Author's Note:
Warnings: PTSD. More torture. I'm not sure that isn't gonna be up here until we're done, haha. XD
8.
It takes hours before Dean comes across Wanna-Be-Gang-Member in the security footage of the Kansas City airport, and he almost misses it. His gaze has focused to the center of the screen and glazed out at some point during the long hours he's been screening through this, so it takes until the older man is hobbling away that Dean recognizes that he was there at all.
Suddenly fueled by movement, Dean leans forward, legs dropping to the ground from where they were propped on the desk. An ancient librarian glances up from the books she's shelving to cast him a long warning look, and not her first one. Dean resists the urge to give her the finger and returns to the computer screen.
His fingers smack against the spacebar to pause the video, then he rewinds until he sees Wanna-Be-Gang-Member step up into view. He's dressed in a different pair and style of clothing-they're cleaner-and he's wearing a baseball cap. An attempt at incognito that Dean privately finds ridiculous. You don't look like a different person with a hat on, you just look like yourself, but wanting to avoid sunburn.
Wanna-Be-Gang-Member is also considerably cleaner shaven.
Dean follows his progress around the airport, looking for the British woman he mentioned. The gender, at least, didn't change, so he's going to assume it actually was a woman.
Wanna-Be-Gang-Member really got around before leaving on his plane. Dean sees him slip at least ten wallets, two watches, one person's smoothie, and no less than six phones.
Dean realizes that it's not really a surprise the man was so worried about going back to prison. Whatever attempt his parole officer made at instilling the fear of God into him clearly didn't stick.
"Changed man, my butt," Dean mutters under his breath, rubbing at the lower half of his face.
"Shh." The librarian hisses towards him, finger pushed against her lips. Glasses hang precariously on the edge of her nose.
Dean's hands flick up a little in annoyance. There's a group of teenagers loudly complaining about an English project they don't want to research for off to his right somewhere. Dean said four words, and he's the one she goes after? Old people and their selective hearing.
As much as silence claws at his insides, the background hum of people behind him doesn't offer the usual comfort. It's almost grating, listening to them function, moving, existing like the world didn't almost end less than a fortnight ago.
But that's what he wanted, isn't it? That they'd all continue to be ignorant and live.
He pulls his gaze down, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He hits play again.
When Wanna-Be-Gang-Member has boarded a plane, Dean rewinds and watches the footage again. He catalogs the man's victims, looking for anyone who stands out. He has to re-play the clip twice more before he settles in on a blonde woman walking hurriedly away from a restroom being cleaned, joined later by a dark-haired man. Both of them move for the private hangers.
Wanna-Be-Gang-Member emerges from that same hall a minute later, drying off a soapy phone with the edge of his shirt. When Dean zooms, he sees the make and model of Cas's. Dean's fingers flex anxiously.
"Okay." He murmurs. Okay.
He ignores the hissed "shh!" thrown toward him.
Dean switches from hunting Wanna-Be-Gang-Member across the airport, instead following the blonde lady and her companion. And her other companions. As they make their way across the airport, they're joined by no less than five. A few bulky guys who could easily be pro-wrestlers or cliché biker gang members save tattoos, and another woman. Asian. Short.
As they move towards a hanger, the first guy turns and looks directly at the camera. He pulls something from his suit's pocket and points it up towards the screen. Dean feels both exasperated and annoyed by this. Don't shoot a gun in the middle of an airport, you freakin-that was not a gun. He doesn't know what the man did, but the screen flares a bright blue instead of black and cracking. Almost as if it just crashed.
It wasn't a gunshot. More like a laser.
Dean taps at the screen, fast-forwarding, hoping, praying. He needs to know what plane they got onto if he's going to track their flight. The blue lingers, stretching on for well over an hour when Dean starts skipping ahead. C'mon, TSA. Nobody ruled this as weird?
Somebody must've flicked an on/off switch. Reset the freakin' things.
When the screens pulse back to life again, showing real feed, the time stamp puts it at over three hours since the last time he saw the Brits. They'd have already left on their flight. They could have landed at a nearby city for all he knows. The FBI and CIA or whatever the TSA reports to probably has their hands all over this now.
Which means he can't storm into the airport demanding the flight plans without raising a few questioning eyebrows. He doesn't have time to get arrested. And if they went to this much work to cover their tracks, then he has his doubts they didn't already take their flight from the airports data.
Dean runs a hand through his stiff hair, shaking his head. This isn't supernatural. This isn't something that leaves behind a trail because of their nature or need to eat. They're just humans. And Dean doesn't know what to do. He doesn't even have proof they have his brother or Cas. All he knows is that Brit lady had the phone. She could have stolen it off of someone else again. Then he'd be looking for someone else beyond her, and he'll have to start this whole process again.
And round and round in circles he goes. A roundabout. He just ends to find the exit.
His frustration feels like a palpable thing, sitting in his lap.
He blows out a sigh between his teeth, then pulls his phone from his pocket and rewinds the video back to the bathroom hallway. It's the clearest shot of the blonde he can find. He lifts his phone up in front of the screen and waits until the camera focuses before he takes a picture of the computer screen. It's a little murky, but he can make out enough.
He closes the tabs, and stands up. A low headache is throbbing in the back of his skull from lack of nutrients, a mild hangover, and being forced to stare so long at the computer screen with little breaks. He pushes his forehead for a moment, grinding his teeth together. When he can keep his balance, he turns away from the computer desks and starts to walk toward the exit.
He pulls out his phone and texts the picture to Jody, then a few other hunters he's pretty sure aren't trying to kill him, and, after some reluctance, Crowley.
The hand that slaps against his shoulder nearly topples him. Dean's spatial awareness snaps back from whatever pillar it was hiding behind and he's gripping the hand by the wrist before he's even looked up.
"Hey, Winchester," Oren smiles, voice nasal heavy. "I think we've gotta talk."
Dean surprises a curse. He tightens his grip slightly on the hunter's wrist, shifting his other hand to stuff his phone inside his jacket and wrap around his 1911. "Nice face additive. Let me guess, 'it's just a phase.'"
Oren pulls him closer, and Dean feels the barrel of a gun press against his stomach. His muscles tighten by reflex and his jaw shifts. Gut shot. Painful, but not always lethal. Surgery recovery would be a pain, though. "Let's take this outside."
"Afraid of the librarians?"
Oren shoves him towards the exit harshly, not bothering to offer a response to that. Dean stumbles towards it because he's not really getting a choice elsewise. Oren keeps a hand on his shoulder, and pushes him through the sliding doors. They're the kind that you pretty much have to kiss before the sensor acknowledges you're there, so Dean is nearly rammed head-first into the glass.
Once in the parking lot, Oren directs him towards a jeep and truck parked side by side, stuffed into the corner of the parking lot. His buddy is there, two other guys, and a woman who must be in her late sixties and barely over four foot eleven. She is, ironically, also the one holding the biggest gun.
All of them are armed to the teeth, and looking about as happy to see him as they would a large, ugly snake. Oren all but throws him into the middle of the little group, and Dean stumbles, but keeps himself upright. He looks up and gets a faceful of holy water.
No-don't-dont-no.
His skin doesn't steam. It doesn't even prickle. It's just water.
It's just water.
The panic that swims through his skin at the contact doesn't feel the same. Ever since the Mark, since Metatron stabbed him, there are days that he's not sure that he won't react to it. Something in me broke, and it never healed. It's still fractured. Like a spiked gear, spinning and spinning, scraping up and bloodying everything as it does.
Dean wipes the water from his face with the edge of his jacket's sleeve. He uses the action to take a second to gather himself. Clench his hands before they betray him with a tremble. "Not a demon." He grouses, forcing as much real annoyance as he can into the tone. "Or a shapeshifter. Or whatever else you're thinking. Just human."
I think, he leaves unsaid. At this point, he doesn't know anymore. Humans don't walk away from death several times. They don't crawl out of hell. They don't...are angel vessels even a hundred percent human for that matter?
"Ha!" the Hispanic woman exclaims and spits with venom. "iNo lo creo, demonio!"
Dean's gaze flickers towards Oren for a moment. His Spanish isn't great, but enough that he gets the gist of her exclamation. He looks back at the woman, "Not a demon," he repeats, and rises to his full height. The woman's large assault rifle follows him up. Dean releases the inside of his cheek. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Well," one of the new men says with a heavy Spanish accent. "Where do we even start? Dean Winchester, showing up in a town like this. Practically giving yourself up."
I wasn't aware that there was a price on my head. Dean tongue twists around inside his mouth for a moment, unhappy. Furious. "It's Detroit." Dean points out dryly, shifting his hand slowly towards his gun.
"Where's your hermano?" the man asks. "Or the ángel?"
"Gotta make this a bloodbath?" He allows the disgust to seep into his tone. "Right. That's very noble of all of you."
The barrel of the woman's rifle smacks against his face. Dean's face is whipped to the side and he lifts up a hand to his split cheek. Blood pools into the inside of his mouth. Bitter and metallic as he swallows it compulsively. The woman shouts something in Spanish that he doesn't pick up more than a few garbled words of, but it's pretty obvious it wasn't meant as a compliment.
Gah. For an old lady, she can swing hard.
"Abuela!" One of the men exclaims. Dean looks at the woman through his fingers. Grandmother? Is he serious?
Dean wipes the blood away. "Look, I get it. You're pissed. You have every right to be. But me and Sam-we were only trying to fix the messes, okay?"
"The messes you started. How is it," Oren's voice is slick, "that we went centuries without much of an incident, and then suddenly it's one apocalypse after another in less than a decade? What strings do you and your brother pull over fate? What demon do you pray to?"
What?
Dean hesitates for a moment, not because it's true, but because he honestly doesn't know how to answer that. "...None? I don't know. I think we're just really unlucky."
"You think this is funny?" Oren's buddy from the diner scoffs, looking trigger happy.
Dean didn't realize he'd smiled until he said something. He drops it. "No. It's not. No."
"Careful. You don't have anyone here to watch your smartmouth for you." Oren seethes.
Dean flinches.
Everyone here looks ready to shoot him. And they aren't just waiting for Sam. If they'd wanted him, they would have demanded Dean get in contact with him, so they can finish them off together. But they aren't doing anything, and obviously unhappy about it.
Which means…
"You're waiting for someone." Dean realizes out loud. The hunters share a look, and Dean's eyebrows raise slightly. A group of homicidal-happy hunters get together, but have a boss for their little gang? He could laugh. "Who? How many freakin' hunters are in Detroit? You guys all called each other and decided that a good way to end the afternoon was an execution?"
"We're removing the threat," Oren corrects. "We're making the world safe again. Just like shooting a wolf full of silver."
When did I become a part of that list? Before hell or after?
The smile that tugs on his lips is cold. Nevermind the fact that in the midst of apocalypse after apocalypse the only person to ever lend them a consistent hand was Bobby. If they're so sick of them, why didn't they do anything to help in the middle of it? "Of course." His chin juts up, "Who's missing?"
"That would be me." Dean's head snaps up at the sound of the familiar voice, and he feels his eyes widen some. "Sorry I'm late. Got caught up in traffic."
"Garth?" Dean can't keep the disbelief from his tone.
"Hey, Dean." Garth's voice is cheerful. The following punch to the face is not. Dean tumbles to the ground, the world spinning, blood rushing in his ears. His body makes one last, weak attempt at staying awake, then succumbs to the awaiting blackness.
000o000
When he wakes, he's completely alone in a near-perfect pitch black. His shoulders ache and his breath feels too short and hot.
Dean flicks his gaze up and around, trying to breathe, but it feels like he's trying to drag air inside of a vacuum. Anxiety is pulsing through his chest in time with his heartbeat. Danger, danger, danger. Dean inhales. Why is it so hard to breathe? He pushes his lips together, and realizes that his arms are suspended over his head. He can't scrape his toes against the ground, which must mean that he's suspended over it.
Dean grabs hold of the chains wrapped around his wrists and pulls up, alleviating the pressure. He gasps in and out, desperate.
Okay. Alright. It's fine. It's fine. It's-son of a-
The angle he grabbed at is awkward, and his left hand slips. The pressure immediately returns, like being punched in the gut. Dean readjusts his grip and pulls, keeping himself up. He can't breathe. He can't breathe. It's a waiting game. The more the slips, the further he'll suffocate. He's going to die. In some dank basement or whatever run-of-the-mill backwater location the hunters found, suspended, and-
Stop it.
Calm down.
He keeps gripping. Think, you idiot. He admonishes himself. He's been in worse situations than this and pulled through just fine. He just...just needs to think.
If he's suspended, that means that the room is probably tall. Dean isn't touching at nine feet like Sam, but he's not short. If the room is tall enough to hang him from, that lowers the places he could be considerably. Okay, great, a soft voice despairs in the back of his head, you're going to know where you die. How is that helpful? Dean shakes the thoughts off.
He's not going to die.
No one is coming for you. You're all alone, Dean Winchester. Tell me, Alastair's voice is a soft purr in the back of his mind, how does it feel?
This is what they get? For saving the world from freakin' angels and their Apocalypse, then the Leviathans and Amara? A world that freakin' Chuck left in their hands, because that's a responsibly everyone wants. He's left to die. Killing him, because he's the punchline to so many of fate's jokes. This is just...awesome. A part of him, vindictive and furious, wants to see this group of ragtag idiots survive half the things he, Sam and Cas have and walk away with their sanity intact. Or just walk away, period.
Time scrapes by, slowly. Hours, minutes, days, he doesn't know.
He can't come up with anything to fix this, and just hangs there.
His hands are shaking. He's panicking, and he doesn't-
His grip slides slightly, and Dean scrambles for a desperate moment until he can regain control. The longing that washes through him for the Mark's otherworld strength is stark, but not new. It's been close to a year since he was released. He should be over this by now. But his mind circles around the need over and over again. How awful, but beautiful it was.
Stop. Think. How do you get out from suspension?
Someone cuts you down.
You don't have that.
(All alone.)
Then you die. He doesn't know! He can't break through chains with human strength. He can't cut through them unless he has a saw or acidic acid in his back pocket, which he must have left in his other pair of pants. It's not even manacles wrapped around his wrists, just a length of chain. He could gnaw at rope if that's what it came down to. He could pick manacles. Break his thumb and slip out. But this is just...
You're going to die.
Stop.
Time keeps ticking.
Death by suffocation. Dean grips the chains, his left hand's thumb snapping when it gets caught inside a link when he slips the next time. Dean doesn't have the breath to spare for a scream. Instead, he moans low in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. How does that feel?
A broken thumb can help you break free of handcuffs. It does not provide the same relief with chain.
Garth was there. What the heck was Garth doing there? He punched him, knocked him unconscious. He left him here. You don't know that. Yeah. Sure. Given his current track record since leaving Kansas, it's not too far out of reach. Garth was retired, living out some apple pie life, as much as he could being bitten. He's dying. And...and who is going to find Sam and Cas? Who is...who's...
Dean pulls up. Air makes his head a little clearer. The shaking doesn't stop. His thumb aches dully, but there's not anything he can do to help with the pain. Helplessness is a frustratingly familiar feeling.
"Cas," Dean rasps out, his hands straining. He can't remember praying this much since Purgatory. "Cas, I don't think...think I'm going to...to make it...sorry. Sorry."
You're all alone, Dean Winchester.
Tell me.
How does it feel?
Author's Note:
Prompt: Isolation.