Alright, here is chapter 2 of a story that is solely gratuitous whumpage based on my own sick twisted thoughts. Hehe. Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading.
It's the sound of traffic whooshing past his head that first brings Sam back around, and he pushes himself up with his arms halfway before dropping immediately back down as his wrist and ribs protest fervently to their punishment. The hard ground pushing against his bruised ribcage is painful, and Sam can't hold back the wince and groan that bounce off the concrete, his mouth close to the ground. He hasn't even completely touched down again when he feels the small hands gripping the backs of his shoulders, pulling him back up.
"Easy there," he hears a soft voice soothe, as the hands start to rub gentle circles into his back. "Just take it slow. Do you feel dizzy?"
Sam blinks his eyes, trying to push himself back up again as he angles his body in an attempt to link a face to the voice, but his ribs scream out at him to stop before he can catch sight of his aide and he curls in on himself, arms hugging tight to his chest. "No," he grits out. "Not dizzy. Just– oh man, what the hell happened?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," his rescuer says, eagerly reaching out to assist him as he tries once again to sit up. With her help, he finally does manage to make it up this time, but he's not sure if he would be able to stay upright if she were to let go of her firm hold.
"I was driving home from work when I saw you decide to play kissy face with the ground here." She laughs nervously, clearly unsure where her place is with him. "If you don't mind me saying, you look like death warmed over."
A sardonic snort emits from Sam's nose before he is able to stop himself as he looks at his savior with curiosity. "You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself."
She backs away a few inches before coming to a rest on the balls of her feet, having the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting to see someone take a nose dive on the side of the road. Are you sure you're okay? Can I give you a ride to the hospital?"
"No!" Sam spits out frantically. He instantly reminds himself to calm down, not to scare the poor girl, and tries again. "I'm sorry. No, please. I can't go back to the hospital. There's no time."
She looks confused. "No time? Someone going to die or something?" She chuckles to herself at her own joke, but cuts it off short when she sees the way Sam is staring at her, fear and desperation written all over his features. "There's not–"
Oh god, I hope not, he thinks. "Can...can you just help me up?" Sam asks, in lieu of an answer. "I really need to be going."
She clearly doesn't believe he's being even remotely honest with her, but assists him to his feet anyway with a nod of apprehension. "I guess you've got to get up sometime, right?" she says, chewing on her bottom lip,
They take it slow, and the girl ends up supporting most of Sam's body weight before finally managing to lean him up against the car for additional support. Sam's uninjured arm immediately goes for the sideview mirror and he slumps against it and the window, effectively allowing his rescuer a chance to relinquish her tight hold on him. Although, she doesn't completely let go.
Circling around in front of Sam, the girl grabs for his chin and angles it downward so she can get a better look at his face. Her free hand goes for his eyes, prying his eyelids open one at a time as she stares intently into his eyes, but not saying a word until she's done. "You don't seem to have any side effects of concussion," she finally says as Sam tugs uncomfortably away from her unwanted grip.
"I'm fine," Sam says, although his grimace doesn't quite allow for the reassurance he's going for.
"Uh huh. You're fine," she says sarcastically. Then pauses, thinking. "Maybe I can give you a ride somewhere that isn't the hospital," she offers. Her eyes reveal hope, pleading that he'll take her up on it. It's a curious reaction, a perfect stranger begging to give another a ride. In today's world people just don't do that. But Sam's not really thinking straight, and the little focus he does have is on Dean. Finding Dean. Finding Dean fast.
Sam nods, hesitantly at first and then more agreeably as his conviction to locate his brother gains ground in his mind. He sees the relief in his companion's expression.
"That would be wonderful," he agrees a little breathlessly as he comes to his full height and stretches his broken ribs beyond their capacity. He allows the girl to lead him from his tedious hold on the mirror to the waiting seat, realizing as they go that she is still a stranger to him. "I don't even know your name," he groans, once again wrapping the ribs with his arms as he bends to slide into the van. He can't hide the wince and concern immediately reappears on the girl's face.
"It's Lori Ann," she answers and then rushes into, "are you sure I can't take you to the hospital? You really don't look well."
"I'm sure," Sam says, the injury to his ribs making it hard to catch a full breath. "And I'm Sam...Keyser. He sucks in a deep breath and winces again. Thanks. For giving me. A ride." The way she continues to stare at Sam, assessing him as they pull out onto the road, he knows she's beginning to doubt her willingness to not turn directly back into the hospital lot, and he feels he owes her some semblance of an explanation to keep her motivated.
"My...brother was taken," he offers, waiting to see her reaction before he continues. If she freaks out, he can always cover by saying 'he was taken into surgery and never came back out,' or something as inane as that that just might still make her take pity on her poor, damaged passenger. But much to his disbelief, she jumps right on that as though it's her own story to tell.
"My gosh, that's horrible," she cries, bringing her hand to her mouth to show her sympathy. "I've been hearing about all the disappearances lately. Do you think it was the same person? Do the police have any leads yet?"
Sam winces. She has to bring the police into this, doesn't she. He shakes his head vigorously. "They have nothing," he says quickly, certain that his statement isn't entirely a lie. "I just can't sit-" he sucks in a deep breath before he can continue. "On my butt in." Another deep breath. "A hospital all. Day and do nothing while. He's out there somewhere. I have to find him."
Lori Ann looks at him askance. "You can't possibly think you're going out in search of your brother in your condition. You don't even know where to start looking...and even if you did– wait, you don't know where to look, do you?"
"No," Sam sighs, shaking his head despondently. "Unfortunately I have no leads. But I intend to find some. I'll get my brother back."
"I'm sure you will," she replies, voice jumping an octave as though she doesn't quite believe him but she's trying to pacify him. She hesitates, hand opening and closing nervously around the steering wheel, and then finally decides to take the plunge.
"Look, um, Sam. I admire your grit, I really do. And I think you really do think you're going to find your brother—"
"I will," Sam says more determinedly than ever. "Dean has never let me down in my life, and I have no intention of not returning the favor now.
"I'm sure you will. But right now you're about beat to hell. You can barely walk, your wrists all messed up, and from the sounds of it you've got some busted ribs, too. You need to get some rest or you're not going to be any good to your brother."
"Oh yeah? And what makes you the expert on what's wrong with me?" Sam demands. He turns angrily towards her and immediately regrets the move as his ribs scream in protest. He winces, but holds in the groan.
"The fact that I work in the ER as a nurse," she retorts. She slows the car down, eying him suspiciously in light of his reaction to the movement. Apparently he isn't as good at hiding his pain as he originally thought.
"You're a nurse?"
"That surprises you?"
Sam stutters. "Yeah. I mean no. No, it doesn't surprise me. It just…I guess I'm just surprised that you would help me after I checked out of the hospital AMA.
"I'm not on hospital grounds, Sam. I have no obligations to them out here. Besides, you have extenuating circumstances. I don't blame you, I just think you need to give your body a little bit of time to heal before you go trying to find your brother. It's not going to do him any good – you killing yourself before you find him."
"I'll be fine. I've been hurt worse than this and managed. He needs me."
Lori Ann takes her eyes off the road again, turning to soak up Sam's pleading expression. There's no doubt that she's about to give in and he turns up the puppy dog eyes just for added measure. She sighs, slaps the wheel and turns back to the road.
"Alright. Fine. So where can I take you?"
After taking a minute to think about it, Sam asks Lori Ann to take him back to the scene of the accident. He's hoping that he might find some clues there that might lead him to Dean, and a small part of him prays that the car might still be there as well. It hasn't escaped his thoughts that there are enough weapons and ammunition in their trunk to outfit a small army, and if the cops were to catch wind of that fact he could be in some serious trouble.
As he had expected, though, there's no sign of the car at the bottom of the ditch. The only indication that it had even once been there are the muddy tire tracks sliding all the way down the embankment and some broken bark where their car collided with the tree at the bottom. He reaches for the door handle, ready to ease himself from Lori Ann's van so he can have a look around when he realizes that Lori Ann is already standing on his side of the car with the door wide open.
The grim expression on her face is set as she extends her arm out to him. "You don't strike me as someone I can convince to stay put. But I'm not letting go of you, either. You shouldn't be up and walking around - especially on such uneven ground."
"I'm fine," Sam says levelly. "My brother doesn't have the time for me to heal. Trust me, this is nothing."
Lori Ann has the grace to keep her mouth shut, but she doesn't back down on her insistence to hold Sam up. He allows her to brace his elbow as they make their way to the steep embankment, secretly grateful for the additional assistance. He still isn't feeling all that steady on his feet, and the ground seems to be continuously weaving back and forth in his field of vision.
"What exactly are you looking for?" Lori Ann asks several minutes into the search when she finally realizes that Sam isn't going to volunteer anything.
"Clues," he replies absently, as he continues to stare hard at the ground.
She rolls her eyes, but tries again. "Yeah, I got that. What kind of clues?"
"Something to tell me what happened to my brother. Some hint of where I might look for him."
He presses on, slipping some as he makes his way down the hill and Lori Ann barely manages to keep herself from sliding too, as she struggles to hold Sam up and brace the two of them. Just a few feet further away, Sam sees something he thinks may finally be his break and he tears himself from Lori Ann's grip to lower himself to the ground. His hands reach out to brace himself as the quick release from her hold makes him stumble and sway, and realize that she had more of his weight than he'd realized. He stabilizes himself and leans in closer to the object on the ground, certain now that he has found a lead.
Dean is alone once again when he reawakens, and he's not sure if it's been ten minutes or ten hours since he was last awake, but he knows something has changed even before he opens his eyes. He's right, of course, but he's not entirely sure what the purpose of it is. Now, he's lying on his side, arms and legs propped up by pillows, yet he only knows this fact because the mirror has been moved so that it is still in his direct line of vision. His head continues to scream as the screws now pull from the left side. The sheet is still draped only over his hips and pubic area, and he wonders why he isn't wearing any clothes, and then laughs at that thought because it's such a small and insignificant concern in the grand scheme of things.
Before, he hadn't really given much thought to the significance of his plight. With the voice echoing all around him, his only real thoughts had been to feel out the situation, test the waters, and figure out a way out of this. But now...as he lies here in front of the mirror, alone, in silence, this is all he can concentrate on and a million thoughts fill his mind in a matter of seconds.
Why me? Why am I here? What has he done to me? What does he want with me? Is there a link between this and all those disappearances? Why can't I move? And then the clincher, that he dwells on far longer than the others. Oh, god, what if he's actually paralyzed me? What if this is permanent?
Because, of every fear and question he can come up with, this is the only one that full on terrifies him. He knows about paralysis, not a lot, but enough to know there's no cure for it. Knows that nine times out of ten someone who is paralyzed stays paralyzed, and he can't even fathom his life if he has to stay like this. He thinks he'd rather die.
Several minutes go by as he lies in the one position and stares, simply stares at his reflection in the mirror. There's a stalwart determination settled over his mind that maybe, if he focuses his effort hard enough and long enough, that he might actually manage to move something. Anything. Hell, at this point he'll take a pinky twitch. But nothing reacts to his efforts, and in the end he's mentally exhausted with nothing to show for it.
And then he realizes that he's missing a large chunk of time from his memory. He can't remember how he was captured or when or even what he was doing moments before. And he doesn't know how long he's been here; doesn't know how long he was unconscious before he came to the first time. The last thing he remembers is traveling down the road with Sam enroute to their next hunt. He was driving and Sam...Sam!
Fuck, where is Sammy? Now he's adding guilt and self-recrimination into the mix because, shit, how long has he spent here in front of the mirror feeling sorry for himself while Sam is out god-knows-where and probably in trouble. And here he is, just lying here, completely useless.
He realizes at once that this man, this voice, whomever he is has done his homework on Dean Winchester. The man has picked the best possible way to torture his captive, because this is far worse than anything he's ever endured before. No bullet wound, no slash of a knife, no deep placed claw wounds could ever make him feel as helpless as he feels now. And he knows he would rather be thrown down a flight of stairs or have his heart ripped from his chest from the inside again before ever willingly submitting to this kind of torture. Because pain he can take, agony, even, is fine; but the absence of pain, the absence of anything, is by far the purest and worst form of torture Dean has ever experienced.
The door to the room opens as he lies there, and he knows the doctor - the zombon - has returned for him. A natural fear grips him for a second before he realizes that he's actually relieved to have her return. Her being there, despite being totally withdrawn from reality, means he is not totally and completely helpless. And maybe it also means he can get more answers. Maybe if she is returning, the voice will too, and even though he despises this voice with everything he has, he also knows that it's his only chance at making it out of here.
The zombon crosses the room to Dean's bedside and looks over head at his IV drip, checking to see how much is left before actually turning her attentions on him. She stares at him for a few seconds, and Dean is certain she's actually making eye contact with him, but then she turns away and proceeds with her caretaking as the voice returns to the loudspeaker.
"I see you've woken up, Dean," it blares loudly overhead. "That's good; you're just in time for the fun to start." Dean can almost picture the demonic glint in his captor's eye as he says this, and a shudder washes over Dean's numb body.
He hears that sucking whoosh yet again, and his brain goes into overdrive trying to figure out what the sound is. He's sure he has never heard it before, and that doesn't help him in his deductive reasoning. But that thought process is interrupted as he realizes that the zombon is removing the pillows from between his arms and legs. He watches her, terrified and questioning her next move as he wonders exactly what fun this twisted voice has in mind. Wonders how he can stop the action even if he did know what was to come next.
"What the hell are you going to do to me?" Dean demands, practically spitting he's so furious at the invasion on his life.
The voice simply chuckles, low and clearly pleased with himself as he replies in a sing-song voice, "Only what you did to me, Dean. Only what you did to me."
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? "I don't know who you are!" He screams. "How can I know what I supposedly did to you if I don't even know who I'm supposed to have done it to?"
"Oh, you'll know in time."
This is really starting to get annoying, this constant assurance that Dean will eventually know who he's dealing with, along with the still unanswered question of 'why.' The gears in his mind are now running on high speed as he desperately sifts through every enemy he's ever made through the years in search of someone that even slightly tips him off as being his captor. But if what the man says is true, that Dean is being forced to experience the same something that he put his captor through, then he is drawing a total blank.
His throat clenches when he realizes the zombon is bracing herself to lift him, just as he's seen Sam do on the rare occasion that he's been too injured to get up himself. He's helpless to resist as his arms are circled around her neck and she locks her hands behind his back. She lifts him with ease, and he closes his eyes to stop the tears that threaten to spill as his body flops back against the pillows as though he's nothing more than a rag doll. It is at that minute that the severity of his situation hits him.
Sam leans in closer, peering into the underbrush to get a better look. What he sees makes his stomach churn and his heart start pounding hard in his chest. "Oh, God, Dean," he whispers as he reaches beneath the tangle of weeds and carefully retrieves the hypodermic needle that has been carelessly tossed away there.
The needle portion itself is uncapped, and dangerously capable of pricking someone. The plunger has been pressed all the way down, but Sam can still make out just a hint of fluid left behind in the barrel. He wonders if there might be a way to analyze it, find out what is in the syringe. Clutching the object between his thumb and forefinger, he holds it up to Lori Ann.
"You think you might be able to figure out what's in here without arousing any suspicion at work?" He knows he is asking a lot of this stranger he has just met, but he's desperate at this point. Anything is worth the ask.
To his surprise, she nods almost immediately, without hesitation. "I can figure out a way. You think that's what they used on your brother?"
Sam shrugs, not really eager to admit it. "It's possible. Seems rather odd to find a hypo just laying out here in the middle of the brush for no reason, ya know?"
"I guess you're right," she agrees, eying the needle nervously. "What do you think is in there?"
Another non-committal shrug. "I can't really be sure. My brother's a strong guy, though. If they wanted to take him they would have to subdue him." Sam doesn't like the thought of that idea - Dean being totally helpless to fight back as they dragged him off to lord only knew where. And he finds himself wondering what kind of supernatural being needs drugs to subdue their victim, unless it has humans to do its bidding. That's frightening, because Dean's right; demons they get, people are crazy.
He shudders involuntarily as he struggles to stand back up, cautious of the needle between his fingers. Lori Ann finally reaches down to help him and, with her help, he manages to push through the wave of dizziness that envelopes his mind with the change in altitude.
She holds onto his arm as his eyes scan the rest of the area in search of more clues, but ten minutes later he is still left with just the one. His shoulders slump in defeat as he realizes that this syringe will likely only tell him what they injected Dean with, but won't give any information as to who took him or where. He'd hoped for a foot print or a scrap of clothing. Just once he would like a hand written note with specific coordinates, but knows that'll never happen in a million years. But the police and paramedics have been all over the ground, leaving behind their own sets of footprints and there's no possible way that Sam would be able to distinguish between their footprints and those of whoever took Dean even if he was sure there was a set of prints.
"I guess we should go," Sam finally announces, fighting the feeling of betrayal. He can't shake the sense that he's abandoning his brother. This is the last known location that Dean was at, and he doesn't want to leave in case there are more clues he's missing. But the rational side of him knows he's searched and found the only clue he's going to find, and he'll be of no use to Dean just standing there waiting
Lori Ann tightens her grip on Sam's elbow and starts to pull him slowly up the hill, feeling him beginning to drag more and more as the adrenaline of the search finally begins to wear off. She waits until they are in the car, with Sam securely seated in the passenger bucket seat before suggesting that they go find a place to rest for a while. "You look about ready to fall over," she observes gently.
Sam shakes his head, forcing his eyes to stay open as he stares her down, appreciative of her concern but really not needing a mother figure right about now. "I have to find my car," he insists. "There's stuff in there that I need."
"I really don't think that's a good idea," she presses. "What good are you doing to be to your brother if you collapse on the way to saving him?"
"Trust me," Sam insists weakly, wondering how many times he will have to reassure her before she gets the point. "I've been hurt worse than this and it didn't stop me then. A little dizziness won't slow me down. Really."
She looks at him skeptically, lip twitching as she makes her decision. "Do me at least one favor," she finally suggests. "At least close your eyes until we get to where your car is. Will you do that much for me?"
Sam nods slowly, eyes already at half mast. But snaps them back open the minute he hears the door slam. He's exceedingly grateful to Lori Ann's beneficence, but he can't keep from wondering what her motivation is. Most people don't go around helping perfect strangers on a search to find their obviously kidnaped brother. She has yet to bring up the cops. Come to think of it, she really hasn't asked any questions.
The thought unnerves him. She should be curious, suspicious even.
Slowly, Sam turns his head to watch as his own personal good Samaritan circles the car to the driver's side. He sees her cheeks puff out as she runs a nervous hand through her silky hair, and he can only imagine what she's thinking. Probably something along the lines of 'how do I get this lunatic out of my car?' or maybe 'What's the fastest way to the funny farm?'
"You're sure I can't convince you to take a little rest before doing this?" The woman asks one more time as she climbs into the vehicle. She seems to be displaying the conviction to see this through, to make sure Sam doesn't keel over on his quest, but it's clear that the nurse side of her wants nothing more than to put Sam to bed for a week.
"I'm sure," Sam says, eyes facing front as he leans his head against the headrest, biting his lip to keep the pain at bay.
She nods, hands gripping tight to the steering wheel, and pulls back onto the roadand heads toward town.
There are only three wreckage yards in the city and she tells Sam they would have had the car towed to one of them, seeing as how there really was no evidence of foul play. "Let's hope we find it at the first lot," she says, mouth pinched in a grim line. "Don't think you're really up to playing all around the mulberry bush in search of a car."
Sam offers a grateful smile her way, choosing to pick his battles. It is abundantly clear the woman thinks he should be in a hospital; if voicing her displeasure at helping him will make her feel better he'll take it right now. Just as long as she keeps driving toward the car.
Somewhere along the line Sam falls asleep, only to reawaken to Lori Ann shaking his shoulder as they pull up to the tall chain link gate that guards Speedy McClaren's auto salvage yard. He blinks his eyes groggily, trying to escape the draw of sleep that still holds him in its clutches.
"Is it here?" he asks, slightly disoriented, but knowledgeable enough to know they'd taken off in search of something.
"I'm not sure. You never told me what kind of car we were looking for."
Scanning the lot for himself, it takes Sam a while to answer. But he is soon grinning in relief as he spots the black beast at the beginning of a row of cars. "It's the Chevy Impala over there," he points, already climbing from the van.
Now that he is actually awake, he feels a little steadier on his feet after his brief napand he makes fast tracks to the single wide trailer that is situated in the center of the lot. Lori Ann jumps out to join him, sprinting across the gravel drive to catch up. Following at a close distance, and seemingly ready to resume her roll of support if Sam should happen to weaken again, she walks with him into the trailer.
A grease covered man in blue coveralls sits with his feet up on the desk watching daytime game shows. He glances up, disinterested, as Sam and Lori Ann enter the small room. "Whadayaneed?"
"I'm here to pick up my car," Sam announces, crossing the room to the man in two strides. "It's the black Chevy Impala you've got out there."
The man snorts, but his eyes never leave the television as he shouts out an answer to the Hollywood squares question just asked before announcing, "That car ain't going nowhere, kid. You seen the front grill?"
Sam shakes his head, feeling his chest clench grotesquely tight.
"It's all smashed in. Radiator's busted. Fan belt's split. Thing's totaled kid. You might as well just cut your losses."
Cringing at the damage, Sam becomes more insistent. "You don't understand. That's my brother's car; he's not gonna just give up on it. Can it be fixed?"
Again, the man laughs heartily, amused at what he construes to be a big joke on Sam's part. He shrugs. "S'pose it could. Don't really see why you'd want to, though. You'll be putting more money into it than the thing's worth."
"It's worth more than just its cash value," Sam insists, truly missing Dean right now. Dean would know what to do, would know how to fix it and if it can be fixed. For the briefest of seconds he wonders if it's a waste of time trying to salvage the car, because if he can't find Dean then there's no point. And then he hates himself triple time for even thinking such a horrible thought. Of course he'll find Dean. He has to.
"I have to get some stuff out of the trunk," he finally announces. "But then I want the car fixed. The cost isn't an issue."
The guy nods his annoyed acceptance and has Sam fill out some papers before sending them back out into the lot so he can continue with his all too enthralling television. Sam's grateful that he doesn't come with, but still nervous about revealing the weapons cache to Lori Ann. For a minute, he ponders whether or not he might be able to distract her while he collects what he needs, but knows she isn't straying far from his side as long as he's still swaying on his feet. He does damage control instead.
"So, um, Lori Ann—" You should know something," he stalls, his hand toying with the trunk, smearing marks in the dust.
She cocks her head, curious to why he's gotten so nervous all of a sudden.
"My brother and I, we--" We sorta investigate stuff like this - like these disappearances - as a job." He pauses, gauging her reaction. She seems intrigued, and maybe a little perplexed, but open to the idea. "And so, we've got a lot of – um –weapons for stuff like this. I just - I don't want you to be scared when I open the trunk."
Her lip curls up into something of a smile, as though she's waiting for the punchline. But Sam's unyielding expression quickly makes her reevaluate that idea and her smile flattens. "You're serious. You seriously have a trunk full of weapons. Like, not just a gun - singular, but like, many guns."
Sam nods. "And knives, and some plastique, and a whole bunch of other stuff that you wouldn't even begin to be able to identify. And I have to bring the majority of it with us, because I really don't know what we're dealing with here."
Eyes growing large, Lori Ann gulps, but she allows her gaze to travel to the trunk. "I don't know what you even think we're dealing with, but I trust you. Whatever you need."
The trunk is opened slowly and Sam keeps his attention divided between stuffing what he needs in a duffle bag and watching Lori Ann for any sign she might run. He's suddenly uneasy - she accepted the weapons far too easily, far too calmly - and he's not sure what that means for any future reactions. But she makes it through the collection without hesitation and follows readily back to her car after Sam slings the duffle over his shoulder and grabs the one with his clothes in the other hand.
And she never says another word about the weapons, instead busying herself with pushing her ministrations on Sam, who she can tell is only still standing by sheer force of will. "I think we need to pick up something to eat and get you some real rest. I have a guest bedroom you can -"
"I'll just stay at a motel," Sam jumps in. "You've done enough, really. But I don't want to put you out."
"It's really no trouble," Lori Ann insists. But Sam is stubborn, and she finally relents. They go through a drive through and get hamburgers and fries and then she takes him to the nearest motel. She will see about the contents of the syringe while he lies down for some sleep. It's all she could do to convince him to actually get the rest, finally reminding him that she'll be returning to the same hospital he ran out of a few hours before, and maybe it's not the smartest idea for him to join her.
"You'll do your brother no good if you can't stand on your own," she finally says, and that works. Sam grudgingly lies down on the bed nearest the door, the closest thing he has right now to feeling close to Dean, because that would normally be Dean's bed. His eyes close almost immediately, and Lori Ann lets herself out of the room silently.
As though just knowing he can't readjust himself in the bed isn't bad enough, Dean soon learns that that is just the beginning of the 'fun' the voice had alluded to. In a split second he's submerged into a pool of depression, and he can't believe just how quickly this situation went from bad to devastating.
She makes sure the mirror is directly within his line of sight as she begins her ministrations, and Dean has two choices: close his eyes to everything that is going on, close his eyes to what they are doing to his own body; or, he can watch. He doesn't want to watch. Every fiber in his body is screaming at him to shut his eyes to the sight, knowing that if he doesn't watch he won't be able to feel either and he just might be able to pretend that nothing at all is going on. But he knows that can never be the case, and for the same reasons that he can't watch he knows he has to. If he doesn't see, he doesn't know, and he can't take a chance at them doing something to him that can't be reversed.
The zombon starts with a simple sponge bath - and that really wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that he can't feel what she's doing and that she is completely devoid of emotion. But the sponge bath evolves into a changing and cleansing of the tubes in his body - tubes he hadn't realized were even there until she pulls the sheet from his hips and completely exposes him.
Dean has seen a catheter before, and though he has never enjoyed having them shoved up his dick before, none of those times has ever been as degrading and humiliating as this time. Because the voice decides now is a great time to add its two cents once again.
"You're looking a little flaccid there, Dean," it chuckles. "What's a matter? Not turned on by the charms of a beautiful woman any more?"
"I'm gonna fucking kill you, you bastard," Dean screams, chokes, cries. In his mind, he imagines himself pouncing on the source of the voice and punching him until every vessel in his face bleeds and then strangling him until the life pours out of him.
But in reality, Dean can't even move his fingers and the zombon doctor is currently holding his limp dick in her hands inserting a new tube up through it so he can pee into a bag like a good little cripple.
After another sucking whoosh, the voice resumes its laughter. Louder this time, and clearly lacking even a hint of fear. "I'm sure you will," it mocks heartily. "I'll be here waiting for you to get up and find me."
"Oh, you can bet I will," Dean growls. His voice cracks, and he hates himself for losing it so quickly, hates himself for being so weak.
There is silence for a few seconds, and his gaze reverts back to the zombon's actions as she covers him back up with the sheet and raises the head of the bed so he can sit up.
From somewhere behind him, she retrieves a tray with food on it, and pulls a stool up beside him as she uncovers the dishes. He is presented with a tray filled with several options, all the consistency of baby food.
She offers him a spoonful of oatmeal first, shoving it into his less than willing mouth and allowing a clump to spill down his chin. She shovels two more bites of oatmeal into his mouth before finally scraping the spilled goo from Dean's chin and offering him that as a fourth bite. This ritual goes on for the next twenty minutes; shove in a spoonful and spill half of it, scoop up the spill and shove that in too.
And then she finalizes the feeding by wiping off his face with a warm washcloth. Dean feels about two months old.
"How are you feeling now?" the voice returns. "Are you having fun yet?"
Dean wishes he has someplace, someone, to glare at, because no words can truly reflect what he's feeling right now. Hatred - pure and carnal and unadulterated hatred, and he vows to himself that someday he's going to come face to face with this man and kick his demented ass.
"Ah, Dean, wipe that scowl off your face. We've only just begun."
Once again, the zombon steps to him and arranges his arms around her neck and turns him to the opposite side he had woken up on. For a minute he is left staring at the wall with no means of knowing what is happening.
The voice makes sure that doesn't last for long. "Darling," it coos to its creation. "Don't forget to give our guest his mirror. We wouldn't want him to miss this, now would we?"
Scraping sounds from behind him, and soon Dean is once again facing into the mirror as he watches the zombon retrieve something from her cache of medical aides and circle around behind him. His eyes widen to the size of saucers in understanding.
"You don't know what that is do you?" the voice asks.
He doesn't wait for an answer before giving one of his own. "That, my friend, is what we in the medical world like to call a suppository. Do you know what it does?"
Dean screams, now, fully prepared to jump from the table if he can somehow figure out a way to regain use of his limbs. "Why are you doing this to me you sick fuck?!"
He can feel the blood rushing to his face and expects the fury and anger in his voice to evoke pause in the zombon's actions. But she barely flinches as she shoves the suppository up his ass and slides a plastic lined pad under his hip, crossing her arms as she waits for the capsule to do its job.
"We have already covered that," the voice replies evenly. "You know why I'm doing this. I'm just making you see what your actions can lead to."
A single tear slips down from Dean's moistening eyes leaving behind a wet circle of moisture as it hits the pillow and soaks in, and he scrunches his face up tight, squeezing his eyes closed as he desperately tries to stop the flow of the rest.
He hates this; hates feeling so helpless, hates having his body exposed and toyed with by a stranger, and absolutely despises the fact that his captor has managed to so easily and quickly break through the wall he's worked so hard and long to build.
Whatever his captor has intended he's achieved it tenfold. In the short time Dean has been here he's been raped and violated in a way that only medical professionals would construe as care-giving, and by the end he is unable to withhold a single tear from escaping.
He vows revenge.