36

Unknown Occurrences:

The Other

In all the longevity of existence, there is rarely, at any point, one singular being who ever stumbles upon the ability to not only observe every decision they've made as a rational human being, but to see it like a map. A road map. One of their own life - portrayed in a way which explains, to the subconscious mind, the purpose of their lives based on how it began and how it ends.

When this does occur, it can be classified as a mental epiphany. Because there are so few of them reported and catalogued, there is very little data to explain how it happens, or why, or what is involved; such as the stressors at the current point in time, or maybe even the situation at hand putting pressure on the subconscious to decide or act.

It seems to be only slightly similar in every case. The connecting factor in every reported mental epiphany of this gravity seems to be the position of power of the one experiencing it. A position that undeniably contains extreme stress on every level of human capacity: mental, physical, emotional, social…

So something is putting pressure on every part of somebody, and squishes them until their thoughts are so compact that everything merges into one silver lining of clarity within the mind.

This was happening to Dean Winchester.

The fully formed, solid, stressed body of the male rebel leader seemed to be afloat in limbo. The bow of his legs; the press of his bare feet against a nonexistent floor; he looked down at his hands with muted shock. They rippled with words. Feelings. Memories. Everything was so bright. Squinting did not make them seem any less abnormal.

Had he never done this before, look at his palms? He had to have done this. What kinda guy goes all his life without looking at his palms? Right now, they seemed to be speaking to him in the way a book speaks to a closed off adolescent. The more clearly he observed his calloused fingertips and the soft lines dividing the sections of his hands, the more he saw of himself, and the more the information was wiped away the normal bullshit from day to day life and replaced it with this mental clarity.

Clarity. Him. He was a good judge of people, but a horrible judge of their inner workings. The why's and how's never clicked in his head. Motive was all that ever interested him. But this clarity, this knowledge of himself, of all people, was astonishing. He could remember his first kiss like it was happening in current time; pink lace underwear peeking above the jeans of the girl he first had been with; the texture of Jimmy's tie in his hand when he'd first been allowed to grace himself with those spitfire lips. Pushing away these memories was irrelevant at this level of awareness. Even though they hurt him, they were so vivid, so clear… He shifted to search for some about Kas, and there they were.

The first time they'd made love. The first kiss. The first shower. It was all here. Looking up, he noticed there was a mirror. A big one that encompassed him entirely. There was nothing else to see, around or below or behind him, so he focused on himself; the part of him he never got to look at. Him as a whole was not something he got regular checks on – there were no full length mirrors in the men's bathrooms back at the facility, and he rarely cared enough to strip naked in front of any others set around the halls; and by rarely he meant never.

But it wasn't his naked self that he saw. Of course, he wouldn't know if he always looked like a celestial road map, but it would be hard for someone to miss. Kas definitely would've taken advantage of that in bed and Lisa would've noticed way before that.

He looked like a big map of his life. The tip of his left hand was where his birth was recorded. The baseball games and sleep overs crept along his phalanges, up his forearm. If his beginning was on that arm, then…? He looked to his other hand for proof that this wasn't what he thought it was, and his eyes widened. The spark in the story was undeniable – he felt akin to it, as if he were one with the stream itself. His heart was melted into it. Years and years of growth and choices had landed him right here, of all places, and this was where it ended. Forever.

Then his whole world opened up a black hole beneath him and sucked him up.

Air. Air. Shuddering lungs drew in sterile air between his parched lips. Air, water. Weight of the room pressing down on him gave a good sense of urgency to wake up and not lay there dazed. Everything swam into view. Dean's puffy red eyes slid open and winced at the dazzling light. It was so bright, so piercing. His tongue felt huge in his mouth like a wad of cotton balls. He rolled his head to the side dizzily; the metal cot had not been kind to his body while he was out, and he was paying for it. There were kinks in his shoulders and his back and his head was aching madly. He shifted in his pain to relieve the tingling sleep in his limbs and they protested with angry pins and needles.

There was nothing that he could see beyond the endlessly bright lights, though he tried, and he knew the drugs had not yet worn off. Maybe there was a steady dosage. He glanced down at his wrist and saw an IV sticking out of it.

Someone had strapped him down with metal cuffs. He was pretty sure he had at least three cracked ribs, too. They were screaming with his every motion and he didn't have the energy to cry out. His arm was broken; it lay in a hard plaster cast by his side, his fingers freezing against the cold bed. Every inch of him was so weighted and bruised. It was a miracle he wasn't in agonizing pain. But that's what the drugs were for, to keep him quiet, and keep him under.

There was something patchy on his chest that he could barely see. The more he lifted his head, the dizzier he got, so slowly he worked his chin up to his collar bone in order to catch a glimpse. A doubled white bandage was taped to his peck beneath a white gown. He swallowed thickly.

He'd been shot. Most likely by a silencer. He didn't remember any of it, Jesus why didn't he remember? The drugs. The drugs were still making him fuzzy – more than that, they were making him docile.

He amassed his energy into one furious flail against his bindings and pushed his whole body as far as it would go against the cuffs and the bindings and gritted his teeth as hard as he could. The pain this caused made a scream tear its way out of his throat, echoing off the empty walls around him. He screamed and screamed. Kas was in danger. His people were in danger. And he was lying here strapped to a goddamn table! He saw red, roaring against the invincible bondage. How, why?! Every other time Kas had been able to save them, himself included – what the hell had gotten to them?

A strangled gap cut him off when he ran out of air, and his screaming receded into ragged panting. "Kas," he rasped hopelessly. "Kas, Kas…"

The time that passed was unknowable. There were no clocks, no windows, and no visitors. Days might've gone by, or maybe just hours. But when Dean could finally make out shapes in the brightness of the room he spotted only one thing besides his cot – and that was a camera. Mounted in the corner, a shiny black lens was fixated on his face, hovering like a vulture; just waiting for him to perish so it could feed off his weakness. After his little fit of energy was wasted he just felt tired. So, he slipped in and out of sleep, drifting endlessly between the white waking world and the darkness behind his eyelids.

Over all that time, the medication dosage remained the same; it kept him delirious and sleepy at all times. Dean estimated that while he was asleep someone would come in and change out the IV drip, and the tubes attached to him in other places as well were changed and cleaned. So that meant someone was watching him. Taking care of him – or at least, keeping him alive for the moment.

But how many had the company sent? Or was it just one? How had they taken him? Why? Well, he knew why. Now their mission would never come to fruition. It was destroyed. Everything was destroyed, just because he couldn't have trusted anyone with his convoluted ideas.

For God knows how long he lay on that table aching and drowsy and kicked himself over and over, beating the shit out of himself mentally for letting his guard slip long enough for any of this to happen. Something could've happened to Kas. He could be dead, or worse, recycled.

That made Dean think. What would they do, exactly? It was pretty clear at least who they were, the ones who had him, if not where he was. After that last incident maybe they wouldn't have him at their home base. But if it was the same people, that was a place to start. What would Icarus Incorporated want with a captured rebel leader?

Dean stared at the camera. If they so much as scratched his brother, or Kas, he would… He clenched his jaw and flexed the fingers on his good hand. He would get off this cot and rip every single one of them to pieces – that's what he'd damn well do. Day dreaming about as many ways to escape as he could muster, he drifted off to sleep again, and again; he kept jerking awake as if he could stay up until he was rescued. He could just picture Sam smashing in the door, Kas flying to his side and kissing him awake. The IV gone. A gun in his hands.

His fingers itched for a trigger, his adrenaline spiking as he worked his mind through what kind of hallways they'd have to run through, how many men they'd have to take down; elbow, fist; look out Sammy; Kas, on your left. The halls would lead to the lobby and the front doors would open and freedom would be just beyond his fingertips…

But every time he opened his eyes, nothing had changed. The room was bright and still and his IV dripped slowly, so slowly, the drugs sliding down the tube into his arm, into his battered body.

And his eyes would slide shut again.

Enough time passed that Dean found the wrappings around his ribs gone, and his cast taken off. A month or two; six weeks, maybe.

His bones had healed, although malnourished, much better strapped down and immobile. Which was a crock of shit. He'd be stiff as hell the minute he could walk again. All his limbs would hate his guts after this. His gunshot wound was healing up slowly, the pain medication making it much easier to bear watching the dead flesh molt beneath the bandages. It wasn't cleaned as well as the other wounds. Maybe it was a warning. 'Don't try anything stupid,' it said. 'Or we'll give you an infection that'll take more than a puke basket and chicken soup to get over.'

Of course, he was planning something stupid anyway. Stuck here long enough and you'd hug a flying nuke in your skivvies in order to feel something except being horizontal for two months plus.

Dean felt weaker than he ever had in his life – even worse than he'd felt that time he fell asleep behind the wheel and been hospitalized for months with third degree burns all over his body. He was kidding himself if he could so much as lift his leg when - or if - anyone ever unstrapped him. No. When they unstrapped him. Dean refused to give up, not even a little. He knew his people were coming for him. They'd find him and save Kas and they'd blow this place to smithereens for good. That'd teach the world to fuck with them.

He thought about the future. This place, this situation, was so screwed up that he couldn't imagine putting anyone else through it. What if it happened to one of his people? His girls, his teenagers? He felt sick to his stomach. No, this was a cause they'd all sold their souls to for a reason. They were strong. But he didn't ever want them to have to do this. He could do anything – Dean was war hardened, blasted apart and pulled back together again at every turn. This wasn't exactly a walk in the park but it wasn't nearly as bad as some of the things he'd seen or done.

Was it worth it, though? The risk? Putting them all in this kind of danger just to prove something to the history books?

Thoughts of a future with Kas kept him grounded. He pictured a house in Montana, or England, or Wales; somewhere isolated. Cobblestone and brick walls everywhere. A pond. Lots and lots of grass and fields. Some place had to exist where quiet was a staple and a warm bed with a warm body in it was a necessity.