Happy Wednesday!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CHAPTER 13 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In Purgatory, Dean always had a headache. In the same way his muscles had immediately become sore and his organs had rolled over on themselves, his head had been forever pounding out an insistent and aggravating rhythm. You. Don't Belong. You. Don't. Belong, it seemed to taunt.

The headache Dean wakes up to is at least eighteen times worse, and sadly, Dean already knows why, because he's had one just like it on several occasions.

It's a glorious combination of alcohol consumption mixed with some solid blows to the head, and it's really making itself known, except this time the rhythm is more like: Dean. Dean. DEAN! Wake up. WAKE UP!

But he doesn't want to, dammit, because full consciousness will also mean facing whatever crappy situation he's found himself in this time, and Dean thinks he vaguely remembers enough to know it won't involve anything in the ballpark of something that'll make him happy.

"DEAN!" Someone screams, and Dean realizes it's not just a pounding beat inside his head. It's Ben.

Shit.

Dean flies the rest of the way awake, letting the pain flood in. It's coming from everywhere, and a lot of it becomes concentrated at his wrists when his arms swing involuntarily upon waking. Said wrists are chained to a pipe running just a few inches above a cement floor, arms pulled down so he can't even reach up past his hip without hitting resistance. There's a hastily wrapped bandage around his right hand, and Dean conjures up a half-formed memory of broken glass digging into his palm, but not much else.

The room is dark, barely enough light to see the glint of the chains. What little light there is originates from a window positioned high on the wall to his left, beams of sunlight cutting in through the branches of a small bush just outside. Dean pulls at the cuffs a few times, just on instinct, before letting them rest back on his lap. Notices that his boots are gone and so is his jacket, leaving him in socks, jeans, his flannel, and the t-shirt underneath. But these are all just small details. His first priority right now is Ben. The kid is kneeling right next to him on the grimy floor of wherever the hell they are, eyes wide and almost overflowing. He's hard to make out, too, and Dean's not sure how much of that is the darkness, and how much of it is Ben, fading away.

"Thank God," Ben gasps. As his eyes adjust a little, Dean realizes he should be able to feel Ben's hands where they rest on his shoulder. He can't. "Thank God you're awake. Dean, we gotta get out of here."

"Okay. Okay, calm down," Dean nods, trying to sound reassuring. He takes stock of the rest of the room. From what he can see in the gloom, it looks like someone's unfinished basement: mostly empty and damp with concrete floors. He's scrunched into the far left corner on the same side as the window, but the wall to his right looks like it's lined with tools. Dean can at least make out the shape of a shovel and something that looks like Death's scythe. Not the most comforting image, so he turns his attention straight ahead to a large, wooden table propped near the foot of the stairs. Behind the table is a matching chair. "You have any idea where here is?"

"You wouldn't wake up," Ben says. He's still staring at Dean, panic etched into his face. "You couldn't feel me. Why can't you feel me?" Ben shakes Dean's shoulder viciously again. Nothing happens.

"Ben, I need you to calm down," Dean repeats, yanking uselessly at his cuffs again. He can't think right now, and he definitely can't think about that. All he manages to do is open up a few small cuts along his wrists. "Do you know anything about where we are or who took us…me?"

Ben shakes his head. He leans back on his heels, and Dean watches as he does his best to get even out his erratic breathing. "No, I'm sorry. No. I just...I was at home and then suddenly I was here. And you wouldn't wake up, Dean."

Dean nods his understanding. He's panicking a little bit, too, but it won't do either of them any good right now. "Alright, it's okay. I'm awake, alright? So now let's figure out our next move. What do you...?" Dean shuts up, listens to the shuffling of feet he can suddenly hear at the top of the stairs.

"Ben," he whispers, low and urgent. "Don't say a goddamn word, you understand me? You stay out of sight no matter what."

"Dean…"

"No matter what," Dean growls, holding Ben's eyes. After a moment, the kid gulps and nods his acceptance.

All they can do is wait, watching as a pair of spotless boots come slowly into view, the figure stopping at the foot of the stairs. Dean squints in the dark but can't make out the man's features until the figure reaches above his head and a light flicks on, flooding a small portion of the room in an ugly, yellow glow. And standing beneath the bulb, eyebrows pulled together in something that almost looks like concern, is Phillip Moorhead.

Dean closes his eyes, leans his head back against the cement wall at his back. "Well shit."

"Hi Dean," Phil says with a short nod, as if they're old acquaintances running into each other out of the blue. "Sorry for all the...ya know." He gestures to the chains, makes an absurd clicking noise with his tongue. "This isn't quite how it was supposed to go down."

"Look Phil, you're gonna have to catch me up here," Dean says, wiggling on his ass until he's sitting a little straighter, trying to fool both Phil and himself into thinking he's the one in control. He feels his wrists begin to ooze a bit more insistently at the motion, reminding him of the inaccuracy of that thought. "Because I gotta tell ya: I usually know why I've been abducted. And this time I'm just...yeah. I'm super lost, here."

Phil nods abruptly, tone far too light for the current situation. "Oh gosh," he says, almost comically. "Oh yes. You must have some questions." He pulls up the chair that sits behind the wooden table and takes a seat, legs of the chair settled just out of reach of Dean's toes. "I'm going to explain now, okay?" he asks.

It seems like he's waiting for an actual response, so Dean nods, a little dumbstruck. Phil smiles back, uneasy and almost sad. He seems simultaneously uncomfortable and resigned, a mix that sets Dean on edge. It's not customary for his captors to hold any hint of remorse. "This isn't one of those dumb, villain monologues, okay?" Phil insists, and Dean has to refrain from snorting. "I know you're not going anywhere."

"You seem pretty sure of that," Dean snarls, letting a little anger leak into his voice. "I'm not sure you understand who I am."

Phil grimaces, definitely apologetic now. "I do, though, Dean. I do. You're one of the famous Winchester brothers. You're the one who's been to Hell and back. I've known about you for a long time, but your story only began to matter to me after your resurrection."

Dean tries to bury his shock at Phil's words, does his best to school his features, wrists clanking against the unrelenting chains. He feels Ben turn to look at him but can't risk looking back. Can only guess at the expression the kid must be wearing at the revelation. Dean clears his throat. "Oh yeah? And why's that?"

Phil leans forward in his chair. "Well I should start with some basic facts here," he says. "First, I'm a psychic. It's a very specific gift. You see, I only have visions related to the supernatural. I'm still not quite sure how it works, can't always control it, but that's the gist."

Again, it seems as if Phil is waiting for a real response. Dean can't think of anything else to do. He gives him one. "Sure, great," he says, thinking of how he got here. "Starting to get a better picture. But see the thing is, Phil, you're in cahoots with demons. How's that come to be? You must know how bad that could get, being a psychic and all."

The words are meant to be almost threatening. An insult at the very least. But Phil just smiles, that sad, somber tilt of his lips. "Oh, I do," he nods. "You must understand, Dean, I'm not so very different from yourself. I made a deal, too."

"So it was a deal," Dean accepts, re-adjusting his legs beneath him. His head still throbs insistently, but for now, he just keeps talking. Villain monologue or not, Dean needs information. "That rags to riches crap? You sold your soul for a full wallet. I did it to save my brother. I guarantee you, we're different."

Phil shakes his head, and the heaviness in his eyes scares Dean a little bit. "Dean, it's not so black and white," the man insists.

Dean stares back. "Enlighten me."

"Gladly," Phil answers. He takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a dive underwater. "Twelve years ago, someone hit my son, Jaden, with their car while he was biking to school one day. He was eight years old. Shattered bones, countless contusions and complications, concussion like you wouldn't believe. The bills just kept coming, expenses piling up. I needed a way out, and the tools were already in my hands. I'd been having visions since I was a child. I knew about demons, about deals. So I made one."

Dean shakes his head. "Couldn't have just wished him better? Why the money instead of the cure?"

"Because nothing is certain, Dean. You of all people must know that," Phil says, licking his lips. His stare seems to linger on the spot where Ben sits, invisible and silent throughout the conversation, just as Dean had asked. Uncomfortable, Dean shifts against the chains again, directing Phil's sad stare back to him. Phil bites his lip, keeps talking. "Of course I could wish my son healthy, but how long would that last?" he asks, fingers spread wide in agitation. "Accidents happen every day. Cars run red lights, idiots decide to drink and drive, and kids make wrong turns and break more bones. No. What I needed was a defensive strategy. A cushion to protect my family from whatever bad, ugly things might find them in the future. And in this world, that means money. So I got us a lot of it. Enough so that when I was gone, they would be able to face whatever waited for them."

"They must be so proud," Dean mocks. He's not sure it's in his interest to piss Phil off right now, but these are the tools and strategies he's always used, and they've worked out alright for him thus far. "Do they wanna come down and say hello?"

Phil looks genuinely angry for the first time. He still doesn't raise his voice, but his tone hardens. "I would never involve them in this. I sent them away for the weekend as an apology for my little hotel getaway."

"The getaway you took to get over your dead dog."

"Ahh, yes," Phil nods, a little amused now. The myriad of moods is giving Dean whiplash. "Pepper actually passed some time ago. Great Danes don't typically live more than nine years, Dean. And they don't generally point out stock market trends with their noses. But it seemed like you bought my crazy ramblings, huh?"

"Yeah well, you seem the type."

"I assure you, I'm perfectly sane. Just had some work to take care of outside of town."

"Huh," Dean snorts. "Okay, say I believe that, which is still up for debate. Here's a question: how are you still kicking? You made that deal twelve years ago. Far as I know it, demons don't go past ten. If you're lucky."

Phil smiles knowingly, looks like he's about to say something along the lines of 'I feel your pain' or 'next we'll move into child's pose' or some other bullshit.

"I'm sure you of all people understand what it's like to not be ready to let go, Dean," he says instead. "And that's exactly how I felt. Ten years with my family was wonderful, of course, but it wasn't enough. So I made another deal. My powers as a psychic gave me certain advantages, and I offered those advantages."

"Meaning what?" Dean asks. He's looking for loose nails in the floor, a sliver of something that might help him undo the cuffs once Phil leaves the room. There's nothing within reach.

"I help them find willing souls," Phil explains. Dean's stomach rolls as he continues. "I use my gift to find people's deepest desires, the things that cannot be attained without supernatural assistance. And then I send them to a crossroads."

Dean shakes his head in disgust. He ponders for a moment, chewing at the inside of his cheek. "A few days ago, you were outside the house. Lisa's house. Why?"

"Technically that wasn't me," Phil says, thrusting a finger in the air. "That was a demon. Not sure I could've outrun you, to be honest," Phil giggles a little at his own joke and Dean just stares at him.

"Why? Why go after Lisa? She'd never seek out a demon."

"You're right," Phil agrees, and Dean feels his shoulders relax slightly. He'd been sure of Lisa, of course, but the confirmation is comforting nonetheless. "I have another job. I keep track of you and your brother."

Dean looks at him questioningly, and Phil shrugs.

"The demons are very interested in you, and for good reason. You've made quite a few significant ripples." He raises his eyebrows. Dean feels Ben's eyes on him, still just watching. There are so many things Ben has never known about him, so many insight this conversation must be giving him. Phil keeps talking, that same, controlled tone. "And it happens that in a few days, there will be a supernatural auction. I've seen it. And you will be there, both you and your brother. You'll want something desperately, something the demons also want. The idea was…"

"Leverage," Dean realizes angrily. "You needed leverage against me."

Ben stiffens, and the temperature in the room drops by a few degrees.

"Yes Dean, that's right," Phil says, and he's back to being apologetic. It's almost worse that Dean can sense true remorse. It'll make it harder when he finally figures a way out of his chains and has to kill the guy. "I couldn't see that you'd show up in town so soon, even before we'd secured Ms. Braeden. Still trying to figure that part out," Phil continues, eyebrows scrunched together. "But the important thing is that we can cut out the middleman now. See, Dean, I've heard stories of you brothers. Had visions of the monsters you've killed for most of my life, caught flashes of Lisa and recognized her, obviously. Anyway, I figured you'd trade a heckuva lot to get her back. But I also know Sam would do the same for you. So this is good. I didn't really want to involve an innocent woman, anyway. Especially not after what happened to her kid."

"Screw you, buddy," Dean growls, letting his eyes slide right over Ben, who remains stoic, almost calm. The expression on his face worries Dean.

"Look, I really am sorry, okay?" Phil says. Like he's sincerely seeking out forgiveness from the man chained to his basement floor. "You never set out to hurt people, you know? But this is for my family. Dean. What would you do for yours?"

Dean straightens up a little bit, makes sure he's caught Phil's eye before he answers, tone low and even. "If you've heard the stories, had your visions, then you already know the answer to that. Which means you have to know how bad this plan is. Walk away, man," he urges. He thinks back to Ben, joking about taking Phil down, just in case he turned out to be evil. It doesn't seem so funny anymore. "Don't stick around for your family at the expensive of losing your humanity. It's time to own up to the deal you made and do your time."

Phil leans back in his chair, running both hands over his balding scalp. "Not everyone is Dean Winchester, okay?" he says, exasperated. "No one's gonna pull me out of Hell. Once I'm in, I'm in for life."

Dean shakes his head. "I didn't go to Hell knowing I'd come back. I didn't ask to be saved."

The hunter ignores Ben's new expression, doesn't really expect the level of pain reflected back at him as Ben slides one more puzzle piece into place about the man he only really knew from afar. Dean wonders, not for the first time, what the hell he'd been thinking when he'd gone to them. Broken, ruined, not even half alive. Standing on their doorstep, asking for what? For what? Infecting them with his history, darkening their lives with whatever might lie on his sunless horizon.

"But you were saved," Phil continues. He stands up from the chair, pulling Dean away from his thoughts. "You were. And your family, they could've survived without you. Mine can't."

"I don't think you're giving them enough credit," Dean answers, trying to ignore the sting of what he knows to be true, has always known to be true, even long before the Yellow Eyed Demon, possessing his father's body, had uttered those same words.

Phil takes a few steps backward until the light at the top of the stairs catches his face, shadows cutting across his features, making it hard to read his expression.

"I'm sorry. I really am," he apologizes again. He moves for the stairs, pivoting and latching onto the banister.

Dread pools at the base of Dean's throat as he thinks of being left in this basement for days on end. He thinks of Sam's panic, of Ben fading away in front of his eyes. "Phil, don't do this," he pleads, the way he never does. He can reach Phil, he knows he can. This doesn't have to end the way it always does. Because even if it takes a few days, Dean knows Sam will find him. Dean knows in the end, there will be a body on the floor and a family left without answers. And he knows it's probably irrational to hope that his captor will have a change of heart, but he also knows it's the only way to save Phil's life. And despite his earlier thoughts, Dean doesn't really want to add another human to his hit list. "Come on. You're better than this," he tries.

Phil shakes his head sadly, toes curling over the first step. "I'm not, actually."

He flicks the light off on his way up the stairs, leaving Dean to struggle against his cuffs in the dark.


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