Dizzojay's Dean Dreams (dizzojay) wrote,
Dizzojay's Dean Dreams

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Number Fifty

This is a case fic that I finished almost exactly four years ago.  It's always been one of my favourites, and so I've decided to give it an airing.  It's fifteen chapters and I'll post a chapter a night until it's finished!

The story is based loosely on a famous London ghost story; the fatally evil spirit of Number Fifty, Berkeley Square ...

Rating: T
Genre: Casefic/Hurt-Comfort/Gen
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Spoilers/Warnings: Not canon; warnings for scenes of torture
Word Count: 27,500 over 15 chapters
Disclaimer: I don't own them

Someone - or something - is scaring people to death in New York; Bobby's on the case, but opinion is divided on whether or not he needs the Winchesters' help.

But those boys; they just won't take no for an answer …

A wave of dizziness gripped him, making his head swim and his stomach lurch. Pinpricks of light flickered and danced before his eyes; bursting and crackling busily against the darkness which engulfed him like a macabre July 4th celebration. He swallowed back the resulting nausea, trying to breathe as deeply as his restraints would allow.

He didn't know if it was the hunger, the thirst, the cold or the pain; or a combination of all of them that was making him lightheaded. Then again, it could have been blood loss; he was pretty sure he must have lost a good couple of pints after what they had been doing to him.

He wasn't sure how long it was since there had been any sign of the people who held him, but although they hadn't fed him, they had, at least, been bringing him water. Until now.

Did that mean they had given up on him?

Shivering violently, he heard the chains that held his arms hoisted painfully above his head rattle with the motion; he'd lost all feeling in his hands some time ago, but looking on the plus side, that at least meant he couldn't feel the biting of the metal cuffs any more.

The black despair of his hopeless position crushed him, wringing the air out of his tormented lungs with an icy-cold grip. He wasn't an idiot; he knew the situation was bleak. So far as he was aware, no-one knew where he was, and if these douchebags had stopped bringing him water he guessed he only had another day at most.

At least he would die knowing that he hadn't given his captors what they wanted. He might end up dying alone, hung here in a pitch black hole like a friggin' cow carcass, standing barefoot in a puddle of his own piss, but at least he would die in the knowledge that he had frustrated those assholes who took him. He managed to muster a weak smile at the thought …

Five days earlier …

Fat Eddie's Diner was, as the name suggested, short on sophistication and long on coronary-inducing grease.

Sam wasn't sure if the gruesome sights and sounds of Dean snarfing down his Half-Pound Monumental Monster Cheese 'n' Bacon Burger with cheesy fries, double jalapeno, and extra onions (hold the pickle), were better or worse that the insanely loud growling of Dean's empty belly and the associated incessant moaning that he'd inflicted on Sam during their six hour stint in the Impala after breakfast.

Having chosen the chicken salad on the basis that it was the least artery-furring option on the menu; Sam was somewhat dismayed to find it turned up with a pile of fries and enough mayonnaise to float a battleship.

The fries hadn't proved to be a problem in the end, as Dean had helped himself to most of them.


The Winchester brothers were between hunts; taking a few days out to rest up from their last job; a lively affair dealing with the spirit of an old Civil War soldier who had been busy fighting the battle of Gettysburg every July since 1863, annually taking a couple of poor unsuspecting passers-by down in the process.

Now, thanks to the Winchesters, the battle was well and truly over for the poor misguided dude; but he'd gone down ingraciously, and the brothers had a few battle scars of their own to show for their efforts.

So they decided to spend a few days licking their wounds, researching their next job, and keeping a weather eye on a totally weird job Bobby had got hold of.

Eight people in upstate New York apparently scared to death.

Yes, that's right; scared to death.

Found in their ransacked homes, faces frozen into a pebble-eyed mask of terror; lips curled back into a gruesome rictus of indescribable horror, outstretched hands extending into eternity as they died fending off something so horrible, so unspeakable, no-one survived to tell the tale.

Each victim's hair had turned white in those last awful moments; and most bizarre of all each of the victims' homes had been gutted of all their money and valuables.


"I don't understand this," Sam murmured, as he glanced through the various cuttings he had collected on the case; "the hell kind of spirit or creature or whatever the damn thing is robs people?"

"I gotta freakin' bad feelin' about this hunt," Dean replied, "I think we should get ourselves over there, give him a hand," he mumbled wetly through a mouthful of burger.

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust. "They didn't all drop dead with fright after watching you eat?" he snorted, trying to fish a chunk of tomato out of the sea of watery mayonnaise it was swimming in.

Dean took another bite of burger, extending his middle finger as he lifted the burger to his mouth.

"Seriously, dude;" Dean continued regardless, "whatever this damn thing is, it's one friggin' nasty sonofabitch." he shrugged, "I'd just sleep easier if we were there givin' Bobby a bit of backup."

Sam gave up and pushed his half-eaten meal away; "well, we called him and spoke to him yesterday; and he told us he's fine and not to worry about him. What more can we do?"

"Yeah, 'cos Bobby is such a good judge of what's best for him…" muttered Dean, "I say we just get our asses up there, then he's stuck with us."

Sam hesitated, "I dunno Dean, you know what it's like when we're all geared up for a hunt. If someone else turned up to help, we'd just tell them to beat it; they'd be more of a hindrance than a help."

Dean snorted and licked his fingers; "that's other people; not us. We're professionals".

Sam shook his head with a smile. He drained his coffee, and almost choked when he saw Dean looking at the menu again.

"Dude?" he spluttered.

Dean looked up, "What? " He shrugged, "I want a sundae."

Sam almost laughed out loud. "Never mind worrying about Bobby, perhaps we should think about getting your stomach exorcised; you got worms or something?"

Dean glared, leaning towards his brother; "well, funny you should say that - I have got this pain in the ass." He stared markedly at Sam.

The moment was interrupted when Sam's phone rang. He rummaged in his pocket and flipped the phone open, still shaking his head at the sight of Dean intently perusing the dessert menu.

"Hey Bobby…" Sam smiled brightly at the familiar voice on the phone.




Chapter 2 here
Tags: angst, bobby singer, dean winchester, fan fiction, humour, hurt comfort, sam winchester, torture

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