None Goes His Way Alone
By Coffeemaniac
Not Slash
A/N: Set in Season 1. After Shadow but before Devil's Trap.
"There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own." (Edwin Markham)
The Reveal
Sam stared at the metal ceiling with its heavy crisscrossing beams. He watched some minute dust particles dance when air blew from a small vent near the center of the room. Beneath his fingertips he could feel rough cement scraping blandly at his skin.
With an effort born of curiosity he ignored the nauseating pain in his head and used his abdominal muscles to force himself into a sitting position. With his arms bound behind his back, it was an effort to get that far. He rolled to one side and got his knees under him then pushed up on to his feet. The change in altitude exploded agony across the top of his head and he stopped to breathe through it.
No stranger to head injuries, he recognized the splitting pain and nausea. His brain had crashed into his skull again.
He found a dark, dank room surrounding him. With the exception of the unfinished cement floor, it was all metal from walls to ceiling with no windows or decoration to break up the monotony. There was no furniture either and no toilet or bathroom.
Tucked away in the ceiling recesses, Sam counted one display monitor and three cameras. The cameras flashed blinking lights at him. The monitor remained dark.
He still had his clothes but his boots were gone. Dingy white socks wiggled at him when he looked at his feet. He couldn't adequately check his pockets but he didn't feel the weight of any weapons he normally carried.
"Oh, yeah," he reminded himself verbally. He had been essentially unarmed to meet with Jess' father
The only apparent exit to the small room was a door that looked like it belonged in a submarine. Rounded and thick, Sam thought it might be a blast door though he didn't have any experience to guide him on that. He walked over to it, not liking the way his legs felt heavy and his body stuttered.
Pushing through the discomfort he turned his back to the door and started to feel around for the lever. The metal was cold as he wrapped his hand around the handle and shoved it down. It gave about an inch before meeting the lock inside the mechanism.
Sam swore as he released the lever.
He turned back around to study the door hoping to see something that resembled a lock that he could pick. But, there wasn't anything to break into.
Sam wondered if the room was soundproof because he figured he could call out and get someone's attention if it wasn't. Whoever grabbed him must want something so maybe he could find out what it was. And if he was lucky, someone might be careless or unprepared and he could fight his way out.
He yelled out, "Hello" and was surprised when he heard a creak and squeal of metal before the second syllable.
Given the fight that landed him in the cell, Sam doubted that he was dealing with the supernatural. Demons, vampires and shapeshifters tended to look human but were significantly stronger. Sam was certain that wasn't the case with his attackers. So he pulled himself up to his full height and prepared to face the human threat that walked through the door.
Three men entered and Sam recognized the two who had jumped him. Neither of them was in charge.
The third man was taller than Sam, wide in the chest with muscles bulging through his shirt. He looked like a walking cement block. The way he carried himself, squared and controlled, his posture demanded attention. His arms hung loose at his sides with no weapons clutched in either hand. And his relaxed facial expression said this wasn't a new situation for him.
"Hi," Sam said, somewhat surprised by the steadiness in his voice.
"Hello, Sam," the man answered in a deep tone. He was smiling but there was malice hiding in it.
The man stepped away from his cohorts before speaking again. "I'm sure you're curious about why you're here."
Sam shrugged. "Obviously."
"Then let me tell you. I've been hired to find out what happened to Jessica Moore on the night that she died."
Sam's insides jolted at hearing her name but he was careful not to react outwardly. "Our apartment burned down. Are we done?"
The man shook his head, smiling again. 'No, Sam. I mean what happened to her."
"Why? What more do you need to know?"
"The why doesn't matter."
"Who's asking?" Sam asked.
"Also doesn't matter. I understand that I'm a stranger to you so answering my questions is uncomfortable. And I understand that right now you think you can refuse. So, this is what we're going to do. I'm going to leave you here for a couple of days and then I'm going to come back and ask again. I think you'll be more willing then."
Sam forced himself not to think what might happen over the two days to make him more willing.
"I already told you what happened. My story isn't going to change in two days or two weeks. She died in a fire."
"Well, be that as it may. When I come back in two days, I'll have your brother with me."
Sam lurched at the mention of Dean. The two men flanking the stranger darted forward, grabbing him by his restrained arms. One of them shoved his leg into the back of Sam's knee. Sam grunted as they forced him face down onto the floor.
"There's nothing else to say," Sam yelled as he struggled uselessly against the arms holding him.
"I doubt that," the stranger said pointedly then changed back to his bland tone. "As I was saying, in two days I'll come back with your brother. He won't be in very good condition by then. A bit damaged, you understand."
"She died in a fire," Sam said, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.
"And then maybe you'll tell me what really happened to Jessica."
The two men released Sam and while he squirmed on the floor to get his body back up, the three of them walked out. He reached the door just as it slammed shut.
"Damn it," he cursed.
After several minutes of stomping around, frustrated and angry, Sam stopped. He deliberately refocused his attention. He needed to find a way out and he needed it now.
Sam started with the door. Kneeling down in front of it, he studied the lever from below, above and from either side. He couldn't find a way into the mechanism. With his back to the door he pulled on it and pushed on it then kicked it with his sock covered foot. All he accomplished was getting a bruised heel.
Giving up on the door, he moved on to the walls. Patiently and carefully, he checked for hidden doors or windows, for cracks in the metal that he could exploit, for any type of mechanism that he could manipulate.
When he turned his attention to the ceiling he remembered the cameras and monitor. The idea that he was being watched gave him a bad feeling. The need for a display monitor gave him a worse one.
Sam stopped to rest. His head continued pounding away. A few aches and pains had joined the chorus, probably from the fight outside Jacob Moore's house.
Thinking to more basic needs, he noted the absence of a toilet and no sign of any access to water. Sam took that as a good sign. Someone would need to visit from time to time in order to keep the prisoner alive and that would give him a chance to escape.
The Leverage
When Dean initially woke up he flung into consciousness still fighting. Unfortunately, his arms and legs didn't want to cooperate, just his brain. He found that he was lying on a table, arms stretched and curled beneath the surface as if he were reverse hugging it. His legs were straight out and chained and his shirts were gone.
None of that extinguished the fight in him but desire and need don't always run hand-in-hand. Even on his best day, chains trumped Dean's attitude.
Taking stock of his bound limbs and bare chest gave him an uneasy feeling for a couple of reasons. First, obviously, the threat to him was alarming. Second, he had been with Sam, which probably meant that his brother was in a similar predicament.
Fueled by those thoughts, Dean hollered out. He shimmied around on the stainless steel table and listened to the chains jangle against metal. He shuddered at the sound.
Once when hunting with his father, a corpse had been possessed by a vengeful spirit just as the coroner started to cut. They had burst through the door in time to see the dead man dart up. The sound it made as flesh rattled metal was too similar to the noise Dean was making now.
He ignored the macabre comparison and continued looking for a weakness in the chains and yelling out a string of profanity that would make a Marine blush.
When all the noise he was making failed to force a confrontation, Dean settled back and listened to his heart beating while he took stock of the room he was trapped in. It looked like a standard basement with a low, wooden ceiling, musty smell and cement foundation for walls. If there were windows or stairs, they were hidden from his limited view. A partial wall separated Dean from whatever was on the other side.
Cold also seemed to be an issue. Every movement against the table sent goose bumps skittering across his skin when he hit a patch of steel that hadn't been warmed by his body. As his mind acknowledged the chill, he realized his arms and heels were aching from the constant contact.
"Awesome," Dean muttered before yelling out again to get attention.
For a long time no one came, long enough for boredom to lead to drifting in and out of light sleep. Once he had tested the limits of his bonds and summarily dismissed possible escape plans, there was little to do except wait for rescue, or for his captors to come to him. He couldn't control either of those things. He sent a psychic plea for Sam to be all right or to show up with bolt cutters, or ideally, both, and then he just waited.
When three men finally did arrive, Dean guessed that hours had passed. He didn't have a watch or natural light to judge time but his internal clock insisted that half a day was gone. He had tried calling out a number of times, most pressingly when his bladder started complaining but no one had come. He ultimately urinated right there on the table, furious and embarrassed at first, then as the cold grew worse in his wet jeans, he was just miserable.
He wondered vaguely if the whole point of the metal table was easy clean-up and then considered the loss of other bodily fluids that might be easier to deal with on a smooth, washable surface. He stopped that train of thought quickly and sent out another hope that Sam would show up soon.
The men approached and Dean sized them up with skills learned from his father as well as good instincts. The two younger men were brothers. They had similar facial structures, identical hair color and they stood so close that they were almost touching. One was a couple of inches taller than the other. The tall one sported a buzz-cut. The shorter brother sported waves that wrapped around his ears. Neither one of them spoke. The third member of the trio was not a relative. He was their employer.
"Dean, I need some information," the muscle-bound leader said. "Some details that Sam can provide. So far, he hasn't been willing to talk to me."
Relieved that it sounded like Sam was alive, Dean started to ask where his brother was but his voice came out raspy. He cleared his throat. "Where is he?"
"Here. Just not here," the man opened his arms to encompass the table.
"If you hurt him…"
"Let's not start out with threats. Especially when they're meaningless. Sam is fine for the moment but he needs to be encouraged to cooperate with me."
Dean felt his stomach tighten as fear laced through him. "What do you want to know? Maybe I can help."
"I don't think so. This is Sam's mess so he needs to clean it up."
"Then let me talk to him. I can convince him to talk to you if he really knows whatever it is that you want. What was that again?"
The man cocked his head with a knowing smile. "I haven't said."
"You don't want to?"
"Not at this time."
"Okay, well, that's all right. Just let me see Sam and I'll get it straightened out for you."
"Unfortunately, that's not going to work, Dean. I intend to use you to convince him, but in a different way. Now, normally, I prefer enhanced interrogation techniques over outright torture. But, when you're watching something on television, well, you need drama. Sleep deprivation, stress positions, isolation, these don't make good television. However," the man waved the brothers closer. The taller one forced Dean's shoulders down while the shorter one produced a hunting knife.
"Whoa, wait," Dean demanded. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"I'm not cruel by nature," the leader said. "Only by necessity so I'm going to tell you what's happening and what's going to happen. My associate is going to cut a line through your bicep. It's going to hurt but it won't permanently damage the muscle and we're going to bandage it right away so there won't be any bleeding to death, all right?"
"Try it and I will kill you," Dean said.
"Then we're going to inject you with a cocktail. The primary ingredient is spider venom. Black widow, to be precise. The venom attacks muscle and causes cramping among other symptoms. The reason for the cut is to provide an injured area to increase the effect. I'm afraid I need Sam to see you in pain in order to push him along."
"You think I won't do it but I am going to kill you, all of you." Dean meant the words even if they were said partly to cover his fear.
The man smiled. "Well, you can try if the opportunity presents itself."
With a nod towards the brothers, the shorter one drew the knife through Dean's skin in a long, vicious line. Dean gritted his teeth and held back any sound. Moving more slowly than Dean would prefer, the taller one retrieved some bandages out of a box on the opposite side of the room. As blood pooled beneath his arm, Dean cursed the three of them, laying out threats of retribution and trying not to think about what was coming next.
The taller brother wrapped his arm efficiently if not gently. He pulled the bandages tight to stop the bleeding. Dean refused to react to the pain but it did hurt. He hoped that the main guy was just trying to scare him with the drug thing.
"Look," Dean said. "This isn't going to get you anywhere. Put Sam and me together and I'll get whatever information you want. The kid is stubborn. If you push him to the wall, he'll just push back."
"I don't think he'll be willing to risk you," the man said.
"Hey, we've barely seen each other in four years. We're not all that close."
"Now, Dean, do you really think that I haven't done my research? You practically raised Sam. Dead mother, absentee father, no real home to speak of. The only stability you two had was each other. Not only are you two close, I would hazard to say that nothing is more important than your bond with each other."
Dean twisted in the chains, seeking escape even while he knew it was useless.
The man smiled again as he pulled a syringe from his pocket. He put his hand on Dean's stomach, fingers splayed out while he watched Dean's face.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Do your worst, asshole," Dean answered while his chest tightened with fear.
The shorter brother had moved to the other side of the table. He grabbed Dean's head and forced it to the side. Dean held his breath, grunting as the man slid the needle into his neck. A moment later he withdrew it and stepped back.
"Some advice," the man said. "Tensing up increases the pain level. Try to breathe through it as much as you can."
He walked away with the brothers following him like good lackeys.
The first wave of heat swept up his torso like he was standing too close to a candle. Dean shifted instinctively, straining his twisted arms but also thinking that it was bad but tolerable. The second wave reminded him of a childhood accident when he left the gas on too long before lighting the pilot and the flame had flashed up his arm. The burn required an emergency room visit. He felt himself starting to pant as the pain grew worse, sweat beaded out across his body while he tried to adjust.
Just as he started to get some control over the fire licking through his belly, his arms and legs started cramping like the worst "charley horse" ever. Tightening more with every breath, his body felt like it was wrapped in a corkscrew and before he could stop it, the first scream escaped.