Gotta say thanks, once again, for the encouraging reviews and wonderful comments. I love you all. Enjoy...
It takes getting past the initial shock and fear of the trach tube in his throat to realize that he can no longer talk with it in. That really shouldn't surprise him, he knows; it's not as though he was ever able to speak around the tubes when they were threaded down his throat, so sticking them directly inside, through his neck, should be no different. But no matter the reasoning behind why he can't speak, Dean finds that having this one final ability taken away from him really, truly, royally pisses him off. Now he is officially lost in his own mind with no possible way of expressing anything. Facial expressions can only get him so far, and he still has so many questions he wants answered. No; forget wants, he demands to have them answered.
You can't just do this to me without explanation, he thinks miserably, aiming a sour look to the mirror because that's the direction he's facing right now. There's got to be a reason for this. Think, Dean. Damn it, just think! With nothing better to do with his time, Dean starts from the beginning, from waking up in this hell hole, and tries to piece together what the fuck has happened to him.
He knows without a doubt that this is some sort of revenge thing, the voice over the intercom as much as admitted that the first day. And from his most recent revelation, he determines that his captor very likely is permanently in the same boat as Dean currently finds himself in - paralyzed, unable to feel or to move, unable to breathe. For a split second he allows himself to feel sorry for the guy, wondering what it must be like to face this as a permanent reality. Day after day.
But he forces himself to push that out of his thoughts when he, once again, realizes that he still doesn't know the fate of his own future. And if this is permanent for him then he hates this guy that much more. What kind of a sick fuck would purposely inflict this kind of pain on others knowing full well what it's like?
Of one thing Dean is certain, and that is the fact that whoever his captor is must be human, because anything supernatural would have the ability to heal from an injury like this and therefore couldn't possibly be seeking retribution for causing such a thing. But that brings about a whole new set of problems and questions because he can't, for the life of him, remember any human's he's encountered that he caused harm to. Unless of course you counted the Benders, but they're all dead - all except for the daughter - and this voice is very clearly a man's voice. And the dialect is all wrong.
Every human he can think of that he's encountered has been grateful for being saved. He's never gone up against any of the victims, never done much beyond untying them from a pole or patching up a few scratches. And no bar fight has even gone far enough to result in that type of injury. A concussion and one hell of a headache, sure, but never a spinal injury. He's just not that kind of a guy; he's always held back.
So who the hell is doing this to me? And why? He gets a flash of memory returning to him from the road trip into town - or at least he assumes he's in the same town. He knows his breathing would quicken at the onset of this memory if he had any control over his breathing. But instead, he's left to just gauge the sensation in his mind as suddenly he remembers seeing the woman in the middle of the road and the wheels slipping on the rain slicked blacktop. He remembers careening down the side of the hill, trying to stop the car, and finally putting his arms up to shield his face as they hit the tree.
Looking into the mirror once more, he now sees the faint outline of bruises on his forearms from where they slammed into the steering wheel on impact. He hadn't noticed them before now, but reminds himself that he did have more important things to be worried about when he woke up the captive of some crazed lunatic.
Suddenly, as though it's happening all over again, he feels the prick of a needle in his neck. It's the first time he remembers that happening, the needle just after the crash.
He hadn't lost consciousness when they hit, and he remembers his arms screaming out in pain as he looks over to Sam. Sam did get knocked out, and Dean is just reaching over to try to wake him up when he feels the prick of the needle piercing his skin. He immediately draws his hand up to his neck as he spins his head around to come face to face with the same girl who had, just seconds earlier, been standing in the middle of the road. She grins maniacally at him, tossing the syringe off into the underbrush as he reaches for the door handle. Suddenly his hands are more sluggish than usual and he finds he has to try three times before he is able to get a purchase on the metal.
Finally getting the door open, Dean tries to stand, but his legs won't hold, and he ends up falling face first onto the ground as the woman steps back out of his way. He claws his way towards her as the drugs course through his body, slowing his momentum more and more until he can no longer move at all. It's only then that the woman steps back into his line of sight, locking her arms under his armpits and hugging him to her chest as she begins the arduous task of dragging him back up the hillside. His neck is now too weak to support his head and the heavy burden lolls to the side, chin to chest. The only sensation he has anymore is the sound of the quickened breathing of his captor and the sight of the car becoming farther and farther away as his limp form is dragged to a van, hidden in the foliage, at the top of the hillside. He doesn't remember seeing it before careening off the side of the hill, but knows it must have been there because there is no one else around to have driven it here.
He only sees the woman again once he is fully laid out and buckled in the middle seat of her van, and Dean remembers thinking that she's far too small to have been able to drag him all that way without breaking a sweat. And then he loses consciousness as the door closes.
It's a scary realization, remembering what happened to him and knowing that, even then, he was helpless to defend himself. But it helps to know that at least at one point the paralysis he's experiencing was due to a drug injection and not an actual severing of his spinal cord. There's still hope; and he clings to that with everything in him, because he thinks if he can't he very well might lose his sanity. And that wouldn't help a damn thing.
But he still doesn't know why he's here, and that drives him so completely crazy wondering just how long this guy plans to keep him here and what else he plans to do to him.
And then there's still the issue of Sam, because even though he's almost positive that Sam isn't here now, he also knows that someday, somehow, this guy plans to bring Sam into this little plan of his. And what then? How does Dean save the two of them when he can't even save himself? It's enough to send him into a tailspin of worry and panic, and if it weren't for the fact that he suddenly feels so unbearably tired that he can no longer force his eyes open, he would have certainly managed to create himself his very own panic attack. And wouldn't that just be peachy.
Five buildings into the search Sam begins to get really and fully desperate. He was so sure this last warehouse was going to be the place. It is spooky and secluded and seems just the right atmosphere to house a kidnapper - supernatural or otherwise. But after entering, guns drawn, and scouring the whole freaking place from top to bottom, the only thing he has to show for it is a scratched arm from a broken pane of glass and another fifty two minutes wasted.
He looks down at his watch, blinking and squinting as though doing so would make the time backtrack by a few hours. But the time stays the same, nearly four pm, and he sighs wearily as he runs a hand through his shaggy mane and storms back out to Lori Ann's car. She follows him a little more sedately, arms outstretched as she demonstrates her primary concern that he doesn't do a face plant into the gravel. Sam wishes he could hide his haggard appearance from her, and the way he keeps unconsciously grabbing at his ribs. But he knows he's hiding nothing.
Three buildings back he made it clear that the only thing calling him on those actions would do was make him grumpier and more determined than ever to push his body past its breaking point in his search for his brother, and her silence on the matter is the only thing that has made the remainder of the trip bearable.
"Tell me again what you remember from the crash," she prompts when they are both back in the car and driving on to their next destination. "Maybe it will help you to remember something."
Shrugging, Sam begins. He figures it's worth a try. And what else does he have to go on right now? "There was someone standing in the middle of the road, and Dean swerved so he wouldn't hit them. We fishtailed and ended up going over the side of that embankment. He tried to stop; I could see him pumping the breaks like there was no tomorrow, but the ground was too muddy and it didn't do any good. We were coming up on a tree and the next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me there that I was driving and there was no sign of anyone else having been in the car. I don't remember any of that, but I know for sure that I wasn't the one driving. That's all I remember."
"What do you remember about the girl in the road?" Lori Ann encourages. "Do you remember anything about her?"
Sam shakes his head. "It was too overcast to see much, and the rain was coming down in buckets. We barely managed to avoid hitting her in the first place. I think I remember seeing red, but it could have just as easily been pink or purple. I really don't know." Looking out the window, he watches forlornly as they drive through another residential area before they come into the clearing that holds the road to their next stop.
They're headed towards an old, abandoned school that has, for years, been in the middle of a battle over whether or not it should be torn down. Its history keeps it standing although, as they come nearer, Sam begins to realize that nobody is really caring for it anymore. The road they drive down to get to it is long and winding and filled with potholes, and with the tree cover all around he notices that he can't see another house anywhere. When he had seen it on the map he hadn't given it another thought, but now he realizes that this is the perfect place to hole up in. His heart beats faster as the car comes to a stop and he barely takes the time to collect his weaponry before jumping from the vehicle and making his way to the front door. Something tells him that Dean is here. He just knows it; he can feel it. Hang on, Dean, I'm coming.
Lori Ann is right behind him, clutching tightly to the shot gun he has grudgingly allowed her to use, and he turns to her with a finger to his mouth before he peeks into the window of the front door. It's dark inside, the only light coming from the setting sun, and he can make out several shadows cast through broken windows but no sign of anything dangerous.
With a hesitant hand, Sam grips the door handle and pushes. The door opens with a soft creak and he stops, holding his breath for a moment, to make sure no one will come running at that. When he's certain they haven't been heard he steps foot into the building and looks around.
All down the hall, on either side of him, he can see classrooms. Most of the doors are closed and their windows are dusty, but he knows he has to check every last one of them just to be sure. As he looks down to the ground he can make out footprints in the settled dust, and are those tire tracks? Confused, he stoops down to observe more closely, and that's when the thought hits him.
"I never said it was a girl," he says in low tones as he fishes his knife from its ankle holster, gripping it tightly as he prepares to turn around.
"What?" Lori Ann asks, her tone pitched at least an octave higher than he's used to.
"The person in the road. You asked if I could remember anything about her. But I never said it was a girl," he repeats. His heart is racing wildly in his chest as he realizes he's been set up and he spins on his heel, ready to right himself and bring Lori Ann down when he feels the heavy thwack from the butt of his own shotgun being brought down hard against his jaw. He cries out in pain and surprise as the floor comes up to meet him, but it was a good hit and darkness immediately consumes his world.
There seems to be no limit to the torturous measures Dean's captor is willing to go through with him, and just when he thinks the trach is by far the worst thing the man can come up with the zombon is back in his room with what very closely resembles a power screwdriver. What the hell is that for? he wants to ask, but the best he can do is mouth the words while the respirator continues its steady hiss as it breathes for him. Fear clouds his eyes, and he hates the fact that he is allowing himself to be such a baby about this. But what else is he supposed to do? He's at the mercy of his captor and the zombon, and they've done nothing but torture him to the full extent of their abilities since he woke up. This can't be good.
The intercom crackles to life, and once again he hears the voice of his captor come through it, taunting and teasing as it calls upon Dean's present situation. "Breathing any better, Dean?" it laughs, and continues knowing Dean can't answer him. "I bet you'd like to curse me out right about now. You do that so well...well, I should say you did that so well. Having a little trouble talking are we?"
The merciless laugh that comes through the loudspeaker gets to Dean in more ways than he can count and he mouths, Fuck you, to the man even though he knowsit will never be heard.
"No worries, Dean. We'll fix that darn speaking thing soon. But for now, I have a special treat for you."
Dean can almost see the man's evil grin in his mind, knows he taking great pleasure in watching Dean suffer like this, and he knows whatever this treat is can't possibly be good.
He continues with his jovial announcement. "I thought you might like to have that contraption removed," he announces with glee, then turns serious. "Now you have to understand, normally we wouldn't be removing the halo nearly this soon. It's far too early for you to be healed. But it seems as though we'll be having company sooner than I thought, and I want you to look your best for your brother, Dean."
Sam! Sammy? What have you done to him you bastard? Where is he? Dean wants to scream, shout, cry. He really doesn't care what he does as long as it makes a sound. But there's nothing he can do. Sam's here, or at least will be soon, and he still hasn't figured a way out of this yet. What the hell is he supposed to do?
He hears the screwdriver start up, it's grinding whir irritating his senses and he flinches before he even knows what's going to happen. It stops for a second as the zombon approaches and he watches through the mirror as she places the tip of the screwdriver into the head of one of the four screws securing the halo to his head. The machinery starts up again, twisting the screw backwards through the bone and flesh it had originally been screwed into. Dean cries out in silent agony, his mouth twisted into a tortured yowl and his eyes scrunched tightly together. He can't watch.
Feeling the screw pull against healing flesh, once again tearing at the wound in his head, all he can think about is his immense desire to lose consciousness right now. He doesn't know why he should have expected sedation for this when the man hasn't shown mercy on anything else, but he still curses his captor for being so damn savage.
After three screws he throws up, which is terrifying in and of itself. He can feel himself suffocating as the meager contents of his stomach come back up and clog the trach. Some of it makes its way out of his mouth and still more leaches out around the edges of the plastic tubing before he hears the voice order the zombon to stop what she's doing and help him. It seems that this captor is not yet ready for Dean to die.
As though it isn't hard enough to breath with him aspirating into his lungs, Dean now hears the ventilator turn off and the sensation of all air is cut off. He hears another gentle whir as a different motor is turned on and suddenly the zombon is in front of his face, disconnecting the tubing from his trach and shoving a white plastic straw type thing through the hole in his throat as she suctions out the vomit from his trach tube. The sensation of being completely suffocated is overwhelming and yet Dean can do nothing but lay there in pure horror as he silently begs for his air supply to be reconnected. Why are you doing this to me!? I want to live!
Finally the zombon does reattach the tube to his throat and she turns the ventilator back on, and finally he feels the soft whoosh of humid air reentering his lungs. More tears fall from his terrified eyes as he tries desperately to calm himself down. He thinks he sees compassion in her eyes as she lingers for a second to study his complexion, but before he can evaluate what he thinks he's seen she's back up and working on the fourth screw. It's mind over matter, tenfold, as he forces himself not to throw up again. He doesn't want the experience he just had ever again.
At least now, the worst is over. The screws are out and the headpiece is removed. Dean watches the zombon clean him up, simultaneously wiping up the blood and the residual vomit with the same cloth before she slaps a square of gauze to each of the four wounds on his head. The first one is soaked crimson before she has the last done, and Dean knows they should have been stitched first, but what can he do?
"There now, isn't that better?" the voice calls over the intercom. You feel a little freer?" he mocks.
Damn you. The removal of the halo is bittersweet, because it really hasn't provided Dean with any more abilities. He's left with a screaming headache, and a bleeding head, and if anything, he actually feels more helpless because whatever drug they have coursing through his veins has affected his neck enough that he can't hold his head up. So when the zombon returns him to his back a few minutes later his head just flops weakly against the pillow and remains there.
Once again, they leave him alone to dwell in his own thoughts. And all he can think about is the fact that Sam is probably here in the building now, going through god knows what, and Dean has no way of protecting him. He's failed in his duties. He's a horrible big brother.
Sam wakes up to find himself slouched against a small radiator. His hands are tied securely behind his back and attached to one of the pipes, his wrist angry at being twisted into such a painful position. His feet are also tied together, at the ankles, but otherwise free. His head is absolutely killing him and as he moves his jaw about he wonders if it might be broken, cracked for sure. His ribs still scream out in protest to all the torture he's put them through in the last day and he promises that if he gets out of this mess alive he will give himself a full week to heal before making them do anything as strenuous as pick up a pencil.
For a few seconds he's disoriented as his mind and his vision fight over which should come clear first. But suddenly he remembers what has happened and with a gasp he groans, "Lori Ann. Shit."
When no sound or voice greets him he sits up straighter and takes assessment of his surroundings. He's in yet another of the many classrooms in this building, the old chalkboard tells him that much, and the fact that the only windows are small eight inch by two foot rectangles at the very top of the walls suggests that he is in the basement level. Gingerly, he tries to tug at his bindings, but finds the radiator pipe to be extremely secure for it's age and he huffs in irritation.
"I know you're out there!" he bellows, wondering only after he makes the racket if that's the best plan he could have come up with. But it's too late to turn back now, and he wants answers, damn it. For starters, he wants to know why Lori Ann spent all that time helping find Dean if she was behind this thing from the beginning. Damn, she's a good liar. She'd give Dean a run for his money in a competition, and that's saying something.
"Come and show yourself!" he screams again. "Just tell me why!"
And then there's the whole human factor, because even though he'd begun to suspect that what they were dealing with was human, it was still really hard to actually wrap his mind around that fact.
He's got a sinking suspicion that this whole thing was a set up from the very beginning, and he does a mental gosh Sam, aren't you just the genius college boy, for Dean's sake before he gets down to the nitty gritty of trying to break this thing down. He doesn't recognize Lori Ann at all, although more and more he's beginning to think she holds similarities to the woman standing in the road. But the fact that he doesn't recognize her, doesn't know her from a previous hunt or a bar fight gone bad, or any other number of situations in his life only tells him one of two things. Either he's not thinking hard enough, or she's only from Dean's past and he's just being used as a pawn. Doesn't matter which of the two factors it is, all it boils down to is that they're both screwed if he can't figure a way out of his bindings.
He's hoarse by the time anyone comes for him, and when they do it's not Lori Ann. It's some other girl dressed in a nurses uniform, and he immediately recognizes her as one of the two nurses who were taken. Without looking at him she crosses the room hastily. She's got a glass of water in her hand, with a straw floating around the top and she sets it down beside him wordlessly before standing back up and heading out the door.
"Wait," Sam calls after her. "Please, I just want answers." But she continues out the door as though she's never even heard him.
He's left alone again, and he leans over, straining at his bindings to get a good drink of the water. He sucks the warm, metallic fluid all down in just a matter of seconds, and then sits back up. Back against the wall, he continues to mess with his bindings, realizing that if he could just get the knot to move a half an inch over he might be able to get his fingers around it well enough that he could untie it. But the knots are done up tight and well made, and there's really no way he can possibly get them undone. But he's got nothing but time, and nothing to do but to keep trying, and he figures at some point he just might catch a lucky break.
Time seems obsolete as he sits on the floor, drowning in doubt and self pity. It could be hours later, or just a few minutes - he really doesn't know - when Sam hears the footsteps tapping down the hallway on their way to his room. A sense of foreboding fills him, and he gulps down a huge knot in his throat as he waits for his streak of bad luck to continue.