A/N I apologise for taking so long. Thanks to all the people who helped beta this. And you should all thank Mattie because if not for her, I would let this die...cuz ain't no one but her reading it..
Chapter Three:
Dean waited quietly outside Sam's classroom, having skirted around the janitor mopping down the floors. Lily and Pete were with him, and the three of them had gotten bored with cards and other games, and Lily had yelled at them when they decided to play quarters on the floor. Like it would kill him to have bloodied knuckles…seriously if she'd seen the things he had, done the things he'd done, quarters would be nothing.
"Hey guys, I'll be right back, gotta use the bathroom, okay?"
"Well it's not like we're going anywhere without you," Pete pointed out, rolling his eyes. Dean shrugged a little, before moving past the 'Caution Wet Floor Sign' to the other end of the hallway. Wondering why he'd thought it was a good idea to drink so much water, he entered the bathroom, seeing the janitor.
"Oh, sorry, I'll find another one," he said, turning, feeling pressure on the back of his head, before the floor came rushing up and his world went black.
"Where the hell is Dean? Did he get lost in there?" Lily tapped a foot, watching Sam, who looked ready to go home.
"Dunno, he went in, janitor came out, maybe he was just waiting on the guy to leave?"
"I wouldn't know, would I? I wasn't in there."
"I'll go check," Sam said with a shrug, not wanting to hear them arguing. He figured that maybe Dean had felt sick from the surgery, and didn't want anyone to know, so he was hiding. He'd done it before, once, when he'd been sick, because the bathroom had a locking door. There was no one in the bathroom when he opened the door. Coming back out, "Are you sure it was this one?" he asked.
"There's no other bathroom in this hall, and he didn't leave it."
"'Scuze me," the janitor smiled, friendly enough, as he retrieved his 'wet floor' sign and put it on the small cart holding his cleaning supplies and trashcan.
"Excuse me," Pete said, looking uncomfortable, "Our friend went in there, and he, we missed him coming back out, did you see him?"
"Yeah, he went right back out, said he'd find another bathroom, I told him there was one right in the next hall over. Polite kid, not like most of the ones that go here," he said amicably.
"Well thanks for your time," Lily said, and they sped off to go find Dean.
After half an hour of fruitless search, Sam looked at them.
"Maybe he went home."
"No, Sam, he wanted to pick you up, walk you home."
"Then we should call my dad."
"Why? We'll keep looking, I can go back to the apartment see if he really did head there," Pete offered.
"Sam and I will look here, and if we can't find him, we'll call my mom with the school phone, so you check with her, okay?"
"Sure, no problem."
"Sam, you gonna be okay?"
"Yeah, I just…where'd Dean go?" he looked around, slipping his hand into Lily's. Sam hadn't held hands with anyone in years, rejecting his brother's callused palm for his blue jean pockets instead. But, right then, he was worried. "Is he playing a trick on us because he wants us to know he's feeling better? I knew. Dean's always okay, he says he's always good, I don't get it," he mumbled apprehensively.
"He's fine, he's always fine," Lily didn't know what to say, she didn't have any siblings of her own, but agreeing usually worked. And it was true; Dean had been fine after the surgery, if a little sleepy and spacey.
At his bladder's protest, Dean swam to the surface of his dreams and broke free into consciousness. Thinking it was much too early to be awake he groaned inwardly. When he tried to move his arms to push himself out of bed he abruptly realized two things. One, he was not in bed, and two, his hands and legs were bound together, behind him, and he was on a cold cement floor to boot. Groaning when the headache set in, he closed his eyes against the fading light. Figuring that when he had last been conscious it had not been too much past three it had to be the same day. He hoped it was the same day. Oh god, where was his father? What about Sam? Was Sam there, too? Trying to call out, he noticed that the cottony feeling in his mouth was from a gag, not just the headache. Trying to stretch out his body and relieve the cramping muscles, he couldn't move.
Training kicked in, and he started working his wrists, flexing to test the ropes. No give, it had been done well, then soaked in water to shrink, he could feel the dampness in his jeans at the ankles, under the rope. Wondering how long it would take for his bladder to burst, Dean shifted again, trying to ease the pressure of his jeans against his lower belly. Unable to do much because of how cleverly he had been bound, Dean shifted again. Knowing he wasn't blindfolded, he inhaled deeply through his nose and opened his eyes again, looking around. The pounding in his head worsened, but he ignored it, fearing that worse would happen if he couldn't. Eyes roving around the room, he noticed a man the chair by the corner. An old wickerwork chair, nothing fancy, not even a cushion. The man appeared to be asleep. His captor, he knew. And possibly his tormentor.
Almost wondering if it was a trick, he used his tongue to push against the gag, slowly working at it until eventually he could force it past his teeth and onto his chin, where he shrugged his face against his shoulder to force the gag even further down. Finally the pressure let up and it hung loose around his neck. Watching the man, he wondered what would happen if he woke him, and asked to use the bathroom. Then, he wondered again if he could perhaps find a way to free himself. Fingers picked at the ropes, if he couldn't loosen the knots, perhaps he could fray the rope itself until he could break it. Like Superman bursting free of chains. His mind racing, he figured if he worked his shoes off, he might be able to work the ropes over his heels and off his feet. But he knew the ropes were too tight around his ankles. Sighing softly, he glanced up again at the chair in the corner, then squinted, wondering where the man went.
Too groggy to think properly, he increased the frantic pace of his attempts to escape, picking, picking, picking at the rope, feeling strand by strand by strand pull away, and knowing there were hundreds, thousands of strands to break though.
"I see you're awake," rough hands dragged the gag back up over his mouth, jerking it tight and hard against his mouth, tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean hissed in pain, before clenching his jaw, a muscle standing out on the side. Deciding he wouldn't give his captor any satisfaction or acknowledgement of the pain he was feeling. "Well look-ee what you can do," the man said, rolling Dean onto his front with a sharp kick, before pressing his shoe down onto Dean's hands against the rope. He continued to press down until the boy thought that his fingers would be broken. Starting to squirm, when before he had been determined to remain impassive, he barely managed to roll away, now facing the man.
The janitor?
Really? What the hell?
The confusion must have been obvious on his face, because the man laughed. "You look just like your daddy when you do that, you know that?"
Dean made a muffled series of incredulous sounds supposedly equivalent to "You know my dad?"
Dillinger laughed again.
"Maybe I shouldn't have gagged you again so soon, this could be fun," he suggested. Feeling his eyebrows contract, Dean knew suddenly that he was scared.
Dean hoped that the man would act like a cartoon villain and reveal his plot, it might make things a lot simpler. Dean sent a quiet prayer to whatever god might be listening that life could be a little more like a cartoon, and preferably not like the Looney Tunes. He wasn't sure his body could take the constant abuse. After all who would take care of Sam? Or his father, if he was gone?
Working at the ropes again, he wasn't genuinely expecting the kick to his stomach, exploding pain across his abdomen and forcing his body to retch against the gag. The convulsions of his body seeking to bring up his latest meal wracked his entire frame, and all Amos did was watch.
He didn't laugh, didn't say a thing. When Dean finally stilled, trying to swallow away the taste of bile in his mouth, Amos kicked him again, and he felt his bladder give up, felt the liquid warmth spread across his jeans. It wasn't the pain, he knew that, he'd been hurt so much worse before, but it was the pressure.
Humiliation spread across his face, darkening it into a blotchy crimson. The stitches, the surgery! Panic spread over him next, as he tried to see and twist his body, no, no blood. But what about the inside? Shutting his eyes against the thoughts, he wasn't going to give Amos anymore satisfaction. Opening them, he simply glared, trying with every fiber of his being to channel a particularly angry John Winchester on a bad day. His stomach ached, wanting to rebel again, and he fought it, fought the urge to gag, because if he threw up, he knew that it would stay trapped behind the gag, and so he fought it. When he finally lay limp against the cement, Amos stared at him calmly, simply calculating, and Dean felt exposed and violated by that simple look, but he refused to turn his eyes away.
"Perhaps I should just take those eyes out for you, so you don't need to look at me like that," he suggested mildly. Dean blanched, unable to stop the reaction. The man was serious. Absolutely serious. Not willing to capitulate entirely, Dean dropped his eyes, but didn't stop glaring, instead focusing on the man's shoes. A hand interrupted his view, grabbing his shirt front and hauling him upwards, but with his feet bound, he was unable to stand. Soon another hand entered his vision, sending black spots across it, and causing the room to spin. He felt the same fist plunge into his stomach, and he was unable to fight his body from bringing up his latest meal where it fouled his mouth against the gag. Unaware that his fingers still worked to part the strands holding the rope around his wrists, another crack across his cheek brought him oblivion.
------
"What do you mean you don't know where your brother is?" John asked Sam, incredulously.
"We can't find him, Mr. Winchester," Lily mumbled, "he went to the bathroom and didn't come back out," she added. "We waited, and Sam said he wasn't in there, Pete, too." Biting her lip, she was clearly on the verge of tears. It wasn't like it was normal for her friend to just disappear: Dean was responsible and thoughtful and didn't do things to deliberately hurt the people who he cared about –and who cared about him. John's face darkened, and Lily found herself suddenly interested in her shoes, studying the old marred white and peeling plastic at the toe.
Sam had cried, in a silent tears-only kind of way. Lily hadn't had the words to comfort him, wishing that she could cry, too.
"We looked for him for hours," Lily whispered, wishing that she could just go back in time and fix things. Pete was still looking. Trying very hard to find Dean, before someone else did. He was hurt, well, he'd just had surgery. It wasn't like he should be up and walking around. "Someone…" if she admitted it, it became real.
"Someone has my boy," John said coldly, and Lily felt a frisson of fear run up her spine. "And it looks like I've got to go get him back," he added grimly. She could practically see him buckling on swords, knives, guns, maybe even a headband along with war paint. "So, tell me, who else was in the hallway with him?"
----
Coming to, he found his hands in front of him, a nail piercing his palm. Very thin, but long, it wasn't driven in yet, but both hands were laid palm up, right on top of left on the table. The nail was far enough in to stick up on its own, the hammer lying beside it. Dean vomited against the gag. He knew after forcing himself to flex his fingers that nothing was damaged other than skin and muscle. Gagging again, he forced himself to swallow, knowing he would do anything for the chance to just spit. Rubbing his cheek against his shoulder, he refused to cry.
When he looked around he noticed that Amos was gone.
Sure, his hands were bound, sure, his feet were bound, but nothing was stopping him from at least trying to escape. Other than the threat of the nail: Dillinger wouldn't drive it all the way into his hands unless he tried something, and he knew that the fear would keep Dean from doing anything. Stopped by a simple gesture, Dean felt his stomach curdle. Pulling his hands to his stomach, the pain throbbed up his arm. He had no physical way of getting the nail out, and that was all he wanted to do. Forcing back the tears again, he would deprive Amos of that satisfaction, if nothing else. If he pushed at the nail, it would dig up the inside of his hand, and the very idea was enough to make him sick again.
When footsteps came down the old wooden stairs, Dean felt his heart leap with hope. His dad was coming, his dad would come and everything would be okay. He would be rescued.
"You look uncomfortable," Amos smiled. "Hands on the table." Dean put them up as quickly as possible rather than risk the nail being actually driven through. Amos reached out to lightly touch the nail. Twirling it idly, "You look a lot like your father, you know that?" Unable to respond, Dean just stared at his hand, before his body gagged again. He'd woken up hungry, but now the very thought of food was enough to make him want to die. Amos began pushing indolently down on the nail, Dean bit back a cry of pain, clenching his teeth around the gag suddenly glad it was in his mouth. Wrenching the thin nail up and away, Amos smiled. "Did it hurt?" he asked. "I'd rather do this to your father, breaking him would be so much harder. But it would take too long. And I think breaking you will break him, and I won't have to expend too much effort. It only took him a few words to ruin my life. I'll make sure it takes a few days to ruin his.
"Here, let me help you with that," Amos tugged the gag down roughly, tearing Dean's lip in the process.
Spitting blood and the taste of vomit from his mouth, Dean looked up. His lips were swollen and stiff, and he had a hard time keeping them together, and it galled him to think that if he didn't, bloody drool would slip down over his chin. "What'd my dad ever do to you?" Dean asked. "He's a hero, he saves people."
A hand cracked across his face, and Dean fought the blackness away. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, before something hit him hard in the belly. Coughing, Dean felt tears leaking down his cheeks, and did his best to stop them, and hide them, turning his face into his shoulders to wipe them.
"John used to say that a lot. It was his favorite. Didn't have much use for swearing beyond that one phrase," a simple smile twisted Amos' lips. "And your father just thinks he's a hero, Dean, it is Dean, right? Don't be stupid. He ruined my marriage, my life, my career, he ruined everything."
"Dad doesn't know anyone, he can't have-" another blow cut his words short.
"In the military. Doesn't tell you everything, does he?" chuckling a little, the worst part was that he seemed so perfectly sane, calm, almost reasonable. "There was a girl he flirted with a lot, one he knew I had my sights on. No woman had eyes for anyone else when your dad was around, y'know that kid? He was real popular with the ladies," settling down in the table across from Dean, he smiled. "You might have some half brothers and sisters running around.
"That aside, I set aside some time for this girl, and I spent some time with her. He came in and ruined the moment forever, ratted me out. I got a dishonorable discharge from the military, my wife left me. Found out she was pregnant, seven months, it was my baby. My child and I've never met it, don't even know if it's a boy or girl, thanks to your father."
Dean figured that cheating on your wife was a pretty bad thing to do, regardless. His eyes rounded. "You raped her."
"No, I didn't rape her. I gave her what she wanted. What she was asking for from your father. And I gave it to her. In the end it was a little too much for her, I guess."
"You raped her and you killed her," Dean whispered. "And my father caught you at it. You raped her and you killed her. While you were married and your wife was pregnant. You sick son of a bitch." This time the blow was so hard Dean was thrown from the chair and into the cold cement, where it cracked against his skull sharply.
"I don't have time for this," Amos sighed, rummaging around in a small red metal toolbox. Selecting a syringe and small clear vial, he prepped it and injected the contents of the vial into Dean's arm. "That should keep you quiet for a while," he smiled. Patting the boy's cheek, he left the room.
-----
"Where's my son?" John asked the principle calmly. It was an elementary school, so there were no cameras watching the hallways, but John Winchester didn't care about logic, he didn't give a damn about anything other than recovering his boy. "Fine, who was there yesterday in hallway three?" he asked.
"The teachers, who were all in their classrooms with their students."
"Funny, my son here, he says the janitor was in the hall, too."
"We employ several janitors here, they work in two or three day shifts, none of them are missing yet."
"Who was in the hallway with my son?"
"The only janitor on duty that day was Dillinger. And he shouldn't have been in that hallway, he'd already done it in the morning," the principle shrugged.
"I want his name and address," John snarled, then frowned. "Dillinger?" He knew a Dillinger. Coincidence. But, in the Winchester world, nothing was coincidence. "Not Amos Dillinger?"
"Yeah, real good guy, the kids love him. They're usually on their neatest behavior in the lunch room when he's working so he'll have less to clean up. Sometimes I wish he was a teacher so that they'd behave all the time," the principle smiled. "I'm sure he didn't do a thing to your son, if anything, you said he'd had surgery? Maybe Amos took him to the hospital because he was sick."
"Then he would have come out with Dean, and the kids would have seen him, and it wouldn't be a mystery as to where my son is. Now, his address."
"I can't give that to you."
John breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times before he could speak again. "I will get the police here, I will get you fired and your damned school closed if you do not give me that address right this damned second."
"Here," the man said wearily, passing a file to John. He skimmed it quickly, before biting hard on the inside of his cheek. Coppery blood filled his mouth but the pain was nothing in comparison to his fear. Amos had raped a woman so violently he'd killed her. If he could do that without a second thought, what would he do to Dean? John knew he was capable of anything.
Out of the room within seconds, he was in the Impala, speeding down the streets so fast the cops hardly noticed him go by. Arriving at the listed address for an apartment not too far from where he lived with his boys, John didn't bother to knock, he simply picked the lock, feeling that there was no sense in warning Amos and galvanizing him into killing Dean ahead of schedule. If he hadn't killed the boy already.
Refusing to allow thoughts like that into his head, John moved into the small room. Dusty. No food in the cupboards, no beers in the fridge. No clothes in any drawers or closets. John searched frantically for hidden doors, compartments, anything. Signs that his son might be trapped inside. Nothing, no one had been here in months at the very least. John would wager Amos Dillinger hadn't stepped inside this apartment since he'd been on the walk through with the landlord. "Sonuvabitch," he swore. This was day two, he'd been unable to get to the principle until the next day, but he'd spent the entire night searching. Walking in circles, questioning Sam.
He figured that Dillinger had stuffed Dean into the trashcan to get him out of the bathroom without anyone seeing. He knew the kids so they hadn't suspected him, and why should they? They were just kids. Still no Dean. And another damned dead end. Deciding to call Jim, who might have some ideas at the least, John rubbed at his forehead. "Hold on kiddo, I'm coming for you," he whispered to the still air.
----
Dean woke up to pain. Pain in his belly, hands, feet, face and back. Pulling his head up from the ground, he felt dizzy, and then choked. No longer gagged, his cheek pulled away from the cement with a soft sound like a sticker being pulled from plastic. Blood flaked and peeled away from his flesh, and he groaned. Feeling light headed the room continued to spin, an aftereffect of the drugs he didn't even know were in his system. He didn't know his body had puked yet again in an attempt to rid itself of the poison running rampant through his system. His hair was matted with it in stiff clumps.
Unsuccessful in his attempts to take stock of his surroundings, he passed out again. The lack of food and drink combined with whatever cocktail Amos had come up with kept him out for several more hours.
When he next awoke, he knew several hours had passed. It was day two, he knew that much. Day two. He had to believe that if nothing else, he hadn't passed out too often, or for too long, because then god only knew what Amos had done to his body. Mouth too swollen to close, bloody drool ran over his chin, and he couldn't even feel it. Eyes rolling in his head when Dillinger came into the room again, Dean tried to roll onto his back. A sharp kick to his groin made him cry out, fighting back waves of nausea and pain. Rolling onto his side, he felt his ribs grate, and groaned.
"My dad's gonna kill you," he whispered thickly.
"What's that?"
Louder, as loud as he could, Dean thought he was shouting, but it was barely a whisper, "My dad's gonna kill you," he repeated. "You're gonna die screaming," he added. His dad would come. It'd been two days, his dad was coming. His dad would find him, save him. Because he didn't know how to save himself. All his training to fight monsters in the dark had never prepared him for the ones who walked out in the light.
"Sure, I'll die screaming. After you," Amos smiled calmly. Wrenching Dean up by his hair, he slammed the boy's head into the table. Once, twice, a third time, then he let go of what hair remained in his hand, letting it fall before brushing his hands together to get the stray hairs off. Dean's face slapped into the edge of the table before his body rolled boneless to the ground. Blood from Dean's scalp began to pool slowly on the ground. Figuring it was about time he let his captive have something to drink, Amos left the room to return with a bucket of water, he poured it over the boy's bloodied and swollen face, waking him up as it dripped into his nostrils and down his throat, coughing violently.
Dean's dry tongue slipped over his lips, seeking more liquid. Rolling onto his side, he struggled to roll onto his face to lap the water from the concrete before it soaked in and was gone.
Amos shook his head sadly, feeling pity for the broken figure before him. Figuring the least he could do was fetch another bucket of water, he filled it with boiling water, after all, why risk infection? Throwing it over the boy, he screamed, a red angry flush spreading over his exposed skin as the water burned. Blisters raised on the more sensitive flesh, warping and bubbling the skin.
"Don't look much like your dad now, sure he'll know it's you he's supposed to rescue? If he finds you," Dillinger smiled. "I wasn't planning this, but, I think that Karma's certainly made up for what happened before. John takes away my chance at my child, and now I take his."
His words were lost on Dean, who had done his best to curl into a ball against the pain, unable to roll himself out of the water, it was cooling, at least. His body screamed out for more liquid, food, but at the same time it begged for the pain to end. Darkness, sweet cool darkness took him, cushioning him gently as it pulled him into its depths wrapping loving arms around his aching mind.
John was doing everything he could to find his son. To the point he had involved the police, risking exposure of his own credit card fraud, hunting, and other problems that might be connected to him. Such as grave desecration which so far no one had tied to his name, but opening himself and his family to the police was just asking for trouble.
Day two, it was still day two.
"Daddy?" Sam asked, reaching his hand up for his father's. Sam never said Daddy, and he didn't like holding hands, not with him. Dean, sure, but not him.
"He'll be okay Sam, I can't promise anything about the other guy, but your brother will be okay. In fact, I'm sure he's doing fine right now. So long as he knows to keep his mouth shut," John smiled a little, making a pitiful attempt at levity for his youngest. Dean always got in trouble for mouthing off. "We'll find him Sam. Real soon."
John didn't sleep. Sam crawled into bed next to him, and John was forced to at least lie still. He would rather be out searching. He should be hunting that bastard down, getting his son back before something bad happened. Remembering a battered vehicle and then a battered house, John glanced at the alarm clock blinking steadily against the darkness. Six in the morning, he'd been sitting staring at the ceiling wasting time for six hours. And he finally had his answer. Lifting Sam with him, he stepped into his shoes, figuring he could lace them later, it wasn't like it mattered. He knew where his son had to be. The police had checked every apartment complex, John had searched the sewers, and every residence without a permanent owner had been searched. They had all ignored the crumbling ramshackle excuse for a house at the city limits. Not any more. Not bothering with the police, John geared up, exchanging rock salt bullets for real ones.
Sam woke up, "Dean?!" then looked around, realizing he was in the Impala. Glancing at his father's grim countenance, Sam's eyes rounded. "Is Dean okay?" he whispered.
"I hope so," John whispered back, gunning the engine and shooting out onto the road so fast that rubber stayed behind on the pavement. Day three. It had taken him three days to see the obvious. And because he was an idiot, his oldest son might pay the price. The son with Mary's eyes and her gentleness, the way his jaw hardened and jutted like Mary's. He lightly patted Sam's knee.
"You found him?" was the next question.
"No, but I'm about to."
"I hope we're fast enough," Sam whispered, looking down at his lap. The only response was the sound of the Impala's engine roaring against the early morning light.
Dean roused to the sound of footsteps. Not his father. Never his father. He figured on some level that Dillinger tromped up and down the stairs as often as possible to prove to him no one was coming. But John Winchester never let go. He still hadn't stopped hunting the demon, and there were never any leads. How much farther would he go for his own son?
"Good morning," Amos said with a pleasant smile.
"Go to hell," Dean spat, peeling his cheek away from the ground to raise his head. The words were barely recognizable in a face even less so.
"Oh, watch your language," he chided, kicking Dean hard. His bladder gave out again under the impact, but Dean didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. This was all about breaking him to break his father, so he couldn't be broken.
"Oh, watch your damned foot," he bit off. A few hunks of hair and scalp rested in the bloody puddle of vomit near his head. He twisted away from it, focusing his attention on Dillinger. A cold callused hand grabbed him by the throat, lifting him and slamming him bodily onto the table top. Dean groaned, then forced a laugh. "Go'n kill me," he dared, eyes taunting as best he could. They were swollen almost completely shut.
"Actually, I was thinking we could play with the nails again…I also found this razor in the tool box, I was wondering how sharp it was, why don't we find out?" Dean held onto the fact he couldn't scream, and let the pain carry him in waves down into darkness.
John wanted to scream in frustration. Where the hell was that house? He'd seen it, he knew he'd seen it. And that stupid crappy ass run down piece of shit car. Where the hell was it? Other side of town? No it was here, it had to be here, somewhere. Searching frantically, he realized he had to be wrong. It had to be the other side. For once, he let loose and swore in front of his youngest, probably teaching the boy all manners of word combinations he should never have learned for any reason.
"Dad, we can't stop looking," Sam whispered, unwilling to break the silence, but terrified that the Impala's circles and backtracking were just wasting time. He didn't want his brother to die when it was still possible to save him.
"Sorry Sam," John swerved the Impala around, fishtailing, before the tires caught and squealed, the vehicle shooting forward down the road again.
Dean roused enough to notice he was on the table again, hips shoved into it, arms outstretched, and his eyes fought to open wider in shock when he saw his hands. The nail pierced them between the fine bones, right on top of left on top of the table. His fingers twitched, and he noted the point of the nail dug into the wood. Shuddering, his legs buckled and he started to slide backwards, the pressure on his hands increasing, and he grunted, forcing his knees to lock and hold his body up.
"Awake?" Amos asked gently, lightly touching Dean's cheek in a sick parody of a caress. Unable to jerk his head away, Dean attempted to spit past swollen lips. All he managed was to push more blood out of his mouth and onto his face. "Still trying to fight me Dean?" he sighed benevolently. "That's really too bad," he commented.
"Screw you," Dean ground out. His arms were cut up from the back of his hands to his shoulders, shirt ripped away from his body forcibly. The razor had started to get duller and less fine, so Amos had discarded it, deciding instead to play with the other tools. Dean now knew what it felt like to have a saw grate against his skin, screw drivers had a whole new meaning, and he knew that nightmare about electric drills would plague him the rest of his life. Assuming he had a 'rest of' his life. If it ended in this mildewed basement, he would never forgive his father, not that it would matter.
But his father was coming. His father always came for him. Even in that foster care mess, John had come. When Dean had gotten lost in the forest looking for him, he had come. When Sam had run off at school, not wanting to leave, Dean had tried to find him, and both had gotten lost, and John had come. He always came. And Dean knew he would come this time, too. The boy just prayed that he wouldn't be too late.
"Y'know Dean, that's not a half bad idea," he pointed out, letting his fingertips trail over the boy's blood covered arm. "How's your hands? Not too tight, I hope," he said, lightly slipping Dean's belt from his jeans.
The wheels left unbroken in Dean's head started turning. He began to struggle as best he could, barely enough blood left in his body to keep him conscious, and not enough food or water. Amos gripped him by the back of his neck.
"We can't have that, can we?" he whispered against Dean's ear. Slamming Dean's forehead down into the table twice before Dean stopped struggling, Amos gently stroked his hair. "That wasn't so bad was it?" All Dean could do was groan, words were far beyond his grasp. Tears leaked out, mixing pinkly into the blood resting over the broken skin of his cheeks. Amos glanced around the room, half expecting John to appear in a last minute rescue. Although, Amos reasoned, John had been too late to save the girl.