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 …
"Hello Dean, we need to talk…"
Canting his head towards the voice, Dean winced as the movement twisted his tortured shoulders; "who's there?" he hissed blindly through clenched teeth, "take this damn blindfold off me, you bastard; I'm not talkin' to anyone who won' let me see their face." His voice rose from a growl to a fear-fuelled roar.
The voice gave a small chuckle and replied; "I don't see that you've got much of a choice in the matter, pal."
Dean heard footsteps move slowly around behind him and his breath hitched, muscles tightening in chilling dread.
"I do hope we can keep this civilised, Dean," his captor continued, "see, I've heard all the stories about you not being the brighter half of the Winchester duo; that you prefer to let your fists do the talking and all that. That's why I've had to take these most unfortunate precautions."
"Who are you, you sonofabitch…?" Dean growled. His desperation, his blindness and his pain all merging into terrified rage as he tugged wildly on his cuffs, furiously rattling the chains above his head.
"Hey, easy Tiger!" Dean could hear the smirk in the voice; "who I am isn't important; what is important, though, is what you're going to tell me."
Twisting to his left, he followed the sound of the voice as it wandered back and forth beside him. In an effort to distract himself, he listened intently to the voice rather than the words; trying to place the accent, he was sure it was English, but more than that he had no idea.
"You see," his captor continued, "I had something of considerable value, and it was taken from me."
"So what?" Dean grunted, not caring whether the owner of the mocking voice heard him or not. He expected a witty retort; what he didn't expect was the vicious punch that slammed into the ribs on his right side, clubbing the air out of his lungs with brutal force.
He choked out a desperate wheeze; unable to curl up to protect himself, he convulsed, gasping open-mouthed as he fought for breath. He could feel hot tears dampening the inside of the blindfold as he gulped breathlessly, overwhelmed by intense pain.
There were two of them. The dicks; there were two of them hiding away out there.
"Now, where were we before all this unpleasantness began?" the infuriatingly calm voice continued; "ah yes, something of value was taken from me, and I want it back."
"so …?" Dean wheezed, "wha's g-gotta do with me? I never took your friggin' crap."
"No, I know you didn't," the voice agreed, "because I know who did … your mate, Bobby Singer."
Overnight, Sam had conducted a full torchlight search of the parking lot. When he was satisfied there was nothing of any interest to be found there, he began a frantic search of … he had no idea where. He took the Impala and just drove; street after street, hour after hour, scanning, searching, hoping. Periodically calling Dean's phone; he had been relishing the security of hearing Dean's voice on his voicemail message, but even that small comfort had been taken from him. The phone had been switched off.
Eventually, the drag of exhaustion pulled Sam down to the point the could no longer drive. He pulled the Impala over into an unlit backstreet and decided that he had no option but to close his eyes for five minutes. Later on, after sun-up, he would do into town and talkto people … surely someone must have seen - or heard - something.
He was horrified to find it was four hours later when he was jolted awake by the ring tone of his cell. Praying against hope that Dean's number would register on the display; it was actually an unknown number which flashed across the screen.
Sam's hands shook so hard he almost dropped the phone as he answered it; before Bobby had even had time to draw breath, Sam yelled at him; "Bobby, Dean's gone."
Dean breathed long trembling breaths through his nose, trying to calm his burning lungs after the trauma of the punch, and tried to rationalise what his captor was telling him. He'd owned something; Bobby had taken it.
"He must've had good reason…" Dean mumbled defiantly.
"Well, that aside," sighed the voice, "I know him and you pair are practically joined at the bloody hip, so I'm guessing you know what he's doing right now…"
Dean grunted noncommittally.
"And so, you can tell me where the sly old sod is."
Dean dug deep, reaching for the last shreds of defiant spirit he could muster; "kiss my ass!"
He was half expecting it this time; but it still shocked him into a choking, gasping squeal when it came. This time the punch hit him square in the solar plexus, knocking him backwards so that he swung helplessly from the chains, bare feet sliding across the floor. Helpless to protect himself, he trembled violently, retching and gulping breathlessly through the pain.
"Bastard sonofabitch;" he wheezed through gritted teeth.
"Lets try that again son, only without the arse kissing this time;" the voice showed not the slightest hint of remorse at the distress of it's captor, "where's Singer?"
When he was able, Dean choked out a barely coherent response between shuddering, wheezing breaths; "d-don' know."
"Would you tell me if you did know?"
"Go s-screw yourself."
Dean felt fingers threading through his hair, and yelped as they grasped hard and violently yanked his head back. Suddenly, the voice was close up, whispering in his ear.
"I don't think you realise quite how much trouble you're in right now, son." The hand tightened it's grip, jerking his head further back, painfully twisting his neck; "You could make this so much easier for yourself; just tell me where the thieving old bastard is."
"tol' you, don' friggin' know," Dean snorted shakily, wincing as the fingers released their aggressive grip on his hair.
"And, would you tell me if you did?"
"no," Dean spat bitterly.
There was a heavy sigh, "You're angry." It hesitated before continuing, "I can understand that; I can see we're just going to have to leave you awhile to cool off and think things over." Dean cringed as an unseen hand patted his face, "we'll talk again in the morning."
hearing the echoing footsteps moving away from him, the awful realisation dawned that he was about be left hanging like this all night. He couldn't hide an involuntary shiver of dread.
He flinched, drawing in a sudden laboured breath, as the footprints suddenly stopped.
"Is it cold in here?" the voice spoke up, calm, mocking. Dean made an unconvincing show of ignoring it. "We need to do something about that for you."
Dean shivered again, fighting to control his breathing, anxious to project an aura of calm defiance, when in fact he was bristling with blind, ice-cold terror. He didn't for one moment think that this man was talking about turning the heating up for him.
His body jolted into a screaming, heart-stopping shock as a bucket load of freezing water hit him square in the face.
There was a long silence before Bobby spoke; "Sam, whad'ya mean 'Dean's gone'?"
Sam could feel his voice starting to tremble; he bit his knuckle to try to calm himself; "he's gone Bobby, disappeared. He just went out to the Impala to get beers an' he's left all his clothes, his money, even his shoes. He's just vanished." He took a long breath, "Bobby, I think someone's taken him."
There was a longer silence before Bobby spoke again, "I'm comin' back Sam. I'll call you from the airport here when I've got a flight."
Sam massaged his brow with his fingertips, "But, Bobby, your job …"
"He was cut off by Bobby's curt response; "screw the job; findin' Dean's our job now."
A tiny glimmer of hope welled in Sam's chest, he almost mustered a smile.