Hey all - I just want to thank everyone of you who has taken the time to read and review this story. However, I'm not too proud to beg for more. I'm really eager to hear from more of you! Please send me your reviews. Thanks, guys. Here's the next chapter.
He's not left alone for long this time; maybe a half hour at the most. But with his emotions running rampant at this point, it's all Dean can do to keep from crying when the zombon returns once again to his room, certain that her return can't mean anything good. He hates himself for wanting to cry so bad, for letting his emotions control him the way they have. He hates himself for allowing the capture to occur in the first place; hates himself for not figuring a way out of this yet. And he absolutely despises himself for not figuring something out before Sam was dragged into this.
Inwardly cringing at the sight of the zombon returning so soon, Dean can't shake the fear that she's returned for yet another bout of torture. He doesn't know what to make of the monstrous contraption she drags in with her, unable to see much of it from his prone position on the bed. He can hear the mechanical whir and the soft clunk as it hits the doorframe, and he knows it must be heavy because she's dragging it instead of carrying it.
She stops, releases what she's pulling, and crosses the remaining distance to Dean's bed, leaning over him as she places her hands on either side of his face and corrects the angle of his head so it's straight on the pillow instead of hanging awkwardly off to the side. Not for the first time, Dean thinks he sees a flash of sympathy, of compassion, in the zombon's expression. But it passes quickly, and soon her eyes are as lifeless and devoid of emotion as they have always been. Did he imagine the emotion? Is he literally starting to go crazy from being locked in his own body for so long?
And then pushes it from his mind before he can allow the fear to consume him. "Let's get you talking again." Dean blinks, somehow surprised to hear the voice come back over the intercom, although he's not sure why it surprises him so much. The voice is never far behind when the zombon enters the room. And maybe it's not so much that he's surprised at the voice so much as he's surprised at what the voice has to say.
Talking? He's gonna help me to talk again? Why? Dean can't help but be suspicious. Even he knows that the stream of words coming from his mouth had been heavy with threats and expletives. He's had nothing constructive to say to his captor, and the guy has clearly been annoyed at hearing Dean's voice. But he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he figures that learning how to talk again can't possibly be as difficult or painful as having a trach tube sliced into his throat or having 4 screws that have melded with bone and flesh be unscrewed from his head, neither one with anesthesia.
He waits, none too patiently, as the zombon raises the head of his bed up and messes with the tube in his throat for a few minutes, preparing whatever it is that's supposed to help him talk. The pull against his still tender throat is painful, but not nearly as bad as the initial cutting was. His head flops weightlessly against the pillow more than once as she does her stuff, but each time, she readjusts his head to a straight up and down position. Finally, he feels a wisp of air rushing back up through his throat and against his vocal cords and the zombon backs off a few inches as the voice of his captor returns.
"Talk in your exhale and you should be able to speak again," it offers as a means of explanation.
Dean hesitates, suddenly certain this is some kind of trick. He half expects laughter to pour from the voice when he tries to talk and fails miserably, discovering he was never supposed to talk in the first place. He has never heard of anyone being able to talk on a ventilator; he's certainly never managed to do so in the past, and lord knows he's tried. But then again, he's never had the tube shoved through a hole sliced into his neck either. So maybe...
He finally decides to try, concentrating on the feel of the air swirling around his vocal cords, preparing himself for the exhale, and succeeds on the first try. "You son of a–" he's cut off as the air flow stops so the vent can perform another inhale of air into his lungs and he grimaces at the lack of strength behind his words. But he's ready for the next exhale and finishes his thought with as much force as he can muster. "...bitch!"
The voice laughs sardonically. "I expected more out of your first words."
"Like what?" Dean growls when the air comes back up his windpipe again. He feels his head slipping once again and tries desperately to pull it back up and give him more physical power backing his words, but his neck refuses to cooperate and he finds himself lying like some child's floppy teddy bear as he tries to figure out a way out of this nightmare.
"A thank you would be a good start," the voice taunts, once again sing-songing it's way through the request.
If Dean had the strength to spit at the bodiless voice he would have, but as it is, all he can do is snap back, "You deserve to–" A breath. "– rot in hell."
More wicked laughter sounds through the intercom and Dean flinches as he hears the despise in the voice coming through. "Oh, I'm already in hell, Dean. And you put me here."
Who the fuck are you?! Dean screams in his head once again. And what the hell did I do to you to make you hate me this much?! But Dean's finally come to terms with the fact that he isn't going to be getting answers before this guy is ready to give them. And he's tired of feeding the fuel as he asks over and over again who, what, and why. So he just keeps his mouth shut and waits for the next step.
Apparently disappointed that Dean is no longer baiting him, the laughter slowly dies down and the voice returns to it's serious tone. "Proceed, woman," he orders, and the zombon once again animates, dragging her load closer still to Dean until it is sitting beside the bed.
With his head hanging limply off the pillow, turned towards the new equipment, Dean can now see it's some sort of high tech wheelchair, and he's immediately frantic to know what is to come next. His eyes widen as he takes in the view. On the seat of the chair is a stack of clothing, the same clothing that he had been wearing the day of the accident, and the zombon retrieves the top layer. She snaps it loudly in the air, airing out the still dirty shirt and revealing the dried blood stains that haven't been washed out.
Gentle, yet strong, hands reach out and pull Dean forward a bit, leaning him against her chest as she pulls the shirt over his head before leaning him back against the bed. Any other day, any other situation, Dean would have been thrilled to be planted face-first into some woman's chest. Even now a thousand comments filter through his mind, but thinking them and saying them are two completely different actions. Thinking is ingrained, primal. Speaking it, he just doesn't have the desire.
Without warning, she reaches out and unhooks the ventilator, leaving him choking and gagging for air that refuses to come as she pulls the shirt over the equipment in his throat and then reattaches the tube. Relieved, Dean relishes in the fresh supply of air, wishing the machine had an automatic gasping function to bring in extra large bursts of air like a normal lung would do after having been deprived of oxygen for any great length of time.
All obvious issues aside, it's not nearly as bad having the remainder of his clothes dragged onto his limp body, but Dean does find himself more than disgusted when she tapes his colostomy bag to his calf, realizing there's nothing more than a thin layer of plastic protecting him from being doused in his own piss.
But all in all, Dean does feel comfortable now that he's dressed, instead of lying around in all his naked glory. Yet it's a bittersweet victory.
He's unprepared for what comes next, although he figures he should have expected it. But he still finds himself feeling significantly humiliated as this little pipsqueak of a thing - ok, so she's only a couple inches shy of six feet and clearly has some muscle build up; but she's a woman for god's sake - hooks her arms under his armpits and lifts him bodily from the bed, sliding him into the waiting wheelchair as his uncooperative limps flop lifelessly behind him.
She lets him go while she turns to adjust something on the ventilator, and for a second, Dean can feel himself falling, his body ready to do a face plant, and it terrifies him to know that there isn't one damn thing he can do about it. At the last minute, the zombon turns back to him, stoops down and pulls his torso back up, fitting him squarely in the chair as she does up a seatbelt across his chest, strapping him in. She does the same for his head, lifting the heavy encumberment from it's position flopped against his chest, and strapping it to a headrest. His hands are crossed and rested in his lap, and his feet are strapped to the footrests. To his surprise, the zombon removes the IV from his hand, capping off the port, before resting the ventilator on a shelf at the back of the chair and pushing him from the room as he wonders where the hell they're going. What the hell is next?
Lori Ann leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely as she studies Sam. He's intent on freeing himself from his bonds; so much so that he doesn't notice her standing there for several minutes. She finally clears her throat and his head snaps back up as though someone's just released a stretched rubberband in his neck.
He knows she expects fear. Dread. Intimidation, at least. But instead, all Sam gives her is hatred shining through his dark eyes. "Where the hell is my brother?" he demands before issuing any concern for himself.
A wicked smile crosses Lori Ann's face, lingering there for many seconds before she decides to grace Sam with a response. "Nearby." It's not what he wants, but it will have to do right now. At least it means she's willing to talk. That's better than he's gotten from the majority of their hunts.
"What have you done to him? Is he safe?" There's a hint of worry in his voice, but Sam manages to cover the tone with a death ray stare, and Lori Ann noticeably shudders just a touch.
Sam feels a sense of power as he realizes that, even tied up and beat to a pulp, he still manages to give off a slightly dangerous vibe. He just wishes he physically had the power that he seems to give off mentally.
"He's alive," Lori Ann allows, removing her arms from their position against her chest and lowering them to clasp behind her back as she casually crosses the room, observing everything in the room except for Sam. "You'll see him soon."
Sam tries again, desperate for answers. "What do you want from us? What do you want from Dean?"
"You'll see," she replies calmly, continuing to traipse across the room as though it were nothing more than her own personal playground.
"Damn it, Lori Ann, I'm just asking for a straight answer!" Sam finally screams, unable to control his temper any longer. "You've already got me tied to a fucking pipe while my brother is god knows where. Shit, just give me something!"
She grins suggestively, shaking her head in disappointment. "I expected more from you, Sam," she scolds. "I figured it would take at least, oh..." she looks at her watch pointedly before returning her stare to Sam. "...Another couple of hours before you started yelling in desperation. I thought you were stronger than that."
Sam feels himself begin to tremble with fury and his fists clench tightly, trying to dispel the anger that has nowhere to go, no way to be released but through his words. He glares at the woman whom he'd grown to trust so quickly, hating himself for not seeing that she was one of the bad guys. How could I have been so naive? How did I miss something so big? So important as the fact that she was the enemy?
He pleads with himself to calm down and think about the situation from all angles, stepping back to figure out how he should approach this. When he speaks again, he's quiet, rational, pleading. "I just need to know something. I just need to know why."
Across the room from Sam, Lori Ann sighs sadly and sinks down to the ground against the wall, her knees bending and ending up pulled against her chest. She watches from afar for a bit and finally a flash of recognition crosses her expression. "I know what it's like to be afraid for someone you care for," she finally says, her words soft and sad. She stops for a minute, as though she's unsure why she's decided all of a sudden to open up. But something keeps her going and Sam leans back to listen, stymied by her sudden turn of attitude.
"I know how it feels to feel so utterly helpless and useless, to feel as though your hands are totally tied. It sucks."
Sam nods his agreement, too afraid to speak for fear that her decision to open up may be short lived. She's speaking the story of his life.
Lori Ann sees Sam nod and a half smile plays across her mouth as she shares her burden with her captive. But then her eyes harden a bit and she cocks her head to the side, suddenly remembering why she's here; what her mission is. Suddenly she remembers that she doesn't have to keep pretending as though she cares about Sam and his well-being. She remembers the plan.
"Your brother is the reason why I know that pain," she glowers. "And he's the reason why my boyfriend knows pain. Your brother ruined our lives." Suddenly she's back on her feet again, pacing roughly across the old painted concrete floor.
"He...he what?" Sam stammers, unsure how to take her unexpected rampage. He finds himself wondering if she's mental, bi-polar maybe, and then realizes that it doesn't much matter right now. He doesn't want to believe it; doesn't believe it. Dean helps people; he doesn't ruin lives, he saves them. There's got to be more to her story than what meets the eye.
"You heard me!" Lori Ann screams frantically. "Your brother ruined Adam's life. He ruined my life. He messed with things he knew nothing about and he totally destroyed everything!"
Sam's more confused than ever now, and he doesn't have a clue what he can say, what he can ask, to get the answers he needs. But he's desperate. And at this time, he really doesn't have much to lose. So he asks.
"What...exactly...did he do to you? To your boyfriend?"
She sneers, crossing the room in three long strides and grabs Sam's chin roughly in her hand and practically spits as she hisses out her answer. "He took everything away from Adam. He took away the one thing that could make us happy."
If the situation wasn't so dire, Sam would groan and roll his eyes. Has this raving chick never heard of a straight answer? But instead of tempting fate, Sam ignores her blatant skirting of a direct answer and goes for a different tactic. Instead of asking what has been done to her, he decides to ask what she has done. Maybe pride will get him the answers he needs.
"Are you really a nurse?" He starts simple, struggling against her tight grip even as he tries to keep his voice level.
She bites. "That part is true. But I wasn't coming from work when I picked you up. I'd been following you since you left the hospital. I was hoping you'd pull some stupid stunt like that; made my job so much easier."
"So you had this whole thing planned," he continues. "Right from the get go."
Laughing, she finally releases his chin with a mighty jerk, sneering menacingly. "Boy, Stanford sure did well to get a genius like you on their campus. Nothing gets by you, does it?
Sam ignores the remark, refusing to let her get to him. "And it was you in the middle of the road? The girl we almost hit?" He already knows the answer to this one, but want's to hear her say it. Want's the confirmation.
She nods, proud even. "It was so easy I could have done it in my sleep," she brags. "You knocked yourself out in the car, so I didn't even have to worry about getting you out of the picture. And Dean was so groggy when the car first stopped, he didn't even hear me approach and reach in the broken window to inject him. Then I just had to wait for the medication to do its job."
"You actually managed to drag my brother up that hill? All by yourself?"
"I'm stronger than I look. It really isn't that hard once you know how to do it."
There's still something nagging at the back of Sam's mind, over and above the obvious 'why is this happening in the first place, and he poses the question hopefully, figuring this is something that might actually explain the situation. "Why didn't you just take us both when you had us in the car? Why did you play me for two days before bringing me here? What's the point?"
Conjuring up a wicked smile, Lori Ann stops and fixes Sam with an eerie gaze that makes his blood run cold. "Because I wanted you to know what it feels like to be so helpless. I wanted you to feel the fear of not being able to help someone you love. Because you aren't blameless in all this, Sam Winchester."
It's the last thing he hears as he suddenly spots the pipe she's had hidden behind her come crashing toward him, slamming into his head and causing blinding pain to consume him for a second before he's enveloped once again in blackness.
The room Dean is brought into is huge, and he can hear the zombon's footsteps echo in the vast emptiness of what must have once been a cafeteria. There are no tables left behind, but across the room he can see the buffets built into the walls and the large, paneless windows that one time probably separated the lunch ladies from the students. It's the first time he's realized they're in a school, or at least what was once a school, but the knowledge of that does very little to alleviate his fears and confusion.
After stopping the wheelchair, the zombon leaves Dean alone in the room, retreating back the way she they came in with fast footsteps. He sits there for several minutes, wondering why exactly he's been brought in here and just left, until his thoughts finally wander back to his plight and exactly what his options are. Because that is really the only thing keeping him sane right about now; convincing himself that there's some way he can get himself out.
The fact hasn't escaped his attention that he's been here two days and he hasn't experienced so much as a twitch in his paralyzed body. There's got to be an explanation for that, he figures, and hopes beyond all hope that it was some sort of drug they've been feeding him through the IV tubes. It can't be real, he repeats to himself over and over. This can't be a real injury. There's got to be more to this. I just know it! But then he wonders why they would risk removing the IV if they've been pushing paralyzing drugs into his system. Didn't that risk the drugs moving out of his system, thus mobilizing him again?
Damn it, Dean, stop it! STOP THIS! On top of his desperation, paranoia is beginning to seep into his overworked mind. This thought freaks him out to no end, because paranoia is just one step closer to crazy, and Dean doesn't want to be crazy. He doesn't want to give this jack-ass the benefit of knowing he's accomplished the daunting task of breaking the great Dean Winchester. No way - he won't give him the satisfaction.
So he starts to look around the room, or at least as far as his eyes can see from their position in his strapped in head, and he tries to take notice of all the possible exits. It's the Winchester way; always be prepared. Always know your options. It's the only thing he can come up with as to why he's searching for escape exits when he doesn't even have a clue how he would get himself to those exits in the first place. There's a joystick on the armrest of the wheelchair, and he can only assume that it powers the contraption he's been strapped into. But it does him no good if he can't get his hand to it and wrap his fingers around it.
Never before in his life has he felt so helpless; never has he felt so useless. Or so he thought. He thinks this is the worst feeling in the world, this lack of feeling. He thinks there's no greater pain than the absence of pain and the knowledge that he's got no chance to change his future in this current position. But that was before they dragged Sam in.