Chapter 11

Sam emerged from a shallow sleep. His throat felt on fire again, so he reached for the empty bottle beside him and looked at the toilet tank. If he could just get over there again, relieve himself, take clean water from the tank...

He moved his legs over the side of the bed, gritting his teeth against the pain. Without putting his weight on his wounded leg, he stood up. He managed to make his way over, groaning with the pain incited by each movement. He relieved himself, flushed, then dunked the bottle into the tank of clear water and drank some of it.

He leaned against the wall and looked around the room. There must be something he could use to overpower the doctor, the next time he came in. But it wasn't just the doctor he was dealing with. There was more than just him up there. There were the ones that had shot him. Even if he did get the doctor, he'd have to contend with the others, if he tried to get away. This time they'd kill him for sure.

He didn't know why they hadn't finished the job by now. They had been here for days. The doctor had already told him that he was going to kill them, but he still wanted them around. Sam knew why. The doctor wanted to torture them. He wanted to make Dean pay for something he didn't do.

He made his way back over to the bed and dropped down on it, exhausted from the short journey across the room. Carefully he sat his leg back on the bed. The doctor hadn't changed the sheets. They were still bloody and smelled of decay.

Sam had to find something, anything, he could use as a weapon. He couldn't just lie there and do nothing. He had to get to Dean. Both of them needed a hospital and medical care or they would die. He looked around the room and saw the bare beams against the tarpaper in the wall. Maybe he would be able to break one of the beams free. He began to hit on the one closest to his bed, with the heel of his hand, trying to loosen it, and each effort shot pain through his side, cutting each nerve ending like a scalpel and making him want to scream out in agony; but the beam wouldn't budge. He fell back frustrated. He had to think. He had to focus. His and his brother's life depended on it.

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Dean shivered with fever when the doctor came back to him. He'd heard voices from the vent the last several hours. Part of the time he thought he might be dreaming, but now as the sound of the scraping bookshelves pulled him from his sleep, he came fully awake and knew that it was real.
The door opened and the doctor came in. He had food again, a burger and fries this time, and a Walgreen's bag. He went over and unstrapped Dean's hands. He took a look at him.

"You're getting sick. I don't want you dying of those wounds. I have other plans for your death."

Dean swallowed hard and sat up slowly, which caused him to get very dizzy. He laid his head back against the wall. "What about Sam?" he asked.

"I'll deal with him in a minute. You first," said the doctor. He looked at Dean. "I don't want him to die of his wounds yet either. I also have other plans for his departure from this world."

Dean's leg had also swollen and he was still bloody and bruised from the beating he had received the night before. The doctor pulled some bandages out of the bag along with some alcohol. He also took out a syringe and Dean winced and tried to move away as the doctor came toward him with it. "Don't move, Dean. It's antibiotics," he said as he injected the medicine.

He pulled off the old bandage and winced at the site of the wound. He opened the rubbing alcohol and poured it over Dean's leg. Dean arched back with the pain but sat as still as he could.

"Take your shirt off," the doctor ordered. Dean did as he was told. "Lay down," said the doctor. Dean lay down and the doctor cleaned the wound on his side, pouring alcohol on it also.

"Now sit up," said the doctor. Dean obeyed and sat back up. "Eat your food and drink your water. I'll be back." The doctor left and locked the door.

He went over to Sam's room. He unlocked the door and went in. Sam was lying on his bed. He too was beginning to get sick.

"Get up," ordered the doctor.

"Why?" asked Sam.

"I'm going to change those sheets and clean your wounds. I don't want you to die from an infection. I have other plans for your death, now get up!"

Sam struggled to his one good leg. The doctor took out a gun and pointed it at him. "Over there, by the toilet!" he said motioning with the gun. Sam hopped over and sat down on the toilet. The doctor changed the sheets on his bed. "Now get back over here. Don't try anything Sam, I mean it." Sam hopped back to the bed, grimacing with pain from every jolt. "Take your shirt off and sit down," said the doctor.

Sam did as he was told. The doctor took out a needle. "No!" said Sam.

"It's medicine Sam, now shut up!" the doctor said as he injected it into Sam's arm. He cleaned the wounds to Sam's leg and side, pouring alcohol on it, and changing the bandages. Sam winced from the pain the alcohol caused, but he knew he needed it. "Don't move!" said the doctor as he went out and brought Sam some food.

"Eat," said the doctor. "You may not get anymore for awhile, you know."

"Thank you." said Sam as the doctor left and locked the door behind Sam, pushing the bookshelves back in front of the door. Sam ate his food and drank his water and waited to see what was next.