Hey guys! Yes, I know, long time no see. I'm kind of on vacation right now, and it's been hard to find time to write. Sorry that this chapter is about 500 words shorter than what I usually write, but one: it's really hard to write John since he's such a diverse character; and two: I just felt like this was a good place to stop the chapter. There will be another A/N at the end to explain some things.

Anyway, thank you for all of the support! I read each and every review, and it really makes my day. So, a huge thank you to those who have followed and commented! I love you!

Warnings and disclaimers, see Ch.1


Sometimes life was good. Sometimes it was amazing. Nothing could go wrong, nothing would go wrong. But life was never perfect, and John was the one to find that out the hard way.

First it was his father who left him. Told him goodnight and then abandoned him to his house alone, in which he was forced to grow up in without a dad. Simply had left and never bothered to return-and it wasn't even like John knew what had happened to him. It was like when he was in the war. When wives would anxiously await news on their loved ones and hold onto small slimmers of hope that maybe, just maybe, they could see each other again. Hug each other again. Say goodnight to each other again. John never got that opportunity.

No, see, because no veteran would come to his door and say that he was deceased, and as bad as that sounded, closure was better than infinite curiosity. John would know. He would understand. He lived it.

Next it was Mary. The love of his life. The sole, bright light in the dark alleyway that he was trying to navigate himself through. Her laugh as pure as the diamond in her wedding ring that he had proposed with all those years ago. Her smile enough to illuminate even the most rayless of pathways. She was the one who saved him.

Fire, fire, fire.

It's funny how people can think a flame is so beautiful. It's flickering colors swaying in the wind patterns amongst the atmosphere, the embers falling gingerly to the surface beneath it. John would like to disagree with those people.

You've never see a true wildfire until it's right in front of you. Especially when your wife is in the centre of it, a look of utter horror and terror imprinted on her face, subsequently his mind. His son being confused as to what is happening, his arms wrapping protectively around his baby brother. John trying to conceal the truth because nobody Dean's age should have to go through trauma like he had at such a young age. Maybe that was where he had first gone wrong.

Fire, fire, fire.

The smell of burning flesh wafts through the room, weaving its way around all the other various scents in the dingy basement so that it's the most noticeable. Dean lay sprawled out on the floor. Sam lay unconscious against the water pipe. Copper is not a good mix with burnt skin, and red does not fit with Sam's pale face.

F and B have been crumpled into little balls of paper that now lay at John's bound feet, one reading 'fire' and the other 'bludgeon.' X and D are right next to them, a reminder of how much of a screw up he is. He can't even protect his own children. And now...only four letters sit in that pile. It's a minority that seems to cower underneath the overwhelming amount remaining, sniggering in John's face. 22 letters to go. Sam and Dean are strong, but not that strong. Not strong enough to endure the weeks of torture that Mackle seems to be on the favoring side of. No, no, no. Fire, fire, fire.

Crack.

Sam falls appearingly lifeless to the floor, a steady flow of blood streaming from his nose.

John screams his name. Something tells him that his son doesn't hear him.

Screams.

They reverberate off the walls of the underground wood panels.

Dean. Dean's screams.

John feels wrong thinking that it may be a good thing that Sam is not awake right now. He feels even more so wishing he was the same way.

He can't take this.

Fire, fire, fire.

He pulls harshly against his manacles. He doesn't stop when the metal digs into his skin, nor when he can feel the blood dripping down his wrists and his hands. He doesn't stop when he hears a vicious snap, followed by a blinding pain that shoots up to his elbows in pulsating throbs, rhythmic with his racing heartbeat. He only takes a five second break when the blood supplies some traction with his chains, and then he's back at it again; yank, release, yank, release. His hand is sticky, undoubtedly covered with crimson, but he can feel his hands slipping. His fingers are numb by the time he manages to slide his right hand out of the cuff, and when he brings it up to look at it, there is not one glimpse of skin to be seen, layered behind all of the blood. His blood.

His fingers begin to shake violently and he brings the hand down to rest on his lap, pain flaring through the broken bone and muscle. He allows himself a near-silent groan to relieve the sting, a tactic he learned in his time of service, and forces himself to fiddle with the other binds. Unlike his wrists, his feet are tied with rope and John figures to work on that before trying his luck with the other side of the shackles.

It's decently simple to undo the knots—even with a broken wrist—and before he knows it, he's standing on level ground. For a moment, a wave of nausea hits him and he comes down to one knee, his left arm extended to the maximum. He waits for the moment to pass, and when he gathers his bearings, he places his foot on the head of his chair and kicks.

The wood breaks free, and although the cuff is still on John's wrist (not to mention a small piece of wood plank from the chair), he still has full mobility. Controlling his breathing, he stumbles over to where Sam rests, head against the metal and eyes closed. John cups his hands around his chin, and lifts it up. Sam responds slightly to the sudden movement, twitching in his sleep, and John softly calls his name. It takes a little prodding, but within a few minutes his youngest's eyes are open, hazily looking around and trying to deter where he is. The poor boy had already had a concussion, and of course John had to be stupid enough to let him take two letters in a row. He mentally kicked himself.

"Sam," John whispered. "Sammy, which sock is the paperclip in?"

Sam shifted his gaze to look at John, and his eyes seemed to sober a bit. "Huh? Oh, wha'...uh. M'ybe the left?"

John wasted no time in grabbing it, soundlessly laughing in pride at both his son's paranoia and his intellect. Paranoia or not, it was going to come in handy.

"H-How's Dean?" Sam stuttered, the words sounding funny on his tongue.

John spared a glance to the limp figure laying being him, but looked away immediately. His breathing was starting to speed up, and his feet and face were beginning to become numb. Now was not the time for a panic attack. He needed to be there for his children. He shook his head, and answered, "Dean's...Dean's fine. Take this," he said, changing the subject, "put it somewhere where they won't find it just in case." He handed the paperclip to Sam's hands carefully, and Sam nodded.

"'Kay. But...but you..."

"But what?"

"Y-You sure Dean's..."

"He's fine."

"'Kay..."

It may have been a douche move to lie, but right now he couldn't have Sam breaking down as well. He inhaled and took a deep breath, the tingling under his eyes and on his cheeks subsiding with his slowing breathing pattern.

John moved to turn around, but a loud clang from the top of the stairs stopped him in his tracks. Light flooded in, and he watched from the corner of his eye as Sam stretched his hands and placed the clip under his tongue. Smart, smart boy. He then closed his eyes and resumed his position of "unconsciousness," but at least this time John knew he wasn't truly out.

Dayne and Eli walked down, partnered with Mackle, and Mackle stopped dead in his tracks. He was obviously surprised to see John standing and not in his chair.

"Wow," he said, his eyes darting to John's wrist. "You seriously broke your wrist in order to escape? Damn, I'll give you some credit—that's pretty impressive."

"I don't care what you think."

"I know."

Dayne stepped forward, and John dropped into a fighting stance. His back leg kept him balanced, and he gripped the piece of wood hanging from his good hand while keeping his broken one tucked into his stomach for protection. At least he might be able to use it to his advantage.

Before he knew it, Dayne was lunging and he managed to sidestep to the left. He kicked out, hitting Dayne in the stomach and knocking him back a few paces. This is when Eli decided to jump in, and John had to maneuver to avoid the right hook heading straight for his face. Taking advantage of Eli's recoil, he landed a solid uppercut and knocked him down.

Punches were exchanged, and John was starting to feel the effects of sitting in a chair for a day straight. It didn't help that his right wrist was of absolutely no use to him, and he knew he had to figure out something before he lost this battle.

Trying to form some sort of plan, he turned to face Dayne who was recovering gradually. Raising the wooden block, he swung his arm back and with all of his force slammed it into his opponent's face. The damage was instant, Dayne dropped loudly to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. Eli seemed to hesitate on seeing his buddy fall, but committed anyway. John ducked an incoming punch and spun around, repeating the process.

"Alright," Mackel spoke out, "I've had enough."

John didn't even get to prepare before he was suddenly overcome with an astounding amount of pain.

Fire, fire, fire.

It raced from his feet all the way to the back of his neck, and his muscles locked in place. He fell to the ground twitching, the taser having the intended effect to immobilize him.

"John, John, John. I thought you had learned your lesson," Mackel shunned. "Guess I was wrong. Huh. Anyway, how would you feel if I were to pick the next letter? You good with missing out on one round? Good. I choose R. And, because I'm such a saint, Sam can feel free to endure this one. What was that in which he said earlier? 'Defenseless bitches?' Plus, I mean, he's already awake unlike your other one over there. I guess being burned alive wasn't necessarily in the job description, but you get my point. You good with that Sam?"

Silence.

Mackel sighed.

"Well. I hope you're feeling real good about yourself right now, Johnny." The slip of paper was dropped into his lap.

The panic attack he was trying to subdue earlier came back and hit him full force.


When I first began this story, it was a free-write. I had no idea where I was taking it. But, now I've got a general idea.

A few things before I leave y'all. The first one is, this rating might jump up to mature when I update the next chapter. I'm still not sure yet. But, I will remind you, there will be NO non-con. I don't write that, unless I think it's canon (which there are times in which I believe ).

Second thing is, I need an opinion, so I'm going to let y'all decide.

Should I write the recovery in this story, or in a separate one?

YES there will be a recovery! I'm no sadist and I'm not going to leave them here. I don't think I would ever forgive myself if I did ;-;

tbc