The bar appears to be the same as any other rundown, gritty, overcrowded hell-hole. The difference, however, is that this place takes the phrase 'hell-hole' a bit more literally. The average human would never be aware of that fact.
At least, not until the door swings open to reveal none other than Dean Winchester himself.
"Evening," he calls with a dangerous smile, ensuring that every suddenly-beetle-black eye in the place falls on him in recognition.
The possessed shell of a woman to his left has barely opened her mouth to speak before the barrel of his shotgun is leveled directly in front of her nose.
Her eyes widen in surprise. She only meets Dean's irate gaze for a fraction of a second before taking a shotgun blast point-blank to the face.
Dean is moving instantly, stepping into the swarm of chaos. He alternates between his gun and the demon-killing blade, slashing and blasting through the ranks with his angel at his back.
Castiel is guarding over his currently-murderous mortal friend and smiting demons only when it becomes necessary. They do need information, after all. This will be the third demon-nest they've cleared and they have no leads so far. Given Dean's growing desperation, Cas keeps a careful eye on him, ensuring that Dean will be once again be able to switch off before there is no one left to interrogate.
Some of the demons get it worse than others. It all depends on the thought in Dean's mind at any particular moment. When he is focused solely on the task at hand, on his goal, he is fast, methodical, and efficient.
When he recalls the last time he saw you and Sam - smiling and offering him promises of pie as you walked out the door, or the sheer glee in Sammy's eyes whenever he found something he'd been researching for, or the way you looked curled up naked in his arms... Well.
In these moments, things get messy. In these moments, Dean does not go straight for the kill. He uses fists and boots, elbows and knees. He takes the time to break bones. To slice ligaments. To inflict pain. In these moments, the demon-blade is used for viciously slashing at stomachs and calves and faces, for severing limbs and - eventually - heads.
Dean's body practically hums with the violence pounding in his veins. He sees red. Merciless, unrelenting, pitiless, maddening RED. But still, his hands are steady and sure.
When the waves of blinding rage recede, Dean is standing amid a sea of blood and bodies.
He struggles to slow his breathing, to come back to reality. He is relieved to see a few of the demons are still moving around, trying to crawl toward the exit and away from him.
If the condition of Cas' trench-coat is any indication, Dean knows that he must be a mess. He glances down at his hands, then to his clothing. He is covered in blood and gore. Given that all of it belongs to demons - the same breed that is currently in possession of his entire world - he is glad for the mess.
He stalks over to the closest demon, rolling it over onto its back and pressing his blade to its throat.
"Where are they?" He snarls.
"Who?" The demon wheezes.
Dean brings his fist down furiously across its face with his fingers curled around the hilt of the blade.
"Wrong answer, douchebag!" He screams. "Where are they?"
"We don't know!" The demon insists. "Nobody knows. Nobody topside, anyway."
"What's that supposed to mean? The fuckers who took them went back to Hell? Huh? Answer me!"
"The ones that took'em are already dead!"
Dean flinches at those words. "Who killed them? And if they're already dead, where the hell are my brother and wife?"
The demon sneers up at him. "Their boss killed them. They took your pain-in-the-ass brother and your bitch, they did what they were ordered to do, but then they got their dumb asses killed for the effort. Some bonus, huh? But it serves its purpose."
"And what purpose would that be?"
"Guarantees you'll never find out what happened. That you'll spend the rest of your miserable life looking for them. Wondering. Imagining." The demon laughs even as blood gushes from its mouth. "It's fucking beautiful."
Dean's rage is fast on its way to reaching another crescendo. "Who gave the order?"
"A fan of your friend, Crowley."
"Crowley had something to do with this?" Dean demands.
The demon laughs even harder. "No, he missed that opportunity."
"I want a name."
"I don't have one. But even if I did? I'd die before I gave it up."
Dean swiftly brings the blade up through the demon's jaw and into his skull.
"Good to know," he comments as the demon's life energy pulses and flickers out.
The conversations with the other two remaining demons go about the same. No additional details are provided. No names. No location. No closer to finding you and Sam.
Dean barely notices Castiel transporting them back to the bunker.
With blood-spattered, trembling hands, he pours himself a glass of whisky on autopilot. His mind races. His adrenaline is wearing off, and in its wake, there is exhaustion and weakness. He gulps down the alcohol in order to ignore those useless sensations.
"You need to eat, Dean. And rest." Castiel says cautiously, not wanting to draw an outburst from the man.
"Not hungry. Not tired." Dean answers distractedly, pouring another tall glass and quickly downing it. He's not drinking to get drunk or to forget, not to savor the taste. He's medicating.
"Dean," Cas sighs. "You cannot keep going like this. It has been three days. You need-"
The angel watches, not entirely surprised, as Dean spins to face him and throws his glass at the wall as hard as he can. It shatters on impact, much like Dean's tenuous hold on his anger and frustration.
"I KNOW IT'S BEEN THREE DAYS! I KNOW THAT! YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME HOW LONG IT'S BEEN!" He roars, red-faced and beyond livid. "I'm counting the minutes here, Cas! What the fuck do you expect me to do? Huh? You think I'm gonna go sit down and enjoy a big meal, maybe kick back and watch a movie till I nod off? I can't eat! I can't fucking sleep! Not while they're still out there! Do you understand? I CAN'T!"
Castiel tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. His eyes soften sympathetically and pleadingly as he studies the mortal man.
And it is such a blatant and effective mimicry of Sam's puppy-dog eyes that it almost reduces Dean to tears.
"Leave me the hell alone, Cas!" He warns, though his voice has lost a great deal of its strength.
The angel can only watch as he turns and stalks out of the room.
-SPN-
"How long do you think it's been?" You whisper weakly.
"I'm trying really hard not to think about it," Sam answers honestly.
"Oh," you sigh.
You both know very well that it's been days by this point.
The two of you have been passing the time sleeping in shifts and talking for undoubted hours on end. It is becoming more and more difficult to distract yourselves from the passing of time.
To your amusement - because, seriously, at this point you were done with embarrassment - Sam's mind had eventually wandered down the inevitable nudity-guided path.
The first time it happened, he released his hold on you as if he'd been burnt. His panicked reaction to his traitorous body's interest in your naked form was severe enough to send you into hysterics. You tried to reign in your laughter, but seriously, the way he recoiled and flung himself backwards, you'd have thought the guy had put his hand on a stovetop.
"Shit, I'm sorry!" He offered so earnestly, you had to force yourself to stop laughing and reach over to take his hand.
"It's fine, Sam," you assured.
"It's not. Like, at all," he insisted. "You're Dean's wife. Dean's pregnant wife. I mean, that alone should be enough to prevent... this... from becoming an issue."
"Saaammm," you groan. "It's not a big deal. Don't start chugging the Guilt-orade. It's gonna happen. It's unavoidable. Hell, if you had any way of knowing just how fast my mind traveled down that road when we first got into this mess, you'd be giving yourself a gold medal right now for restraint. You'd also be realizing why Dean and I get along so well. But it's just a thought. Nothing else. We're not doing anything about it. No need to break out the self-hate. Okay?"
Sam huffs petulantly in response and you laugh again.
"If it makes you feel any better, I think I'd probably be offended if this never came up. And I'd be wondering about your sexual preferences. I mean, I'm a chick, you're a dude, we're naked and laying together. I would have to be seriously fugly for you not to take the next logical mental step."
Despite himself, Sam laughed at that. "You're not 'fugly,' believe me. I've seen fugly."
"And neither are you," you answered with a smile. "I'm afraid this is just a side effect of us both being so damned hot. Neither one of us can tone down the sexy."
Sam chuckles and replies, "When you make statements like that, I don't have to wonder why you and Dean get along."
"We good?" You ask, and wait for his grunt of agreement. "Good. I'm freezing my ass off over here. If you need to face the other way, that's fine, but if it's all right with you, I'd rather not sit here shivering."
Sam had reluctantly shuffled around so that he was facing the door.
You moved to take your place behind him and pressed the length of your body against his back, thankful for the return of any warmth you could leach from him.
That had been a long while ago. Maybe hours, maybe a day, maybe days. You have no idea. None. There's no way to measure how much time is passing. Regardless of how long ago the incident had taken place, it was the last time either of you had a good laugh.
Conversation is dying down as the situation worsens.
The joint growling of your stomachs is like a duet now, but you're both careful not to mention food. The very thought of getting out of this place and having Dean make you one of his freaking orgasmic burgers is nearly enough to drive you insane. You're whole body is perpetually trembling with hunger.
And the thirst? God. You would give your right arm for a great, big, Sam-sized bottle of water - the kind he downs after coming back from a run.
Well, maybe not the whole arm.
Possibly a finger.
Definitely a pinkie.
You consider it for a moment before nodding to yourself. If the demons were to open that door right now and make that offer, you'd cut off your pinkie without blinking.
The only mercy of the decided lack of food and water is that it makes the issue of other bodily functions almost nonexistent. Which is a good thing, considering Sam's inability to move more than a few feet from the wall. There are certain conversations you never in your life had planned on having with your brother in law. Sharing is not necessarily caring when it comes to discussing digestive tracts.
You can't help but obsess over what all of this is doing to your baby. Is it okay in there? Is it getting what it needs? Even if you do manage to make it out alive, will you lose the baby? Or will its long-term health and development be adversely effected by this rough start?
You sigh at the fact that the suffocating silence is allowing your terror to swell with each passing moment.
Sam is asleep, once again facing you, and he's lightly snoring.
You're bored as hell, but you can't sleep. It's your watch, for starters. But also, you're worrying about Sam's thought process. He's made a few more troubling statements regarding getting you and his future niece or nephew out of here safely. It's like he's reached some kind of decision in his mind already, and a Winchester with their mind made up is a dangerous thing.
Even though you know it's useless to do so with the warding that must be present, you pray that Dean is able to find you soon.
A/N: Thoughts? Comments? Love? Hate? Any favorite lines or parts? Want me to post more soon? ;-) Be sure to let me know what you think!
Thank you for the lovely reviews, athiusa, rizlow, Yui, HeavenlyKitten, whimsicalbarwench, J. L. Harp, BossyBeast, ritournelle, NAWag1r, and an unsigned Guest! You all are the reason this next part is up so fast.
NAWag1r - (gasp!) Chickie, I didn't even know you read this series past Part 1, Clear the Area!
