The next thing Dexter knew, the world was spinning, in and out of a dark haze.
"Oh, God," he heard a hoarse voice struggle the words out, before absently realizing it was his own.
"Don't try to sit up," someone said. A familiar voice. Even through the denseness of whatever fog he inhabited, he could feel the adrenaline begin to sing in his veins.
"Wh.." He tried to speak, but broke off, coughing. A deluge of agony descended on him now as a piercing light pried its ways past his eyelids, searing into his very brain.
He screamed, feeling his body, which he hadn't been entirely aware of as yet through the depths of the edge of his mental twilight, curling in on itself in the fetal position of someone in abject agony.
Footsteps, descended, echoing in his skull like mines detonating inside his brain cavity.
"Shit," another voice said. Dean… Winchester, Dexter realized, as the pain began to ebb, allowing him the mental faculties to begin trying to put a name to it…Shit, the murderers…The….whatever the hell they are….
"He's really ate up, isn't he?" Dean continued.
"Yeah," the first voice said. Sam. That's Sam, he thought. "But y'know, it means it's got to be working. And….if he comes out of it, I think it was worth it."
"Sammy," Dean said, sounding exasperated. "Look. You can be all emo over this as much as you want, but he tried to kill you. Would have, maybe us both, if it wasn't for Cas."
"Yeah. I know. Just…relax a little. That's over with now. And…we might have saved him." Sam continued.
"Hey," Sam said, his voice easier. Something touched Dexter on the shoulder, sending waves of pain through his body. He scrambled onto his side, the ensuing agony stealing his breath as he tried helplessly to get away from the reach of the noxious stimuli.
"Man, sorry about that. Look, I dunno if you're awake enough for this to make any sense, but you're coming through the worst of it now. And I'm pretty sure it feels like hell, but when you're able to wake up, we'll talk. Just…rest for now. Everything's OK." Sam said.
Dexter groaned, the exhaustion at the mere edge of consciousness where he hovered overtaking him.
Everything was again black, silent, heavy.
When he next awoke, he became aware of the warmth of meager light that blazed its way past his closed eyelids. He groaned, breathing in deeply. He moved his head, which caused the same spinning, pounding—he moved his arm to toward his head as if clutching it would stop the spinning-only to feel the shirk of metal about his wrist.
Again? He wondered, his gut sinking.
He felt about himself a bit, kicking his legs and groping with his arms, for the light was too intense to begin trying to open his eyes.
A bed. It felt like a bed. An uncomfortable, hard bed….he shook himself a bit, cringing at the pain it sent coursing through his head, hearing a creaking, rattling. A….cot? He tried moving his other hand, which he found was free, to cover his eyes. This shielded them from the brightness.
He sighed, daring to try to open his eyes. His hand blotted out enough of the light that it was bearable, although not pleasant. Gradually, he allowed more light in past his fingers, until he could tolerate removing it to look around.
His jolted at the realization. He was no longer in the basement, nor in the squat cinder-block building. No, he was on an old army cot somewhere in a large, concrete walled room with strange markings on the floor, a floodlamp sending the blazing brightness onto him. In the corner near the lamp, he spotted a camera.
There was a door on the far side of the room from him, enormous, and heavy. Going by its appearance, he realized, even if he could sit up, which he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to try at the moment, and get his hand free—he still didn't think he could possibly move it without finding a way into the electronics system.
Cutting down to his present options, he decided on the most direct course of action he had.
"Hey," he said hoarsely, "You depraved freaks. I know you can hear me. Why don't you go ahead and come out? I know you're there."
His voice was thin, rasping, as he spat the words derisively to the camera.
He let himself sink back into the uncomfortable cot, the tension draining him. It's fucking useless, he thought. I'm stuck here, now…and like hell they're gonna come. Or if they do-
His train of thought was interrupted by a rumbling sound. He looked over toward the far wall. The door…was opening. As it creaked open slowly, he could see the silhouette of someone—shit, he thought, realizing again who it was. Of course.
It was them.
"Looks like somebody's awake," Dean said, stepping through the door.
"Yeah," Sam said, following him in.
Dexter just stared, slack-jawed, as they moved toward him.
"Alright, down to business," Dean said.
Sam sighed, moving to the head of the cot, readying a machete that he had in his hand.
As Dean neared where Dexter lay, he rolled up his sleeves. He pulled something from his belt—a knife, Dexter realized, bracing for what might come.
Dean brandished it for a moment, grimacing as he pressed it to his own arm.
He pulled it away, letting blood slide down the blade, dripping a bit onto the blanket that covered Dexter.
Dexter eyed the spot as it soaked in, turning the drab olive of the cot a dark, muddy black.
The two stared at him for a while, expectant, the machete hovering in the air inches above his head.
"What the hell is that supposed to be?" Dexter finally broke the silence.
"That," Dean said, putting his knife away, "Is you, getting to keep your head."
"What…? Y'know what, I am done trying to figure out your insanity, " Dexter snarked, finally daring to let himself breathe again.
"Think what you want. I'm done with you. Sam, let's get him up, get him out—"
Dean reached for Dexter's wrist, which made him flinch.
"Chill, dude," he said, unlocking the handcuffs. "You're not vamp anymore, so you're not our problem."
"Can you sit up?" Sam asked, extending a hand toward Dexter. He eyed him distrustfully, instead grabbing a bar on the wall beside him where the handcuffs had been affixed to heave himself upright.
Vertigo stole his breath as he leaned against the wall, the world careening dangerously in his vision.
"What, you're—you' me go?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
His question earned a guffaw from Dean.
"No shit, Sherlock. You damn well earned it," Dean said.