Sam awoke on the floor in a dark room. His head was pounding and the room spun when he tried to sit up. He lay back down quickly on the unforgiving concrete floor and it all spun again. When the vertigo stopped, he tried to assess his situation. Where was he? How did he get here? And most importantly, how was he getting out?
He slowly moved all his body parts and patted down his torso to check for injuries. He seemed to be in one piece other than his fucking head. Fuck, how much had he had to drink?
Drink.
Fuck.
The bar.
Carl.
Fuck.
He'd been drugged.
He groaned at his stupidity, then another thought hit his addled brain. Shit! The dog! Mrs. Winters was going to be furious with him for leaving Dog with her, and he could only imagine what the cute, angry vet was going to say about him abandoning his responsibility. He slumped down and pressed his forehead into the cool, stone floor until oblivion overtook him again.
When he woke up the second time he was able to sit up without the room spinning too much. His mouth was dry and thick and he felt around on the floor to see if there might be anything to drink nearby. There was nothing within reach so he crawled gently forward, holding out a hand so he didn't accidentally brain himself on the wall. He found the wall just a few feet away then mapped out the perimeter of the room - his cell - on his hands and knees.
He was in an 8x8' room with a single dead-bolted door. There was no light source, not even from under the door. He felt around the edges but the hinges were on the other side (that kind of error on behalf of his captors would have required luck the Winchesters just didn't have). He banged on it weakly and tried to make his parched voice work.
"Hello? Please. I don't know why you have me here, but could I please have some water. Hello? Water? Please!"
Nothing. After about 5 minutes of yelling and pounding on the door, his body gave out and he slumped back to the floor in the corner.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the waking hours agonizing in their discomfort and boredom, and the sleeping ones not much better. Sam gradually weakened as no-one arrived to give him food or water. His tongue swelled in his mouth and his throat was so dry he couldn't even make the pathetic attempts at yelling anymore. He eventually relieved himself in the corner of the room, feeling shame and disgust. He covered the mess with his underwear, which seemed the least important piece of clothing for warmth on the cold floor.
How long had he been here? It had to have been several days, at least, considering how desperately dehydrated he was getting. He lay on the floor and thought for the first time that he just might die here. No chance to fight his way out. No Dean to rush in for the rescue. As his body became weaker and weaker, he shifted his aching frame on the unforgiving floor and thought that maybe slipping off to sleep for good wouldn't be so bad.
Sam barely came to as bright lights shone in his eyes, blinding him after unknown hours in the dark. Rough hands lifted him from the floor and he was unable to put up any resistance as they slipped a dark bag over his head and dragged him from his cell. He legs wobbled underneath him when he tried to put any weight on them, so he let himself be dragged.
He was unceremoniously dumped on a different floor, and he heard the latch click locked behind him as he tried to croak out a plea for help, for water. He thought he was hallucinating when he heard his favourite voice in the world.
"Sam?"