Lost To Madness 7
I've been sitting on this damned chapter for FOUR DAYS waiting for fanfic to come back to life!!!!
To the people in Moose Hollow, BC, Canada...sorry about the dead horse. It was all Phoebe's fault.
AN: I'm sitting here staring at this page trying to come up with something clever to say.
............................................................sound of crickets....................................................
I got nothing.
After a week of being buried under ice, sharing my house with other people (family members) who weren't fortunate enough to have their power come back on after only a day or so, my mind is a blank.
They TALK to me. Worse yet, they expect me to RESPOND and actually acknowledge their existence as though I were interested in what they might have to say. It's not that I don't like them, I simply can't deal with interaction like that on a continuing basis. The few individuals who know me, if only by reputation, let alone the ones who know me personally, KNOW how much I hate having other people around, with the rare exception of a very limited few who know who they are and I could still type with the fingers I had left after I tick them off.
If one more person swears at me by saying GOOD MORNING, I will kill. I HATE that phrase. I don't want to make eye contact with anyone before 9:30am, let alone have to exchange rote banality about a part of the day that hasn't even happened yet. Hell, ask me in a few hours after it's over, otherwise, stay the hell away from me. Maybe it WAS a good morning until they spoke and forced me to accept the fact that they survived the night.
I wanted to walk out onto the ice and be done with it the other night but Gaelic talked me out of it...
Stares longingly out window into the beckoning blackness as nerve near eye twitches, laughing in soft snatches to myself.
Like my husband's mother...
AN 2: Okay, I wrote the above a few weeks ago and I was gonna delete it but then I thought, what the hell, I'm not mad anymore but the sentiment still stands. And it may be the best thing you read of this entire chapter.
Also, I finished posting the rest of the illustrated Moonstar on my website. Sorry it took so long. I'll start getting the rest of the stories and art on there now.
Thruterryseyes dot com. Ta everyone who staggers by, the door is always open, come in, kick off your shoes; just watch out for the sticky spots on the floor. They could be anything.
Hopefully, I've answered all the reviews that have piled up in my mailbox. If I missed you I'm so sorry, let me know and I'll write a drabble for you.
I can't name everyone I want to send hugs to who are always so nice to me. If you're reading this, you're probably one of them.
AN 3: Kazcon will be held August 6 thru 9th in Lawrence, Kansas. I had a GREAT time there last time and hope everyone goes to the website, checks it out and seriously considers going. The best part was getting to meet the wonderful people behind all the names I had come to know in a fun atmosphere where we could all share our obsession. Kazcon (dot) us. There's a link on my website too. Hope to see you there!
AN 4: In case you've gotten this far and forgotten what you were reading, this is Chapter 7 of Lost To Madness.
Remember? The plotless torture story....
One more chapter after this one....
Just when you think the movies over, you get an Easter egg...
Dean lay belly down on the seat, the movement of the Impala over the rough roads making him hurt too much to actually sleep. His body twanged like a guitar string, nerves firing as he ran the last two days through his mind, the pointless pain inflicted upon him, the humiliation of not being able to fight back. The repellent touch and drag of his captor's hands over his body as he dangled helplessly at the end of a rope.
The impotent rage that had filled him at the thought of those bastards leaving Sam dead on the cold ground...
"Dean? You alright?" Sam turned as he heard Dean's breathing become heavier, throatier.
Dean's eyes rolled up and he grabbed the arm Sam had stretched over the back of the seat, reassuring himself this was real. Sam was there.
Alive.
Everything else was gravy.
He swallowed and nodded. "I'm okay," he croaked, his hand falling back down.
Sam reached out and gripped Dean's shoulder gently, his eyes glistening suspiciously. "We'll be there soon."
Dean's mouth twitched in an effort to smile and he nodded again, missing Sam's hand as soon as it was withdrawn. His gaze fell on the wooden stock of the sawed off Sam had dropped in the foot-well of the passenger seat, the barrel gleaming dully.
His hand went down to the weapon, his fingers curling around the cool wood, nestling behind the trigger guard, feeling some of the tension easing from his trembling form.
"We should call the cops," the man with Sam said at one point.
"We can't," Sam replied flatly, without further explanation.
Dean managed to fall into a light doze that made the voices from the front seat nothing more than wordless noises, like sound under water.
He jerked back with a pained cry as fingers touched him.
"Oh! Shit...Dean, I'm sorry..."
Sam's contrite voice did little to slow the jerky pound of Dean's heart but it relaxed his mind's sudden panic.
"Your eyes were open; I didn't mean to startle you." Sam squatted down, painfully, so Dean could see him. "We're here, at Mike's place," Sam gestured behind him at the older man and beyond him the blocky shape of the bar.
"Oh..." Dean blinked, his eyes looking past Mike at the beer signs glowing in the window of the building behind him. It was strangely welcoming. What the hell did that say about him when a beer sign made him feel like he was coming home?
Grimacing, he tried to push himself up. Just the short time lying down had stiffened his abused body and every movement was a study in aches as torn skin was pulled and bruised muscles stretched. "I...I can't..." It was mortifying to admit he couldn't get out of the car without help, but there it was.
Mike stepped forward as Sam got up from his crouch and reached in. "It's okay," Sam said, well aware of how Dean felt about needing help with anything. "We'll make it quick."
They settled for just pulling a groaning Dean bodily from the car until they could get him into a standing position with his bare feet more or less on the ground. His knees wobbled as he tried to bear his own weight, clutching ineffectually at Mike and Sam, then realizing he still gripped the shotgun in one hand. "Jesus..." he gasped, the muscles in his calves screaming as he tried to straighten his legs.
"Dean, gimme the gun," Sam said, tugging on it.
Dean tightened his grip, head shaking, "No."
Sam started to protest then shook his head. If it made Dean feel better, what the hell?
Seeing that the bandage around Sam's waist was spotted with blood, Mike pulled Dean's arm over his shoulder and put his other arm carefully around Dean's waist, as far below the crisscrossed slashes as he could. "I got him Sam," he grunted, "go open the doors and let's get him inside. Here," he fumbled a large key out of his pocket and held it out to an obviously reluctant Sam.
Sam finally relinquished his grip on Dean's body and accepted the key. He lifted it to stare at the pink, glow-in-the-dark plastic heart dangling from it. Despite everything, he felt his mouth quirk; if he laughed now, he wouldn't be able to stop.
"It was gift!" Mike snapped, rolling his eyes. "For God's sake, Sam, just go open the frigging door!" Mike began to move forward determinedly.
Pulling himself up the steps, Sam bit back a groan. His own body felt like he'd been hit by a truck, he couldn't imagine what Dean must be feeling like. He shoved the key in and twisted the old lock, pushing the door open and holding it back as Mike and Dean made their way into the bar.
"Lock it back," Mike said as he passed. "Don't want someone stumbling in looking for a beer."
Sam did as he was told, making sure the 'closed' sign was showing. Behind him, a few lights flipped on in the room. He stumbled to the bar area and dropped the key on the counter, slumping onto the barstool next to the one Dean had collapsed on, the gun lying next to him on the counter.
Sam pressed a hand against the dull ache in his side. Mike had vanished.
Sam's mouth tightened as he looked at Dean's lacerated back, the bruises he could see-
"Dean…" Sam began, strangling on 'what if,' unable to fully voice the fact that Dean had been closer to death than either of them truly wanted to face.
"I didn't die," Dean said, anticipating him and cutting him off. "So let's just leave it at that." While he could understand his brother's horror at how close it had really been, he lacked the energy he knew it would take to fully appreciate it. He spoke without lifting his head, his voice muffled. "You got there in time."
"Who were they? What did they want?" Sam's voice rose as frustration and the need to know overwhelmed him.
Dean rolled his head against his arms. "They followed us here...thought we had something they wanted...I dunno...they were...crazy...serious crazy...the big guy...Rex..."
Mike reappeared from the back and Dean fell silent. Sam could hear water running.
"I got the shower going," Mike said, moving behind the bar and running water into a glass. He added a straw and set it in front of Dean. "The water hookup is right there and I guess they didn't want to spend the money to put the water heater closer to the bathroom when they built this place." He gestured loosely at a narrow doorway where the bar jutted out of the wall. "It takes a while for the hot water to get there."
Dean threw the straw down and gulped the water, pushing the empty glass back at Mike. Spying a bowl of peanuts, he reached out and dragged it to him, spilling them as he grabbed a handful and stuffed them in his mouth.
"I'll find some food for you while you clean up," Mike said refilling Dean's glass. "Then we need to do something about your back."
He clunked two shot glasses on the bar and filled them, sliding one to Sam, tossing the other back himself. He coughed, banging the glass back down on the bar and stared at the two brothers for a long moment.
"Who the fuck are you guys?"
Sam sat on the couch in Mike's back room, listening closely as Dean took a slowly- executed shower.
Mike had swiftly re-bandaged Sam's side after Dean had refused to do anything until he had seen the wound re-checked. It was simpler to just do it than argue about it.
Through the open door—Sam had insisted it remain open—he could make out Dean's silhouette through the thin shower curtain as he moved, swearing and gasping as the warm water sluiced over his battered body. Without hesitation, Mike had dragged a barstool into the small shower so Dean could sit.
As much as he didn't want to, Dean was forced to rest on the stool when the first warm trickle of water had fallen on his back. He had turned the pressure down to a dribble until he thought he could bear a little more force. The searing burn on his torn skin would have taken him to his knees as the agony of the flogging was revisited.
Head down, he watched the water running past his feet as it changed from brown to pink, the accumulated dirt, blood and small chunks of stuff he was pretty sure was skin, washing away from him.
He wished the memory washed away as easily.
Anger flooded him again and his vision grayed out momentarily.
God DAMMIT.
He slammed a fist into the side of the shower.
"Dean??" Sam was there so fast Dean would've sworn he teleported.
With Sam's eyes locked on his, Dean felt exposed in so many ways, being naked was the least of them.
"I'm okay..." Dean said, swallowing. "I'm okay." He repeated in a firmer voice, and because Sam needed to hear it in Dean's attitude, added angrily, "Close the fucking curtain, you pervert!"
Dressing Dean's back had been a drawn-out, messy business. Even after the shower Mike had had to clean it carefully with peroxide, an action that had Dean gripping the bar white-faced and swearing as he re-lived the peroxide dousing he had been given at the church.
Sam sat next to him, leg pressed hip to knee to Dean's, gripping Dean's forearm tightly as Mike worked, talking about anything he could think of that would distract his brother.
By the time Dean's other injuries were finally tended, they were all exhausted. Dean had slipped into a clean pair of jeans but foregone a shirt to spare himself from having to peel the fabric off. Mike had slathered Dean with antibiotic ointment and bandaged as many of the worst spots as he could. None of them had required stitching but there was no way to avoid the inevitable scarring that would occur.
Rummaging in his kitchen had produced a plate of sandwiches but by then they were almost too tired to eat. Mike grabbed a sandwich and a beer and went to take his own shower, leaving the brothers to themselves.
Even Dean's understandable hunger had lost its edge after Mike's ministrations. He managed one sandwich before he felt like his head would fall off his shoulders if he didn't sleep, but every time his eyelids closed he felt the clammy touch of fingers or the acid sting of leather ripping into his skin and he jerked awake again with a smothered gasp.
The third time it happened, Sam, pushed wearily to his feet and took Dean's arm. "Dude, it's time to sleep, we can sort this out in the morning when you're feeling better...hell, when I'm feeling better."
That got Dean's attention, "What's wrong?" he asked hoarsely, his voice tense.
"Dean, you're bruises have bruises, you can barely stand up. I was shot, we're both ready to drop. C'mon, it's over. Let's get some sleep." He tugged gently on Dean's arm, gratified when he felt Dean shift and start to rise stiffly.
"I pulled the couch out for you guys," Mike said re-appearing from the back, a towel around his neck, his hair in wet tendrils. "Hope you don't mind sharing, I'll sleep on the couch back by the..." His voice trailed off as he noticed Sam and Dean both suddenly turn and stare at the front door of the bar, their attitudes on instant high alert.
Then he heard the sound.
End Notes: Throws pages disgustedly at computer. I will not be held responsible for eyes gouged out for having read this. On your own heads be it.....