Chapter Nine
He didn't feel right. Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite push himself out of the consuming darkness that was keeping him from the waking world to figure out what it was. Dean struggled to get his brain going again. But he could only pull himself so far out of the fogginess. And though his first thought was that someone left a goddamn window open because he was freaking cold, he slowly became aware that, along with the cold, there was also a deep, aching pain that seemed to be coursing through his entire body. With a groan, he pulled himself awake and managed to pry open his eyes. He was surprised to find it nearly pitch black. Except for a flashing red light up to his right and what looked to be a glow stick shining faintly somewhere behind him, the room was in utter darkness.
Dean let out another groan as he lifted his head and felt the muscles in his neck pull and strain. God he was sore. And it was as he was trying to reach his hands to rub his neck that he realized he was in a far more dire situation than he had woken up thinking he was in. He suddenly remembered Marshall and the "sick as shit" room as he had dubbed it. He forced himself to take stock of the situation, or more so, his body to make sure he had all his parts. His hands were restrained above his head with what felt like pretty course rope that was biting into his skin. They ached like he'd never felt them ache before, but they were attached, so he didn't want to complain. There was something over his mouth, which he guessed was duct tape by the way it was sticking to his face rather snuggly. He wiggled his toes and found that they were dangling just above the ground. He could barely graze it, which didn't allow him to take the pressure off his arms at all. He quickly did a mental check on the rest of his body and gave a sigh as he realized everything was in its place.
Except for his clothes. Now it made sense why he was so cold. He'd been stripped down to just his boxer briefs. And as horrible of a situation as he was in, Dean couldn't help but thank whatever god was looking down on him that he had put on clean underwear that morning. Sure, there was no one around to impress, but damned if he was going to be tied up half naked in dirty underwear. That was just embarrassing. When he gave a soft chuckle at his own crude humor, it quickly turned into a cough and Dean found himself fighting down the urge to vomit. No, not a good idea. Don't vomit when it has no place to go but right back down. You are not going to die because you drowned in your own vomit. Hendrix was cool and everything, but there was no way in hell he was going out like that.
As the nausea began to settle, Dean started to realize that some of his ache, and lingering fogginess, was probably due to the flu which had attacked him in such a timely manner. He could feel the sweat that beaded most of his body, only adding to the strange mixture of fever and freezing he felt over his body. What a mess. What a royal fucked up mess. Hanging half naked in some makeshift dungeon after being caught off guard by Marshall. Marshall…why did it have to be Marshall? The one guy his Dad trusted in this town and it had to be him. His Dad would never suspect. Hell, the last time he'd seen him, they still thought they could be dealing with a werewolf. How would his Dad ever figure this one out? And how would he ever get to Dean on time? Maybe he wouldn't. No, he probably wouldn't. That meant Dean was going to have to get out of this one by himself.
It would be simple really. All he had to do was pull his arms free, grab that bitch of a glow stick, and find an exit. Then he'd sneak out, run the thirty or so miles back to town, show up at the coroner's half naked, because Nicolette would love that, and try to find some civil way to ask if he could use the phone. Then he would call his Dad, borrow some scrubs, because Sammy had looked so cute in them, and they'd come back and kick Marshall's ass. Simple. Easy as pie. Now all he had to do was start at the beginning and slip his hands out of the rope. No big.
Ten minutes and two bloody wrists later, Dean had given up hope. He was exhausted. The minor flaw in his plan had been the absolute fatigue that was now wearing him down. He was sweating horribly and shivering just as bad. His wrists were raw and bleeding and the blood that was now dripping down his arms was making him itchy and there was nothing worse than an itch he couldn't scratch. And even as he tried to joke with himself about the complications of his situation, even as he tried to use his dark humor to keep himself sane, like he always did, the tears still stung at Dean's eyes as he could no longer fight off the thought of dying here without Sam or his Dad ever knowing he was in trouble. He didn't blame them. Not at all. How could he? Marshall was supposed to be the good guy. He had called them for fuck sake. He was just sorry that Sam and Dad would have to find him, probably chopped up and eaten. God how he hoped it would be Dad and not Sam who found him like that. The thought of his little brother running in here, wherever here was, and finding a carcass that had once been his brother was almost unbearable to think about. He'd never want that for his brother, never.
And Dean cursed himself as a tear slipped out of his eye at that thought. Sam would never forgive him for dying like this. Sam would probably never forgive himself either. He didn't know which one hurt worse. He could handle his brother being angry with him for all eternity if it meant that somehow Sam wouldn't blame himself for this. But Dean knew that was a dream that would never come true. Sam blamed himself for almost everything. It was a quirk of his, one of many, that Dean wished he'd outgrow.
Letting out another groan, Dean jerked in shock as someone groaned back at him. His heart sped up and panic suddenly coursed through his body unwittingly. Dean sucked in air, trying to calm himself down. He listened for the groan to come back again. He heard movement, but no words or voices. He hated to admit it, but he was shit scared. Wishing he could chew on his lip, but unable to because of the tape covering his mouth, Dean settled for chewing on the side of his cheek to try and calm himself. When the movement stopped, Dean found himself wondering who, or what, was in the room with him. It could be Marshall. Or it could be someone else in the same position he was. God, what if it were Sam or Dad or both? What if they'd come back and Marshall had jumped them too?
That thought put some bravery back into Dean's mind and he steeled himself before calling out through the tape covering his mouth. He listened as the movement came back. It sounded like feet shuffling, but they weren't coming any closer, they were pacing back and forth at the far end of the room. Someone groaned, but it was low and garbled. Okay, if they were walking, that meant they weren't being held against their will, right? So it was probably someone who was helping Marshall. But why stand there in the dark?
Guessing that there was something he was missing, Dean started working with the rope around his wrists again. He ignored the shooting pain and the dripping blood as he desperately tried to pull his arms free. His fingers were going numb, the tingling going down his arms. They'd been tied above his head for too long, they were losing circulation. Dean gave out another groan as he yanked hard on the rope, lifting himself up in the process only to feel the rope cut deeper into his skin. He let himself fall back down with a jerk, his strength waning again. He took in deep, panicked breaths. He was passing the point of shit scared. He was getting up there to "I'm playing poker with death and all I have is a pair of twos" scared.
The feet at the far wall were moving again, but this time they were faster. They were running. Running back and forth, but not coming closer. Dean could only hang there and listen, trying to stay calm, trying to ready himself for an attack. And the feet changed direction and Dean tensed but nothing ever got to him. He heard the sound of something running into what sounded like a metal gate. It was a sick sound, a body hitting something hard. He'd heard it before when his father had been fighting a demon and had been thrown out of a two story window. It was a sound he'd never forget. That sick thump as flesh moved and bunched and collided. It came again, the feet running and the sudden thump. There was a yell, one like Dean had never heard, deep, guttural, human. Liquid gurgled in the throat, air was being forced out the mouth with such force, such strength. The yell grated on Dean's ears, making him flinch and let out a small sound that was lost in the deep sound now filling the dark. What the fuck was that thing? What the fuck was going on? What the fuck was he supposed to do?
And then the yell stopped and the room was plummeted into a horrifying silence. Dean held his breath, listening for something, anything that could assure him that thing was still on its side of the room and not standing right in front of him. He was shaking so horribly that he felt his back muscles spasm with the strain. Then he heard a plop on the other side of the room and a deep groan. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. It wasn't by him. It was still over there. He wasn't going to pen his eyes and see it an inch in front of his face. But that thought didn't keep him from opening only one eye slowly and inspecting the darkness before he opened the other one. God, some strange noises and a bit of darkness and Dean was reduced to a five year old again, bumbling and crying.
The sound of a key turning inside of a lock suddenly filled the room and Dean jerked, swinging a little at the movement. It was coming from behind him. Great, now not only was there something in the dark in front of him, now there was something in the dark behind him, where he couldn't see, where he couldn't defend himself. Dean tried to turn, tried to twist his arms so he could see, but his body's strength was almost depleted. His muscles protested horribly and all Dean could do was turn his head into his arm and hope that whatever was back there wasn't here to attack him.
The door opened and Dean heard footsteps coming down a set of stairs. His breathing grew quicker as he pictured all the possibilities of who it could be. Best case scenario, it was Dad, there to fix this mess he'd gotten himself into. Worse case scenario, it was Marshall with a big meat cleaver in his hands, ready to start the butcher. Then, Dean was granted the pleasure, or so he wished, of the lights being turned on. His eyes immediately went to the back of the room, but he nearly let out a cry as he saw that it was still in darkness. The one light above him managed to keep the back of the room in shadow. He could barely make out the edge of what looked to be a cage of some sort. In the corner, he could see a camera, probably sending an image to some monitor somewhere, or maybe just recording so Marshall could get his jollies on later watching the tape. Sick, sick man.
"Sleep beauty." The voice startled Dean so much that he let out a muffled yelp and jerked harshly again, feeling the rope rub into his already raw wrists. It was Marshall. But as Marshall suddenly walked around him, Dean couldn't help but be relieved he wasn't holding a knife of any kind. He wasn't holding anything. He cringed at the thought of what weapon Marshall did have: his teeth. "You're finally awake." Marshall's voice had transformed from that nice, happy-go-lucky pitch of his to a rather menacing, melancholy drove that evil villains always seemed to have. The smile on his face was no longer warm and his eyes were no longer soft.
Marshall reached out a hand and Dean jerked his head away, but he couldn't go far and much to his disdain, Marshall laid a hand on the side of Dean's head, cupping his jaw like he would his child's. "I was worried that we'd have to do this while you were sleeping," he whispered. Psycho. Marshall was a complete psycho, and he'd better get his hand off of Dean's head right now. "I had truly hoped it would be your father here instead of you." What? Why? Didn't Dad save this dude's life? "I had it all planned out so well. It was going to be beautiful. But when your father dropped you off here, I knew I couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. You'd been handed to me, like you were chosen, and I accept you." He gave the last bit emphasis by stroking Dean's head. Dean just stared back at him with wild eyes.
Suddenly Marshall brought his hand away and smiled. "You'll be the best they ever had." They? What the hell was he talking about? Marshall reached into his pocket and Dean's eyes widened as he saw him bring out a syringe and a small vile of something. Dean felt that panic creep back into him. Marshall talked absently as he filled the syringe with whatever was in the vile. "I gave your coat to Peter. He likes the feel of leather. But I had to take off the rest of your clothes. The fabric makes it difficult for him to chew sometimes. He's missing his two front teeth, you know. I usually cut up his food for him, but we didn't have time with you." Marshall put the vile back in his pocket and Dean tried to buck away as Marshall grabbed his head and pushed it to the side. Dean felt the needle slip in. "I'm doing this as a favor to you," Marshall went on. "I didn't have the time to prepare you like I normally do. So I'm going to give you to them alive. But this will make the pain a bit less intolerable."
Marshall removed the syringe and stepped back. Dean felt the effects almost immediately. His head was suddenly swimming again. His aches seemed to fade, but were replaced with a feeling Dean wasn't sure was any better. He felt…weightless, numb, paralyzed, unable to move, though he still could if he concentrated hard enough. His thoughts were jumbling. He let out a small moan and that smile was back on Marshall's face. Dean didn't flinch this time as Marshall laid a hand on his head, stroking his hair in what would have normally been a loving gesture. He leaned in close and said, "It will still hurt, but it won't last long, I promise. June likes to go for the throat."
Dean groaned and forced his head up so he was looking in Marshall's eyes. He tried to ask Marshall what he was talking about, what was going on, why he was doing this, where he was, anything that he could figure out. But he could only manage a confused groan through the tape. Marshall seemed to understand though. He sighed. "You know, I was supposed to die." Dean stared at the man. God what was happening? "When I was in the Marines, I found myself one day laying on my back with a bullet in my chest. I was supposed to die then. But I didn't. Because your Daddy came along and saved me. I thought he was a hero. I thought he was the best friend a guy could have. He let me live. I'll never forgive him for that." The hell? "If I would have died, I never would have met June. I never would have had Peter. I never would have loved them so much. I never would have been driving that car. June would still be alive."
A light clicked on somewhere in the fogginess of Dean's brain. June was dead. No doubt Peter was too. But Marshall was talking like they were still around. Jesus, they still were. The groaning and moving at the back of the room. That was June and Peter. "That's why, when your Daddy comes back here to pick you up, to take you home, you'll already be dead. He'll know what it's like to lose a son. And then I'll put him right here and I won't give him anything to take away the pain. And I'll listen to him scream and beg for mercy, beg for life. And when he's gone, I'm going to do the same to that little brother of yours." Dean felt anger well up inside of him. Like hell he was. He had to do something. He couldn't let this dude get away with this. No way was he going to hurt his family.
Using his legs, though his mind felt detached from the whole thing, Dean swung forward and tried to kick out at the man in front of him. But the movement was weak and Marshall swatted away Dean's feet and gave a laugh. Dean tried again but to no avail. God, why wouldn't his body just work? Dammit. Marshall started to walk away. He patted Dean on the arm as he went by and Dean started swearing through the tape covering his mouth, making Marshall chuckle. He tried to yell, but his body was just too weak, too numb to do much. Marshall stood behind Dean a ways, near the exit probably. "My family died," he said boldly, dramatically. "Your family will be dead soon. But I found a way to bring mine back. I bet you're dying to meet them." And with that, the lights in the back of the room suddenly flickered on and Dean couldn't help the horrified gasp that escaped him.
The back of the room was actually one giant cage. The door looked trigger operated. Sitting in the corner were June and Peter, huddling like hamsters. It was obvious they were dead, or at least used to be dead. Their skin was partially rotted, gray, stretched in some places and bunched up in others. June's hair had all but fallen out, only a few clumps remained. Their mouths dripped with a thick, black liquid. Their eyes were foggy, dead, rotting eyeballs. Blood stained their tattered clothes and Dean recognized his coat on Peter's small body. They were both staring at him. Marshall's voice seemed like some sick narrator dubbing over a cheap horror movie. "Dinner time."
The door behind Dean closed as Marshall made his exit. Dean exercised every swear word and cuss that he knew as he struggled as best he could with the rope again, not doing much more than making himself swing back and forth. June slowly got to her feet. She gave a groan and Dean returned it, terrified. He watched as June suddenly ran at the bars of the cage and collided with them with a force that would have knocked anyone living unconscious. Dean couldn't help the cry that escaped him. Of God, Dad where are you? And Dean gave an angry scream through the tape as June ran at the bars again. Dammit, this fucking sucked.
Marshall climbed the stairs to his den and closed the door behind him, sitting down in front of the monitors he had set up there. Some of the monitors were showing feedback from the woods, where he had speakers set up to project the howling he'd played to try and throw John off. Some of them were perimeter feedback, so he could watch for people trespassing. But the one his eyes were glued to was the monitor showing the feedback of the basement. He watched as Dean's minimal struggles slowed and slowed until he was just hanging there limply, his head moving with the obviously angry, horrified curses he was flinging towards June and Peter. Marshall just laughed. "Definitely a Winchester," he whispered and then reached over to flip a switch next to him. He watched as the gate to the cage swung open and Dean's struggles started again. June was the first one out of the cage. Marshall laughed again as June was almost hesitant. She was going so slow, almost as if she were stalking, or taunting. "Draw it out, baby," he said.
Something on one of the other monitors caught his eye and he turned from Dean's peril to see what it was. His grin grew wider as he saw John and his other son come into the frame. They were ducked behind a tree in front of Marshall's house, obviously discussing their plan of action. Marshall shook his head. "What luck," he whispered and stood up. "It'll be a three course meal after all."
Author's Notes: Sorry for the bit of a wait. Classes on the weekend, so it's harder for me to update. Also, I just wanted to tell everyone that I seriously freaked myself out writing this chapter, thinking their was a zombie behind me at all times, so I hope you all are happy. :- )