Chapter 6

Surrounded by oppressive oblivion, Dean had no clue what was going on. It was frustrating, to put it mildly.

After his little dizzy spell, he'd let Sam lead him to wherever it was he was taking him, and then his brother had stopped short. A moment later he felt Sam shift more directly in front of him, and he scowled at what he hoped was Sam's back.

Great, something's up and I can't even do anything about it. And now it looks like Sam's playing guard dog.

He had to focus to decipher Sam's sudden, rushed message: "4 humans. Trouble." Okay, so no demons or anything, and I'm assuming not hunters. But still someone Sam saw as a threat. He kept his hand pressed to Sam's spine, the only touch point he could have to what was going on. His little brother's back was tensed up, his shoulders pulled back to stand tall. You tell 'em, Sammy, he silently cheered, waiting anxiously for any information on the situation, fuming at his own helplessness.

If it was possible, Sam went even more rigid before his back was briefly lurching back a step. But he still stayed rooted in his place in front of Dean.

He really needed to know what was happening, and Sam wasn't giving him any more clues. But all he could do was stand there and hope it played out well for his brother.

He could feel the swell of anger that rose up in Sam, thrumming through his back muscles. Without warning, he felt Sam surge out of his grasp, and he was pushed back, nearly tripping on his heels. What the hell, Sam? But he was more worried than mad, as apparently Sam had found a need to take action, both defensive and offensive.

The older brother was poised there, his feet planted in a ready stance, for all the good it would do, when a sudden, cool breeze blew over his stress-frayed nerves. There was a whirling feeling and he lost his balance for a second only to regain it almost immediately. He blinked in confusion.

Something was off. Almost right away it registered that he was no longer in the motel parking lot. Dean got the sensation of a different...atmosphere about this place. His fear spiked, and he clenched his fists to quell it. "Sam?" But his brother wasn't there anymore, he could tell. He was alone. What was that? Where am I? He questioned to the blackness. Does it have something to do with those people that showed up?

He didn't think it did; Sam's hunter intuition would've picked up anything unnatural about them. That didn't make him feel a whole lot better, though. Didn't change the fact that he was somewhere else, somewhere Sam was not.

Must've been some freaky teleportation thing. Fantastic, just what I need. And how crazy is our life that "I've been teleported" is a normal conclusion to reach. Deciding to try to figure things out instead of just standing there like a scared rabbit, Dean cautiously stepped forward, his arms outstretched. After a few trudging steps, his hands came in contact with a sharply slanted wooden surface. It felt splintery beneath his fingers, and it had some give.

Dean's heart sank. Doors. I think they're cellar doors. He was in some dank, dirt-floored cellar with no real idea how he'd gotten there or where, in fact, the cellar was. Exploring around a bit with his hands and feet, he found that the small room was empty except for cobwebs and dirt. He also discovered another set of old but sturdy, locked doors opposite of the entrance. Dean presumed that they led to some sort of basement. Under a house, maybe?

Something itched at his memory. Cellar, cellar, something about a cellar. He clicked his fingers. Didn't that Warren guy die in a cellar? Yeah, in his parents' house. Was this the spirit's doing? It fit the pattern, but Dean was almost positive that Sam had burned the guy's corpse. Of course, he hadn't seen it. Maybe he'd missed something, or not all of Stiles' remains were in the grave. So, if that was the case, Dean was doomed to be stuck here until he died.

Not if I can help it, Dean grumbled internally. He felt his way back to the entrance doors and started pounding on them. He dug out a knife that he always carried on him, and that was when he realized he wasn't been wearing his coat anymore, or his shoes, and that there was a biting chill to the air. Well, hopefully I won't be here long enough to freeze to death. Or die of dehydration for that matter. He began to carve at the wood with the point of his blade. Better than nothing.

He'd only been at it for a minute when there was another rush of air. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he braced himself but still wasn't prepared for the physical lifting of his body off the ground before being thrown into a wall by some intangible force.

Déjà vu washed over him as he slammed into the dirt wall, reigniting pain in days-old bruises. Dean crumpled to the ground, groaning in discomfort and trying to gasp enough air into his abused lungs. He pushed himself back so he was gingerly leaning against the wall he'd just plowed into.

He snarled as intimidatingly as possible between breaths, "Who are you? What do you want?"

You will pay, a familiar mantra sounded, inside his head this time.

So, it IS Warren. Figures. Just my luck. Getting lazy on the job, Sam? But he couldn't really blame Sam. He'd been preoccupied with his older brother suddenly losing two of his senses, and how would he have known that Stiles was tethered by something other than the body in his grave? No, this wasn't Sam's fault. But he sure did wish his brother were here to fix it.

He shoved to his feet, determinedly making for the doors again and pulling out a short iron rod he kept in an inner pocket. Before he could blink, he was forced to screech to a halt, thwarted by the icy entity that formulated in his path. You will not escape, the voice hissed. You will pay. Dean struck out blindly with the iron and a yowl of pain and anger reverberated in his head.

He was knocked back again, but this time by a very-substantial hand that rent across his chest in icy-hot furrows. Dean bit back a cry, feeling the warmth of blood instantly well in the three long gashes and run down his skin, soaking his torn shirt.

What the hell? Having hit his head hard, his limbs twitched as he fought to stay conscious after the second meeting with the wall. Then the spirit was there again, hovering over him and demanding, You must suffer.

Not wasting breath, Dean mouthed, Screw you, and tried to drag himself backwards. A pair of frosty hands stopped him in his tracks when they wrapped around his throat, digging in painfully. The voice reiterated, You must stay here and suffer. As I did.

Dean's thoughts blurred as he struggled weakly against the suffocating hold. The one thought he held onto was, Sam. He chanted the name in his head, over and over, thinking maybe if he thought it hard enough, his brother might hear him. Sam. Sam, Sam, Sam...

The name that brought him comfort echoed deep into his psyche, and he barely noticed when the fingers released his neck. Seconds later, he lost his battle with consciousness.

…

Sam had no leads, no sudden epiphanies, and no luck finding out what happened to his brother. He'd just dissolved into thin air while Sam's back was turned, leaving no indication of where he'd gone or how. There was no evidence of sulfur—so demons were unlikely—no blood, nothing. There were residual traces of EMF, but that could indicate almost anything paranormal, or even just nearby power lines. It had been a long night of returning to vigorous research, pacing the motel room, calling up Bobby, and avoiding looking at Dean's empty bed.

So, basically, he was losing his mind. Twelve hours since that scuffle in the parking lot that had turned into Sam losing his brother. His currently deaf and blind brother.

Sam ran a distraught hand through his hair. God, he hoped Dean was okay. But considering the luck that usually befell the Winchesters, that was about as likely as the sky turning green or the Impala being able to fly. Man, first he'd lived a motherless childhood, then he'd lost Jess, followed by his father a year later... He couldn't lose Dean now. His brother was all he had left, and vice versa. He'd do anything to find Dean and bring him back safely, deaf-blind or not.

Sam stopped his pacing when he reached a wall. He stared at his feet for a moment before he erupted and pounded both his fists on the wall, where he clenched them and grit his teeth. He had to find Dean, just had to. He wouldn't be able to go on without him; the one who helped him through his loss of Jess, consoled him through his nightmares, nursed him after his visions; whom he was able to support in return in dealing with their father's death.

The young hunter leaned his forehead into the wall between his fists, swallowing back a sob. He thought about what Dean would say about his little emo breakdown. He would get embarrassed about all this emotion being directed towards him, for him, and make up for it with an affection-laced insult about Sam really being a girl, with his mop of hair and all.

Sam cracked a meager smile during his musings, then let it slip away again. He steeled himself, common sense temporarily overriding Sam's fear. He stood up straight, swiped a hand over his eyes, and stalked to the table to start making a list of all creatures that could use teleportation.

…

Dean swam in a deep, smothering ocean of pain. Earlier—he wasn't sure how long ago it had been—he'd made one last, futile attempt to escape, and he was left with a fresh set of slashes across his left shoulder to show for it. So now he was cowering, cowering, in the corner of the cellar like a beaten dog, trying to keep himself warm. His head throbbed to the same beat that the burning lacerations in his torso did, and cold blanketed the rest of him.

He'd vaguely realized he should put pressure on the wounds, stop the bleeding. So, at some point that his hazy mind could barely remember, he'd managed to pull off his outer shirt in halting, agonizing movements, fold it horizontally, and tie the sleeves tight behind his back so the shirt wrapped snugly around his chest and under his arms.

Losing a layer only made Dean shiver more, but at least he was shivering still, and the cold had helped slow the flow of blood. The wounds still seeped, though, and the tied-off shirt was soon half saturated. He was holding a bloodied, trembling hand over the gouges in his shoulder, barely able to suppress whimpers of pain. He didn't want to give the spirit that satisfaction.

Can't believe I've been bested by some B-list ghost. Wouldn't Dad be proud. But the hunter knew he was in trouble. No way to get out, no way to properly treat his injuries, no food or water, still no hearing or sight. He needed help. He needed Sam. Right then, if he'd been given the choice between resurrecting his father, and having Sam there, with him, right now...he would have chosen the latter.

There, he'd said it: he would willingly let his kid brother rescue his helpless ass.

Any time, Sam, would be nice. Dean wouldn't lose hope. His college genius of a brother was bound to find him soon. He licked his parched lips. Hopefully before dehydration got to him. Or the cold. Or shock. Or blood loss.

Yeah, any time, Sammy, he repeated before succumbing to the unrelenting drag of sleep.

…

Thirty hours. Nearly one. And a half. Freakin'. Days since Dean had disappeared, and still Sam hadn't found him. He was floundering here, and he felt like the worst brother in the world; the worst hunter. Okay, so he'd finally deduced that it must've been the spirit of Warren Stiles who had taken his brother. He wondered why he hadn't thought of it right away; that was the most plausible explanation, given how the previous victims had gone out, even if he'd burned the guy's body. It wouldn't be the first time they had missed some valued item or lock of hair that tied down a spirit. So, he'd packed up in record time and had raced back to the location of their former case, finding a motel on the other side of the town from last time.

The thing that was giving him the most trouble was figuring out where Stiles had taken Dean. Looking back at the other vics, they'd all been transported to some place that they feared. For the life of him, Sam could not determine a location that would put fear in his brother. Well, if there were any haunted or abandoned airplanes nearby, he might've considered that. But that was unlikely, and he doubted the spirit's powers could reach much farther than the hotel a couple hours away. So, he was once again left with nothing to go on.

The young hunter, who was getting progressively more desperate by the hour, researched the town for anything that might work. Any place that the ghost would take Dean to scare him and leave him to die. Neither his internet search nor revisiting the library a few hours later uncovered anything new.

Except for the fact that Warren's parents' old house was long deserted, his folks having moved out soon after his death thirty years ago. And now it just sat there on the outskirts of town, empty, unclaimed, and unmaintained. Why this hadn't turned up a few days ago when they were on the case, he didn't know. All that mattered was that maybe...

Sam quickly closed and returned the files he'd been digging through, collected his things, and dashed out to the car. It was the only hypothesis that he had to work with. If Dean wasn't trapped there...well, Sam would have to find him soon. He doubted that Warren would make an exception for Dean; his brother would be well on his way towards dehydration, and the frigid Michigan nights sure weren't a help when one was held captive in a wooden cellar.

With the knowledge that he was back to square one if this didn't pan out, Sam plunged the key into the ignition, and twisted it. He began dialing up Bobby as he roared out of the parking lot to make for the edge of town.

…

Dean fell in and out of sleep in waves, bobbing between foggy, pain-filled wakefulness and confusing, painless unconsciousness. Honestly, the pain was the only thing that revealed which was which, because it seemed that he dreamed no matter which state he was in.

He dreamed—or maybe hallucinated—his brother arriving to save him, his dad doing the same thing; reliving memories and stories and myths, feeling like they were happening for real, for the first time.

Nausea had threatened to overcome him a few times, but he always fought it back down, unable to afford losing any more liquids.

The only constant was the cold and the pain that had spread through his whole body. His cramped and freezing hand was lax on his shoulder now, no longer able to find the strength to grip it. Aside from his chest and shoulder, his head hurt the worst: an effect of his lack of nourishment for...he had no idea how long. His pain and intermittent nausea drowned out any complaint from his stomach, though.

He knew at least a day must have passed, but when he expected to feel a little warmer with the light of day, he hadn't. If anything, he felt colder. That lead him to believe maybe he had a fever, and if that were the case, infection must have set in. Wasn't like the spirit was exactly worried about his hygiene while keeping him here.

Or maybe, he was just really friggin' cold. Either way, he really, really wanted...needed Sam. What's taking so long, little brother? You stop for gas on the way?

Dean didn't know how he'd lasted this long. Maybe it was his stubborn Winchester genes, or maybe it was just dumb luck, but he knew he couldn't last much longer, not without at least one of his afflictions treated.

When Sam came, Dean would find a way to thank his little brother for all he'd done for him, especially the last few months. Heck, the last few days. When Sam came, he'd...he'd tell him about what their dad had said right before he died. And he'd vow to Sam that he'd keep the worst from happening to him—deaf and blind or not.

Sam was coming. He knew it. And for him, Dean held on.