Sorry for the wait. And sorry this chapter is so short. I figured a little bit of something was better than nothing at all. I hope you enjoy. :)
It didn't take long for Dean to realize that their plan of walking all the way back to town wasn't going to work out as well as he had hoped. Sam was having a hard time staying upright, much less putting one foot in front of the other. They moved at a slow pace, Sam with one arm thrown over Dean's shoulders for support, the other hand pressed to his shoulder where he had been shot. Dean was keenly aware that the bullet was still in Sam's shoulder and that they needed to get it out as soon as possible. He didn't have any tools though, so they trudged on.
They had been walking, Dean figured, for a little over an hour, when lights in the distance caught Dean's attention. Sam's head was down, so he wasn't aware of the approaching vehicle. Dean stopped suddenly and Sam looked up.
"Dean?"
"Look." Dean nodded toward the headlights in the distance.
Sam followed Dean's gaze and Dean felt him tense.
"What if it's Jack?" Sam said, anxiety in his voice.
"It's not Jack." Dean said. "It's coming from the wrong direction." He turned to look at the row of trees they were walking along on the side of the road. "Here. Just wait here."
He helped Sam over to the closest tree and left him there, then walked into the road and stood in the path of the car. As the car came closer it began to slow until it came to a complete stop in front of Dean. The driver, probably wary of Dean's dirty, blood-stained clothes – not to mention the fact that he appeared to be some random nut job standing in the road in the middle of the night – didn't get out of his car. He left the headlights shining in Dean's eyes and rolled his window down just a crack.
"Hey, buddy, what the hell are you doing?" He hollered.
Dean circled around to the driver's side of the car, careful not to come too close and possibly scare the man away.
"My brother and I, we need help." Dean said, putting his palms out in a gesture that Dean hoped the man would interpret as peaceful. "He's got broken bones and burns and he's been shot. Can you take us to a hospital? Please?"
The man in the car squinted out the windshield into the darkness beyond where his headlights illuminated the road, and then turned to look over his shoulder. "Where's your brother?" He asked cautiously.
Dean motioned for Sam, and Sam staggered out from behind the tree to meet Dean by the car. Dean watched the man's eyes widen when he saw Sam and took in his appearance. The man finally opened his door and stepped out of the car, still watching Sam and Dean with a cautious eye.
"Yeah. I can take you to a hospital." He said, opening the door for the back seat.
Dean helped Sam into the car. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw as he positioned himself in the seat, breathing in quick, short bursts. His pale skin, glistening with sweat, made Dean feel impatient and worried. They needed to get to a hospital. He started to climb in after Sam.
"Watch your head." The man said next to him.
Suddenly there was a hand in Dean's hair and his head was being pushed forward. Caught off guard, Dean didn't have time to react before his forehead slammed painfully into the side of the vehicle. Dazed, he started to stand up but didn't get far before the hand was back in his hair, and his head, once again, slammed against the car. Dean fell to his back on the pavement and tried to blink away the dark spots on the edge of his vision.
There was some distant shouting and then a loud crash, and then Dean's vision blurred and he lost the battle to stay conscious.
Before Dean was even fully awake, he was aware that something was wrong. Like some part of his brain was still fully alert and was screaming at the rest of him to wake up. He squeezed his eyes tighter and brought his hands up to press at his temples. He held them there for a minute, trying to chase away the throbbing headache, and then opened his eyes slowly.
It was dark, but Dean immediately recognized the same sectioned-off piece of basement he had escaped from just hours ago.
"No." He said, sitting up too quickly and causing the dark spots to return and threaten his vision. He ignored them and stood, eyes flicking around the familiar room. "No, no, no."
He went to the door and pounded on it, feeling the panic rise in his chest. "Sam!"
When he didn't hear an answer he turned and sank to the floor, back pressed against the door. He pulled his knees to his chest and gripped his hair tightly between his fingers. There was a very good chance that Sam was already dead, and that thought was the only thing Dean could seem to concentrate on. The man in the car, whoever he was, must have brought them back to Jack. Why, Dean wondered, and banged the back of his head angrily against the door, sending a sharp burst of pain through his skull. He groaned and brought a hand up to rub at the spot.
It was early morning, judging by the light outside the window, and Dean sat in the room until the sun was high in the sky. He didn't bother trying to break the glass in the window or knock down the door. It wouldn't work, anyway. He did, however, spend a good portion of the morning yelling to anyone in the house who might be listening. He made as much noise as he could in the hopes that Jack would get tired of the sound and come to deal with him. Maybe he would just open up the trap door in the ceiling and shoot him. Whatever. It didn't matter. If Sam really was dead, Dean just wished Jack would hurry up and get on with it already.
He yelled until his throat was raw and he could barely speak, let alone yell, and then he threw the glass jars across the room one by one and found some sort of weird satisfaction in hearing them crash against the wall and fall to the floor. After that, he sank back to the floor, buried his face in his knees, and prayed that by some miracle, Sam was alive. He silently offered up his soul if Sam would just be okay. He didn't know if God or angels or whatever made deals for souls, didn't know if he even believed in God really, but he was desperate; and if some angel were to show up out of nowhere and agree to make the deal, Dean wouldn't hesitate.
It was another hour or so after that when Dean finally heard the footsteps coming down the stairs. He jumped to his feet, positioned himself in front of the door, and waited. Whoever was on the other side – Jack, presumably – moved around for a while, not making any excess noise, but not making any attempt to keep quiet, either. Dean listened closely.
"Hey!" Dean shouted, getting impatient. He pounded on the door with his fist. "Open this door, you son-of-a-bitch. Fight me like a man. Come on, let's get this over with."
The commotion on the other side paused for a long moment, then resumed. After a few minutes, the slot in the door slid open unexpectedly and Jack stared through at Dean. Dean clenched his jaw and glared back at Jack.
"Where's my brother?" He demanded.
Jack shrugged and gave Dean an uninterested frown. Dean could see the boredom in his expression, like he had just simply been in the middle of grabbing something from the basement and was annoyed that he had to take time out of his chore to stop and talk to the person he had locked up in the other room. More than anything, it just reinforced Dean's theory that Sam was already dead. He bit the side of his cheek hard to stop himself from screaming or crying or whatever the hell his emotions were doing. Dean took a breath and tried a different approach.
"Who was that guy we met in the road?" He asked. "Friend of yours?"
Jack gave a short chuckle. "Called him when you escaped." He said amusedly. "Figured you'd follow the road back to town. Randy woulda had to run into you sooner or later."
Dean mentally added another name to the list of people who were going to die once this was all over. He banged his fists against the door once more and moved his face closer until he was eye to eye with Jack.
"Where is my brother." He said slowly, stressing every word. It wasn't a question, it was a demand.
Jack turned his back to Dean and started to walk away. The rage that Dean could feel boiling in his stomach was enough that Dean knew he could kill Jack with his bare hands if he would just be given a chance. It would be easy, and he would enjoy it.
Jack paused before he reached the stairs. "Sam's alive, if that's what you're so worried about." He said, back still turned to Dean.
Dean felt the rage quickly being pushed away. He was still angry, of course, but it was nothing compared to the relief that was replacing the anger. He rested his forehead against the wood and breathed deep.
"I wouldn't count on him staying that way for much longer, though." Jack added, as if it were just an afterthought. "You'd better start planning your next escape."
He sauntered up the stairs, leaving Dean alone in the basement feeling angry and scared and defeated. Sam was alive, thank god, but Dean still had no way of getting to him. No way of breaking free of the room. Even if he could, they would be back to square one. They weren't able to make it to town the first time, who says they would have any better luck on the second try? If Sam still had that bullet in his shoulder, they had even less of a chance of making it than before.
Dean sat against the door, gripped his hair in his hands, and prayed for a miracle.
So how many people thought they had actually escaped? hehe. I promise I'll try to get the next chapter up ASAP. Thanks for reading!