lay across his lap, useless, defunct, and most certainly simply awaiting amputation as he slid the fingers of his good right hand into the 'give' of the ankle bracket that secured his last limb to the wall. Delirious, the world a monster riddled place that should have been surreal peppered his waking dreams as he gave a tug and set his foot free.
His left foot hit the floor and he shrieked as what felt like a thousand nails were shot simulatneously into the tender plantar surface.
"Gaaaaah! God! What the fuck!" he screamed rolling onto his back, a board with hundreds of nails pinned through his foot as he brought it over head, yet another torment for whatever purpose he could not even begin to conceive.
Another volley of sweat, fever, and richter scale trembling brought more tears and pants to him as he pulled the board from his foot, blood rained onto his face, as he cast it aside and the trap door to his oubliette opened, the ladder descended and his bisque faced tormentor returned with eyes blazing her fury and her home made atrocity shredding the air beside her.
"YOU! Pathetic simple... WORTHLESS sack of NOTHING! How DARE You! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!" she raged across the suddenly far too tiny cell. Her arm was raised high above her head, her ruby lips stretched into a warped sneer he'd never be able to forget as she strode forcefully toward where he lay, now on his side.
A whistle tore the air between them before he had a chance to move, and as the barbs stuck into his side, catching, grinding, and tearing Dean brought his legs up against his stomach, as far up his chest as he could though his thighs both screamed in protest and his teeth ground the inside of his lips to keep the whimpers inside. He needed her to breathe, he needed that two second reprieve to roll away or force himself to his feet.
"What the hell are you?" he panted, doing everything he could to distract her while every torn edge of skin rubbing against its other half wished to be whole again.
"The likes of YOU will NEVER KNOW!" she shrieked, ripping the whip back and out of him.
He screamed, his body bucked under the blow, blood flowed, he swallowed and spat his own acid while flesh fires raged yet let lay cool the terrors of his mind.
"You Son of a bitch!" she screamed and let fly once more her home made whip. Its barbs sunk into his back, tearing, scratching so deeply he wondered if he'd ever want to feel a woman's nails on his back again or if it would just remind him of this.
"STAAAHHHHPPP!" he cried feeling his skin tearing as she withdrew once more, leaning back with an almost parallel pull to open as much flesh as she could while preparing for the next blow.
God... I know you're Sammy's forte... but if you exist... please... please... I gotta get out of here... I gotta save my brother! Please... help me... he pleaded blinded by burning agonies that denied any possibility of relief.
There was only one thing that left him grateful in this moment, grateful that he was alone with this bitch, and yet, still terrified beyond belief of what he might do, what he might be willing to compromise to survive if she would only ask it of him. Without the armor of bravado that kept him once removed from his own fear, without the comforting presence of either his brother or his father to shore him up, to gird that armor around him, Dean found he felt small. In fact he felt very much like a frightened four year old boy clinging to his disbelieving father's arm late at night, watching their world burn away while they sat on the cold hood of the family Impala.
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tbc.
Please R&R.
Thanks, sifi