Thanks again for reading. I know it's darker and more creepy than my normal work. I appreciate all who are managing to stomach this! And remember, reviews are the only thing that feeds the muse. Thanks tons...

Sam is fast asleep at seven the next morning, finally having succumbed to unconsciousness two hours earlier, when Lori Ann starts pounding on the door of his motel room. He wipes a hand groggily across his eyes as he drags himself painfully from the bed. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he pulls a t-shirt on over his bruised, muscular chest so he isn't just in his boxer briefs when he wrenches open the door. Lori Ann is mid knock and barely manages to draw her hand back and keep from pounding her fist against Sam's forehead, but he hardly notices this as he ushers her inside.

"What did you find out?" he demands. There is no time for formalities.

Lori Ann seems to recognize this and she doesn't waste time filling him in. "It's a neuromuscular blocking drug used in surgeries. He would have been completely paralyzed less than ninety seconds after injection." She sounds apologetic, no doubt considering what Sam had said about how strong his brother was and how much it would have taken to subdue him.

"He had no way to protect himself," Sam says distantly, realizing just how horrible a way that must have been for Dean to be taken. "And I was just passed out to the world. I could have helped him."

"There was nothing you could have done," Lori Ann assures Sam. "It was a car accident. It's not like you tried to knock yourself out."

"You don't understand," Sam argues, abruptly crossing the room to where his duffel bag is and begins grabbing clothing from it. "My brother and I - we look out for each other. We're all each other has. I should have been there for him." He jerks a shirt on over the t-shirt he's already wearing and pulls a pair of jeans over his boxers, not really caring about whether what he's wearing is clean or not. He's been sitting on his ass for far too long.

"We've got to find him," Sam insists. "Please, think about this. You work in the hospital. What do you know about those other missing persons? Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?" Desperation infiltrates his voice and his expression and Lori Ann wilts at that.

She really seems to give it some thought, quietly muttering to herself as she recounts what she's heard when each of the three employees went missing. But the majority of what she knows is just heresay, she admits to Sam with eyes downcast. "I'm sorry Sam, really all I know is what's been in the news. Two nurses and a doctor, all female, all from the neuro- wing. I don't work up there, so I didn't know any of them well; just in passing, really."

Sam's ears perk up. "You said they're all from neurology. And that drug Dean was injected with is some neuromuscular drug. That could be a link," he says hopefully.

Lori Ann nods hesitantly, but she doesn't seem all that set on the possibility. "It's used in just about any surgery they do in the hospital. At least the long ones - it's a long acting drug. So it doesn't necessarily mean anything. I'm sorry, Sam."

"How about finger prints?" he asks, sliding in front of his laptop for a little more research based on what he's been told so far. It isn't much, but it's more than he had last night when he was doing research and it's worth another look before he starts driving aimlessly through the town in search of leads.

Shaking her head, Lori Ann perches on the bed, peering over Sam's shoulder to see what he's searching for. "I'm sorry Sam, our lab isn't equipped for forensics. They didn't even think to look for fingerprints...and to be honest with you, neither did I."

"Shit." Sam pounds his fist on the wooden desktop in frustration. "I should have said something to you earlier. I should have told you to get fingerprints." Damn it, Sam, get your head in the game. Dean needs you!

Fingers flying over the keyboard, Sam pops in every key word he can think of to link supernatural elements with drugs and even goes so far as to escape from the supernatural and assume maybe it's just a person doing all this. Maybe this isn't their kind of hunt at all, and he and Dean just walked needlessly into the mix. Maybe Dean didn't have to be taken. But his search comes up empty with everything he can think to cross link, and forty-five minutes later he feels more desperate and empty than ever.

"We'll find him," Lori Ann whispers, squeezing Sam's shoulder tightly. "We'll figure something out. You'll see your brother again."

Slamming the computer shut, Sam rises again. He's already forgotten about his own injuries, although his body hasn't, and he winces noticeably with the hurried motions. Lori Ann is at his side in an instant.

"You're still not healed," she berates gently, trying to get him to slow down. "Please, Sam, just take it easy."

Sam twists his arm out from her grip, flailing it wildly behind him. "Don't tell me to take it easy!" he shouts. "My brother is out there! Some sicko has him somewhere and I can't take it easy until I find him and get him back. My pain doesn't matter right now!"

Lori Ann flinches and backs off. "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't imagine what you're–"

"I don't need you to!" he interrupts. "And I don't want you to. I just want you to back off. I appreciate your help and all, but if all you're gonna be doing is telling me to slow down then you can just leave."

Gulping, she nods her acceptance to the terms. "I'll back off," Lori Ann assures Sam. "But I still want to help."

"Fine. Let's go then." Sam grabs his gear from the floor, slinging the bag over his shoulder and ignoring his protesting ribs as he storms out the door.

"Where are we going?" Lori Ann calls out, rushing after him to her car.

"The police station. I need to see their reports."

There's plenty of time to think about his revenge as Dean really has nothing to do but think at this point. He comes up with all sorts of cruel, evil, vicious ideas that he can use to carry out his retaliation on his captor when they finally come face to face. But he always returns to the same question, over and over again. Will I ever be able to move again to exact my revenge?

But no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he just doesn't know the answer. Because he has yet to get a straight answer out of the man about what he's done to Dean and how. Without being able to feel anything, Dean doesn't know if his spinal cord has been sliced in half or if the man is just somehow messing with his mind. Right now, though, it really doesn't matter because either way he can't move a fucking thing and he has no idea how, or even if, he ever will again.

He thinks the suppository up his ass is by far the cruelest thing the man could have come up with, because what could possibly be worse than having some chick stick a capsule up there and then stand and watch as it makes you take a shit. He'd heard it and smelled it, but couldn't feel it, and the longer it went on the hotter his face became and the more his tears streamed. And the icing on the cake had been when she then cleaned him up, wiping every last bit of excrement from his numb ass before turning him onto his back again and leaving him alone in the room with his thoughts.

But along with the thoughts of the last several hours? days? comes a new realization; one he isn't sure whether or not he's only now noticing because it's just started happening, or if he's just been too engrossed in other things to notice before now. As he lays there, he starts to notice he isn't breathing as well as he would like. Pulling air in is a challenge he's not used to facing, not used to being so difficult, and he realizes each intake is accompanied by a slight wheeze. He wonders just how tight his chest really is, how sore his lungs must be, but of course he can't actually feel that because it's below his line of sensation.

It isn't long after this realization that the intercom springs to life once again and his eyes instinctively flit around their range of sight, still searching for a source. "How are you doing after your morning routine?"

Dean bites back a 'fuck you' this time, afraid to anger the man before he gets some answers. "How long have I been here?" he demands breathlessly. Nope, the breathing thing must have just started. He knows his words held more power before this.

For once, he receives what sounds like an honest reply. "Counting the time you were asleep, two days."

Two days. Two days of this shit and he already feels like he's about to go completely and utterly insane. He knows he'll never survive a lifetime of this, and not for the first time, finds himself praying the paralysis isn't permanent. He pushes himself to remain rational. He has to keep himself sane, if for no other reason than to piss this guy off royally. "Am I...paralyzed?" he demands to know.

The voice laughs, humorless. "What do you think, Dean? You're the one lying there in the bed. Can you move?"

Fuck you! God damn it, FUCK YOU! Dean bites down hard on his tongue, forcibly reminding himself that all he has is his mind right now. He has to know. "I mean permanently," he clarifies. "Have you...done something to me?" Damn his lungs. Why can't he catch his breath anymore? What the hell?

"Ahhh, the million dollar question. Is it permanent? Will I ever walk again? Will I ever feel again? What every quadriplegic wants to know and every doctor doesn't want to answer. I think we'll wait on that one for a while."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut once more, pushing more tears from invading the calm facade he's managed to create. It's impossible to channel the energy and the need for a fight into matching the voice head on in these mind games. He was never the brain - that was Sammy's area. If all he's ever going to have again is his brain he doesn't think he's going to make it very far.

"What do you–" he gasps, "plan to do – to me?" he asks, trying to ignore the fact that his last question remains unanswered. Breathing is getting harder, and he wonders if maybe he should say something to his captor, wonders if maybe he would send the zombon in to perform some more procedures on him, decides he really doesn't want to risk what could come next.

"I'm doing it already," the voice announces, pleased with itself. "This is my plan. And if I'm not mistaken, I'd say the next part will fall into place very soon. How's your breathing, Dean?"

Dean's eyes widen, although he really shouldn't be as shocked as he is. Of course the man had something to do with his breathing problems. "What's happening to me?" he demands, struggling harder to gain a complete breath.

"Exactly what you think, Dean. Although, most people who wake up like this already can't breathe on their own. I figured you would appreciate the luxury of knowing you're losing your lung power. It seemed more...suitable." Another sucking whoosh. "Now tell me, Dean, how difficult is that breathing of yours?"

"Fuck you!" Dean finally spits out, unable to hold back his anger any longer. In his mind, he's jumping from the table and lunging at the source of the voice, at this point a still faceless, forceless outline. It's getting more and more infuriating trying to get used to this new prone position, and now he has to add his breathing troubles to the list. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to compensate for the suffocating feeling he's experiencing and ends up no better off than he was before he took the breath.

"No," the voice replies jovially. "I'm not the one who's fucked right now. I think that would be you. But I can help you if you ask nicely."

Dean refuses to beg, and the daggers shooting from his eyes announce that better than anything he could have said. Not that he really has that choice anymore. There is no longer any power to his voice, nothing to back up the anger and hatred coursing through his veins, and it's really all he can do to keep a steady stream of air flowing into his lungs to worry about talking to the man anymore.

The door creaks open behind his head, and Dean knows the zombon is now entering the room. He feels a sense of relief, knowing, believing, that it has been sent in to help him with his breathing. For a few seconds he actually believes that he feels his breathing getting better, evening out, but the sensation is fleeting and soon he's back to gasping for air.

"Say please," the voice sings out, taunting him evilly. "Just say please for me, Dean, and all your troubles will go away."

"I'm fine," Dean grits out. Gasping in another gulp of stagnant cellar air, he bites his lip hard, knowing it's turning blue even though he can't see it. Hell will freeze over before he asks politely for anything from this mother fucker. He can be strong. He can fight the pull of oxygen leaving his body and refusing to return.

And then hell freezes over. Because a switch flips in Dean's brain and he realizes he's going to die if he doesn't get help soon.

He's okay with dying, especially in his current state. But he doesn't know where Sam is, or what condition he's in, and Dean knows he can't die not knowing if Sam is alive or dead. As long as there's breath in my body I will protect you, Sammy, he had assured his brother when the threat of the yellow eyed demon seemed at its worst. And that promise extended beyond the threats of just that demon - that promise covered every possible threat his brother could possibly encounter.

So Dean has to live. For Sammy. And if living means begging for his life then he will close his eyes and plead, and just hope it doesn't come back to bite him in the ass.

Closing his eyes, he lets one tear squeeze through; because if he's going to be weak and give in to the man's powers he might as well give it his all, right? "Please help me," Dean finally gasps out when he fears he might not have another breath left in his body. Somehow he manages to take in another and another, albeit very short breath, but he knows the end is near.

"As you wish," the voice agrees, pleased with itself for eliciting a plea from the great Dean Winchester himself. And damn it, there's that sucking whoosh sound again. What the hell is that?

Dean opens his eyes again, still struggling for breath, but now assured that he'll breath again very soon. But soon, he immediately finds out, isn't all that it's cracked up to be, and he really isn't sure what to make of the solution the voice has come up with, but he knows it's totally fucked up on so many levels just as well as he knows he has no chance of getting away.

"Nooo!" he forces out in a harsh whisper, using the last of the little bit of air he has left, and the zombon halts in mid air, holding the scalpel just above his throat.

Sam has to laugh as Lori Ann's eyes widen when he pulls out the cache of fake badges and ID's, selecting an appropriate one and popping it in his breast pocket. But he has to give her credit for not saying anything about it. She could just as easily hightail it into the police station and turn him in as a lunatic escaped from the funny farm. But instead, she squares her shoulders, stands up taller, and follows Sam into the police station as though she's been lying to the cops her entire life.

Flashing his PI's badge quickly, so the desk clerk can only make out the general outline without time for scrutiny, he tells the clerk that he's been hired by one of the families of the kidnapped victims and that he would like to see everything they have on the case. The clerk, who looks barely out of diapers, eyes Sam curiously, cautiously, for several seconds before picking up the phone to call someone to take them back to the evidence room.

Sam really can't help but roll his eyes as he follows the second officer down the hallway to where they have all the information laid out for the case. Stupid podunk cops. Don't have to show a PI squat if you don't want to. But entering the station he had known that a PI would get a better response than FBI or a cop from some neighboring town. PI's were less threatening, and there wasn't anything small town cops hated more than to feel as though their territory was being overrun by the higher-ups.

Flipping through the information, Sam soaks up everything he can, making notes where he feels appropriate. The officers have narrowed the location of the kidnapper down to only one quadrant of the town, which helps immensely, but not enough to leave Sam feeling really confident that he will find Dean any faster. There have been no ransom demands and the police are beginning to think less and less that they will bring the three women back alive. Which, of course, makes Sam wonder if he will be bringing Dean back alive either.

But a part of him doesn't understand what the point is of staging an accident, drugging his brother, and dragging him off to wherever if the culprit didn't want him for some reason. And he really, honestly, truly believes that this is supernatural in its roots, which means the victims are probably either possessed right now or ritual sacrifices. Either way, he thinks he still might have a chance. He hopes he still has a chance.

"I need a map of the city," Sam announces when he's done looking at the information the cops have gathered, limited as it may be. It needs to have buildings on it, in addition to everything else. I need to know what's around in the area they think this guy is hiding out."

The cop assisting him rises quickly, eager to help. Sam can tell the man is hoping Sam might figure something out and inadvertently divulge his suspicions. Clearly, the man is hoping to be able to pass off the 'big break' as his own and get the credit for it. Of course, Sam is more than willing to let him take the credit, but not until after Dean is safely removed from danger. Then he will all too willingly place an anonymous phone call specifically to Ranger Rick over here in the station telling him where to look for the culprit. That is, of course, if there's anyone left to find.

Sam scans the map carefully, taking note of every house, office building, warehouse, any place that can potentially be housing their suspect. He pretty much rejects the idea that he/she/it is hiding in any of the active commercial sites, and the majority of the residential areas seem just too closely grouped together to house any type of dangerous kidnapper, supernatural or otherwise. Which just leaves the abandoned buildings in the area. There are seven of them that Sam can count, and with an average of half an hour at the minimum to cover each building and drive to the next one Sam realizes he needs to get a move on. The longer he waits, the less chance he has to get Dean out alive.

"All right," Sam says, standing up and motioning Lori Ann to follow. He looks to the cop with a grim smile. "Thanks so much for your help. I'll be in touch if I find anything."

"Glad I could help," the man says, shaking Sam's hand as he leads them back out into the main lobby. "And we'd appreciate anything you can do in return. Good luck with your search."

"Thanks."

Lori Ann waits just long enough for the two of them to climb into the car before asking, "So where are we going? Any thoughts?"

Sam nods and directs her to the first of the seven buildings. There's nothing that specifically stands out about any one of them, so his only plan is to start at the beginning and work his way back in a direct route. The less ground they have to cover from building to building the better.

Dean swallows convulsively, trying to subdue the panic that's consuming him, trying to force his fast failing lungs to draw in a breath. He knows this isn't right. Knows that it doesn't take a scalpel to help him to breathe. That's just totally screwed up. All he needs is one of those little rubber tubing things shoved up his nose, or a face mask. He can breathe with just a little bit of assistance. He doesn't need anything drastic. He's sure of that.

"Dean," the voice reprimands. "She can't help you breathe if you resist her. Do you want to suffocate?"

No, fuck you very much. But what the hell does she think she's doing? His eyes grow wet with tears as he continues to understand just how screwed he really is. He can't do anything; has no way of defending himself; and there's some possessed zombie chick standing over his neck with a scalpel. Just how much worse can this get?

"Dean, do you want her to help you breathe?" the voice repeats, firmer this time and leaving no room for argument. "You have to the count of ten to make your decision. You let her help, or you suffocate. One..."

Shit. Shit. Shit. What the hell am I supposed to do? "What's she – gonna –" he stops to wheeze, taking in several ragged breaths before he forces himself to continue, "do to – me?"

"She's going to help you breathe, Dean," is the answer. And thank you Sherlock Holmes for clearing that right up for me. "Three...Four...what's it going to be Dean? ...six..."

He realizes he's going to die if he doesn't do something. Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. It's the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Dean finally accepts that there really is only one option. The known is that he's slowly suffocating to death and if he continues to go at this pace he won't live long enough to know what the hell this whole situation is all about. The unknown is what's going to happen with that scalpel the zombon is holding. There's no way to know if the outcome will be good or not. But it's a chance he has to take. He has no other choice.

"...nine...De-an..."

"Do it," he rasps, gasping for air now.

He has nothing left with which to speak and he leaves it at that as he watches the knife begin to lower again toward his throat. But this still isn't right. There should be sedatives and anesthetics. He shouldn't be awake for this – this surgery. And yet he is...very much awake. And if he could have, he would have cried out in pain as the zombon makes her incision into his throat. The pain is unbearable; a combination of a choking sensation and a stab. He wants to gag. Wants nothing more than to throw up. But he doesn't dare for fear his captor may just have him left on his back as he is and he could aspirate back into his own lungs.

He feels the sensation of warm blood trickling down his throat and then feels the zombon wipe it away with a cloth before reaching for a plastic tube like thing and shoves it into the hole in his windpipe. Tears come to his eyes in an unbidden outpouring of pain and fear and anger, and he wants to squeeze them shut to stop the wetness from getting through, but doesn't trust himself not to watch. He can't see much, but he doesn't want to miss anything he can. It's his only chance at getting out of here.

Another tube, this one longer and more pliable, is threaded through the first tube and he can feel it for as far as his neck touches his shoulders, but from there he has no idea just how far it goes into his esophagus, or even if it does go any farther. But right now none of that matters, because he still can't breath and his brain is starting to get all foggy and his vision is spotty and he thinks that if something isn't done soon to help his breathing, consenting to all this may have been in vain.

"You're doing fine, Dean. Just fine." For once the voice comes off as compassionate, but Dean knows even that is simply fine-tuned mocking at its best. He would glare at the man if he wasn't about to pass out from oxygen deprivation. But for now he'll just have to settle for thinking hateful thoughts.

Dean doesn't know how long it is before he feels the precious sensation of air filling his lungs again. He knows he passed out at some point because when he opens his eyes again things are not as he remembers them to be. The zombon is gone once again and he's back on his side with the mirror set up in front of him so he can see just what was done to provide him with air. He's disgusted and terrified and furious at the sight in front of him, completely unsure which emotion is best to deal with first.

A tube has actually been placed inside his throat, just below his adams apple, to help him breath. It's held in place by a thin strip of what looks like felt and velcro, wrapped all the way around his neck, and the white tube inside is attached to the familiar blue accordion tubing of a ventilator. He's knows ventilators. He's been on one twice before in his life. Sam, once. But never like this. Never with the tube actually sliced into the base of his throat. And never did it hurt so much to be on one. God it hurts, where the tube is holding the incision open. Every move he takes, every convulsion of his throat, not that he has much opportunity to move, but somehow he's managing to find a way.

In the past, he's woken up fighting the ventilators as his own strengthening lungs vied for their own time to breathe as the machines still insisted on pushing their own source of air into the lungs. He hated that sensation and the feel of the tube jammed down his throat and the scratchiness it left behind once it was removed. Never did he believe he would actually miss those sensations, but this new form of ventilation is making those feelings a reality. And it scares him that he isn't fighting the machine right now. He's helpless to do anything more than lie there and allow the machine to inflate and deflate his lungs in it's all too steady motion.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. Trying to make the image change. Wishing that somehow this is all a horrible, twisted, fucked up nightmare and any minute now Sam will be shaking him awake with those worried puppy dog eyes he's so good at conjuring up, and going all emo on him as he begs Dean to open up and share his feelings. And maybe this time he will, because he knows he'll be damn happy to be awake again after this hell of a nightmare. Maybe he'll even swear off the tequila, because heaven knows that stuff will give you some crazy ass nightmares, and that must be what's causing this.

But it doesn't matter how many times he blinks and tries to rid himself of the vision in front of him because this is real, and it's not going away, and he still has no clue where the hell Sam is or if he's looking for him or if he's even okay. He tries not to think about the possibility that Sam is going through the same torturous hell that he is, because that would just be unbearable.

He doesn't like being helpless, more like despises it with every last fiber of his being, but knowing Sammy is dealing with this and he's incapable of stopping it is more than he can handle right now on the limited supply of nerves that he's got left. So he pushes it to the farthest regions of his mind and convinces himself that Sam is fine. His captor had promised that he would know when Sam was here, and somehow he believes the man.

It's a split instant when his hearing comes back to him, or at least when he registers what he's hearing because he really doesn't think he had ever actually lost his hearing in the first place. But suddenly he finds himself surrounded in sounds.

They have a heart monitor on him now, and he focuses in on the small round electrodes pressed against his tanned chest and the steady beeping as the machine registers his heart beat. And he hears the ventilator whooshing. That sucking whoosh that he's been hearing over the intercom ever since he woke up in this god-forsaken place. Realizes that he did know that sound; had heard it before. He just hadn't really put two and two together, because how could he possibly have been captured by the man if...

Suddenly he realizes that he now knows something about his captor, realizes that his captor is playing out his own shortcomings on Dean. He doesn't know what this new realization means for himself, but it's something. Something to latch onto.