Okay, so I'm kind of mean to Dean in this one. Don't judge me okay? It had to be done.

Skovko, You're on, I LOVE Denmark! Plus, I think your mind might be as warped as mine. Maybe we'll see about that old Wyatt case. Kind of set myself up for it when I chose to write the words 'crocodile farm' I guess!

Mandy, You know what, I usually shy away from character development (or at least I think I do) but it just seemed to come about naturally in this one, so I'm really glad that comes across. All of our boys have some growing to do in this one (some more than others though!)

Ninjoy, I apologise (but not really) for messing with your brain. I don't think it's going to get much better after this chapter either! Whoops!

AngelOfDeathOfWrestling, Seth and Roman are hunting them down, but there's a bit more poor Dean to get through first!

Once again, all chapter titles are songs by The Kinks and have also worked out pretty well I think.

Situation Vacant

Dean's re-entry into the world of the living was to a sudden bark of alarm and a curse,

"Shit he's waking up."

The voice that had spoken was gruff and accented with a sloppy sort of twang that Dean couldn't quite place. It sounded angry though – that much he registered – although for the most part, he felt like he was swimming through soup.

Every last part of him felt – well – heavy, from his eyelids to his braincells and his shoulders besides. Below that he was vaguely aware of a weightiness but he simply couldn't feel anything else. His head was slumped forward with his chin down on his collarbone and he was slowly aware of a deep ache across his neck.

Trying to shift slightly, he let out a grumble that in one note spoke confusion and discomfort all at once but his limbs refused to move for him.

No, wait –

They couldn't.

Each arm was being held.

As the cloudy film across his eyes faded, it was replaced by a gloomy and semi-lit world and as he gradually drew accustomed to the darkness, Dean slowly realized he was moving as well. A dank little subterranean hallway flashed past him, clad in plain brickwork and piled high with junk. A couple of spotlights flickered unconvincingly, but they were so far apart they didn't offer much light. The whole place smelt stale and Dean's stomach rolled unhappily as he once again battled to bring round his arms,

"How the fucking hell can he be awake already?"

"He's a big guy, maybe I didn't give him enough."

"You gave him the whole fucking syringe."

"I damn well know that Barrett, but it obviously wasn't enough. We'll let Del Rio give him more, we're almost there anyway. Just hold him, alright?"

The voices came filtering down to Dean like a dream and he desperately tried to remember who they were. He knew he should have – he knew he did – but despite his best efforts, his brain remained black. He couldn't remember who the hell they were, or what the hell they wanted or what was going on. All he knew was that the two men were dragging him, which he realized as sensation filtered back down to his toes.

He couldn't lift his legs up – they were still too heavy – but he was aware of his boot tips scraping along the floor.

His head pounded wildly and he could hear his heartbeat it, in fact, he could feel it straining against his chest. It was screaming danger and a million other warnings but the alarm bells were pointless when nothing else worked.

In a pathetic attempt at speaking, Dean mumbled again and in response earned a sharp and vicious squeeze around the arm,

"Shut the fuck up."

Dean frowned mildly – not about to listen – and wet his lips to try again,

"W'as go'n on?"

"I said shut up."

This time it was accompanied by a swipe around the cranium and in a sudden movie-montage style burst of coherence, Dean remembered exactly who it was.

Englishman, no manners, no patience, real angry –

Shit.

Wade Barrett.

Dean tried to pull back, using what little energy he could muster and the jolt of adrenaline that had abruptly bubbled up. Placing his foot flat – only one would respond to him – he dropped back his weight and pulled against their hold. Briefly their three-man trajectory faltered as both Barrett and the other guy stumbled in and cursed,

"Fuck – ,"

"Whoa, I told you he's a strong one. Real good merchandise we're gonna get from him."

The second voice sounded actually jovial, like the three of them were old friends out painting the town red. His name came floating down through the ether and Dean ground it out in weary alarm,

"Sh'mus?"

"Welcome back Mox, nice of you to join us,"

Dean's face crumpled in confusion,

"M'x?"

"Fucking hell," Barrett laughed roughly making Dean officially the only one not having a great time, "He's really fucking out of it – can't remember who he is."

"Well given what's going to happen to the bastard, that's for the best, don't you think?"

The answer and Barrett's corresponding chuckle hit Dean with a shudder that rattled at his bones. Something terrible was going to happen but his poor addled memory couldn't think of what.

With his minor reserves spent, the two men resumed their towing, dragging his unresponsive body along. The corridor they were moving down seemed oddly familiar but before Dean could remember why, their surroundings had changed.

Suddenly they were in a big open room, tiled – like the rest of the basement – but far more bright. Overhead lights looking a little like spaceships were angled on long poles over a plain flat bed and there were trolleys containing gauzes, metal instruments and wipes pulled close. Every inch of surface was covered with sterile plastics and there was a man in the doorway in green surgical scrubs. His eyes peered out above a mask and beneath a hairnet and he looked like a demon, sent straight up from hell.

What the –

As Dean's alarm bells began ringing in double time, he desperately tried to pull back again. This time however, Sheamus and Barrett were prepared for it and they held on tight.

He had nowhere to go.

"Here we are," the Irishman chirped cheerily, "Another donor delivered straight to your door,"

"About time – you're late and where the hell is Rusev?"

The surgeon's voice was accented too and Dean felt sure he should have remembered who he was. As it happened however, the bulk of his attentions were focused in trying to stop himself being dragged along. He attempted to dig his heels into the flooring, but since it was tiled, they gave him no grip at all. It was a little like Barrett was pulling him across an ice rink. The Englishman didn't even have to try.

Fuck.

"He got held up beating the crap out of some arsehole, don't worry though, he'll be along."

Some arsehole?

Dean frowned, the sentence tugging at his brainstem and then suddenly it hit him.

"Not s'me asshole, 's Seth,"

Somewhere above him Wade Barrett stiffened and the dagger-like fingers curled in tight around Dean's arm,

"That's the second time he's said that fucking name now,"

"Why is he saying anything at all?"

"Yeah, about that," Sheamus offered sheepishly, as the surgeon's thick tones echoed sharply off the walls, "I shot him up with what you gave me – emptied the entire syringe – but he started coming round a couple of minutes earlier, so whatever the dose was, it wasn't enough."

"Madre de Dios."

Dean blinked.

The guy was Spanish? Or no – spoke Spanish. Dean wanted to say he was actually Mexican. De Leon? Dos Rios? It was something like that.

His brain hurt from thinking and he let out a groan.

"Can we stand around and talk about this later?" Barrett grumbled, hauling him a few steps further along, "Let's just get him up on the fucking table and get it over with already, I'm sick of this one."

Together he and Sheamus propelled Dean forward and then jerked him to a halt as his shins hit something hard. He winced a little but had no time left to dwell on things as their bony, grabby fingers slid up beneath his arms. As both men grunted with exertion on either side of him, Dean suddenly found himself suspended in the air, his heart turning over as he was bodily flipped forwards, landing heavily, chest first on a clinical smelling bed.

"Ugh – ,"

He grunted as the air was pushed clean out of him and then attempted to move his legs and arms. It was freedom that was only briefly for the taking, because almost at once the hands were gripping him tight again. Not only that but they were pulling cords around him and he frowned in bewilderment as he was securely fastened down.

"Nuh – what – ,"

"I told you, shut up."

Barrett's hand bounced Dean's head off the padding and he tried to bat him off to pitiful avail. When he turned his head and blinked into the lamplight, it was to find that his wrists were secured in line with his head, pinioned and buckled in tight leather straps that were stitched straight to the mattress and not going anywhere. Trying to kick his legs out drew much the same result and his stomach turned clean over and his blood ran cold.

Fuck.

"No point struggling Mox," Sheamus cooed eerily, somewhere close – too close – to his head, "You're not going anywhere feller."

Dean snarled a little and continued to kick out, the helplessness and utter futility taking mere seconds to wear him completely out. His skin was prickling with sweat and total panic and he could feel his scruffy bangs begin to stick to his head,

"No – ," he murmured.

It sounded pathetic and in response the Irishman threw his head back and laughed,

"Sorry Mox, I told you, it's too late now. The gang's all here. Looks like we can make a start. All we need is another tiny injection and then it'll all be over. You won't feel a thing."

Somewhere to his left, the surgeon snorted wryly and Dean rolled his weary head to glance across. Not being able to see the guy's features was turning him into an anaesthetic-based dream and he swam in and out of Dean's groggy vision like a green apparition with red glowing eyes.

"Oh really? Another tiny injection? Where do you think I'm going to get one of those? I gave you the dosage and now he's awake again. So what do you suggest we do now?"

Sheamus shrugged,

"Just get some more of it, I mean, you're a doctor – you've got this stuff, right?"

"Filed and accounted for," the Mexican replied fiercely, "Do you have any idea how much trouble I go to so it looks like we have full stock? I can't just go up and help myself because I own it. There are systems in place. If I took more we'd be caught."

"Well then I don't know – ,"

"Idiota, this is a fucking disaster – ,"

"No it's not,"

At the sound of Wade Barrett's icy calm sounding tones, the bickering factions lapsed into silence, looking across at the Englishman with frowns and making Dean spin his head to look at him too. Barrett's chiselled features were eerie with malice and he was holding up a roll of silver duct tape. Sheamus snorted at him, not following the logic,

"What?"

"Don't you get it? He doesn't need to be knocked out, he needs to be quiet. This'll do the job."

Sheamus' mouth fell open in horror and whatever was happening, Dean could tell it wasn't good. It was a strange and deeply unsettling place to be in – understanding the words but not comprehending what was meant. He tried again to wiggle his wrists loose but his attempt was weak and it got him nowhere.

Damn.

"You want to do the operation while he's conscious?" Sheamus barked, "Are you fucking nuts?"

"Why not? I mean, he's a goner either way, right? So what does it matter?"

"Won't that – hurt?"

Somewhere above him, Barrett chuckled roughly and when Dean turned his head, he was staring straight at the guy's crotch. The Englishman's proximity was suddenly startling and Dean grunted unhappily and tried to back up.

No good.

"I always knew you were a fucking coward Sheamus," Barrett ripped some tape free, "What about you doc? Freaking out?"

There was a horrible beat before the surgeon spoke up again – Del Rio, that was it, that was his name – and although he cleared his throat and sounded fairly uncertain, his answer was definitive,

"Let's just get it done."

"Good man," Barrett smirked, "I knew you'd see things my way."

Leaning down he grabbed a handful of Dean's hair and yanked his captive's head up hard. As Dean let out an angry grunt, Barrett slapped a thick piece of tape across his mouth and then smoothed it out roughly with the back of his hand. Once he was done, he let go of the curls and Dean's face dropped down hard onto the bed.

"Unf – ,"

"There," Barrett put his arms out in triumph, "All sorted. Now how about we fucking get to work?"

Del Rio nodded and moved towards his patient and Dean wriggled frantically as his shirt was peeled up. His breath blew out in hard, sharp puffs beneath the tape strip, but the faster he exhaled the stickier it seemed to get. His entire system felt like it was going into overdrive and his senses screamed at him to get the hell out. He tried to push his stomach down into the mattress but Del Rio continued to yank the fabric back, pulling it further and further up his ribcage until Dean's kidneys were totally exposed.

In a horrible moment, it all came flooding back to him.

They were harvesting his organs.

They were going to have him killed.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He struggled again wildly and the exertion made him grunt and the frantic beads of sweat dripped into his eyes. Above him there was a sigh that sounded disgruntled and Del Rio snapped an order out,

"God damn it, hold him down."

Barrett didn't need any extra encouragement and in a second his forearm was pinning Dean's skull, pressing him face down into the sterile cushion and forcing him to grunt and fight for every breath.

"For Christ sakes," Sheamus piped up in tones of horror, which Dean took to mean that his chances weren't good, "I didn't fucking sign up for this shit."

"Think of the money Paddy."

"Not this time man,"

The Irishman was actually pacing around them, like a really ginger tiger trapped in a cage. He was more pent up than Dean had ever seen him, or could remember having seen him, although he couldn't remember much.

He struggled again and Barrett pressed harder, growling into his ear,

"You might want to stop,"

"This is crazy," Sheamus muttered breathlessly, rubbing his mohawk, "Totally crazy. Jesus fuck."

"Will you go outside already?" Del Rio snapped back at him, pulling a trolley closer and rifling amongst the tools, "There's a bottle of scotch in the top drawer of my desk. Have some and try to fucking calm yourself down. You're making me nervous."

"Fine," he huffed as Dean watched him pleadingly.

Don't go man, stop them, you're my one fucking hope.

But whatever misgivings Sheamus had about the harvesting, he chose instead to take them out the door. The sound of it slamming made Dean's heart turn over and his body began shaking through cold sweat and fear. There was literally no fucking way he could get out of this one, he'd tried, he was tired, he was powerless to help himself.

Beside him, Del Rio continued to fumble through the instruments and the sound of clanking metal set Dean's nerves on edge. He couldn't see the tray of scalpels, but he knew that was what they were and that his time was almost fucking up.

His mind drifted absently and dazedly towards his teammates and how they would find him once it was too late. His body would be uncovered at the side of the road somewhere and the two of them would blame themselves and carry that guilt around. Dean hoped it wouldn't destroy them too badly. Especially Roman, who would cry his eyes out. He was like that – Roman – surprisingly soft hearted, like a big old teddy bear.

Dean had missed that.

Damn it but he'd also missed Rollins for that matter and as his addled mind wandered towards his younger brother, he began to regret never having made it up with Seth.

Seth, shit.

He would never know now if the other man was alright and whether the bulky one had killed him or not. Maybe he'd be up there waiting when Dean got there, maybe she would –

Dean's heart seized up.

If he died there and then, did it mean he got to see her? Hold her, actually be with her again? The thought was tantalizing and it briefly set light to him. But how did he know that was how it all worked? What if the end was just that and no more. Knowing his luck there was probably nothing and the thought of the void scared him.

He didn't want to die.

"Alright," Del Rio grumbled, kind of bored-sounding which was pretty unsettling given what he was about to do, "Let me just clean the area and we can get started."

Dean flinched as a sterile wipe was slapped down on him, feeling startlingly cold against his sweaty, hot skin. He could feel his kidneys tingling in weird anticipation and he grunted and tried one last time to get out.

This time Barrett didn't even bother to swipe at him, simply laughing back cruelly over his head,

"Time's up fucker."

Del Rio picked up a scalpel and Dean screwed his eyes shut.

It was over.

He was as good as dead.

Yep, another one of my infamous cliffhangers. It's good to be evil (in a literary sense!)