Whoops, forgot to post this yesterday!!!!!
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 …
Dean felt himself drifting in and out of consciousness. Slowly, painfully he felt himself spinning nauseously back and forth into a reality where cold and pain and darkness were all that he knew.
His head throbbed miserably as he shivered in the darkness, the chattering of his teeth and the incessant rattle of the chains above his head tormenting him even more. The pain from his bruised and battered ribs was making it harder and harder to breathe; his breath coming in shorter and shorter wheezing, laboured gasps.
In an increasingly rare moment of clarity, he figured he must be getting sick; he was chillingly, tortuously cold, but he was sweating. Swallowing back another wave of nausea, he gulped hard trying not to cough for fear of the pain it caused, grimacing as the raw dryness of his throat burned.
He had no idea how long he had been hanging here, still blindfolded, but he guessed around three days. Three times, maybe at the same time every day, after the first visit, his captors had come to him and forced a glass of water down his throat. They still wanted him alive; Dean tried, unsuccessfully to convince himself that that was a good thing.
The first time he had angrily spat a mouthful of the water back out, hitting one of his captors, he hoped, in the face. However, the violently painful repercussions of that show of defiance had resulted in such a terrifying beating that any future drinks offered had been taken meekly and without fight.
The bitter ammonia stink of his own urine added to his miserable nausea, making him gag. His sodden sweats clung to his legs, soaked; chafing where prolonged contamination had irritated and burned the skin on his legs and feet. He knew all too well how these guys worked. Humiliation was as much part of the game as the pain and intimidation.
But he wouldn't give in. They could beat and threaten and humiliate him all they wanted. He'd been cold before, he'd been held captive before, he'd been on the receiving end of more beatings than he cared to remember. There was nothing these morons could do to him that he hadn't experienced before, and no power on earth would make him put Bobby in danger.
He flinched as he was distracted by a voice he didn't even know was there. A sure sign he was slowing down; his hunters senses would normally have been on alert, he would have heard the voice half a mile away.
The same familiar, patronising voice spoke; "C'mon Dean, open up."
He felt a hand grip his jaw, which felt unsurprisingly sore and tender. The hand roughly lifted his head which had been drooping heavily onto his chest enabling him to drink. Reluctantly, he allowed them to lift a plastic bottle to his parched lips and he worked hard not to show his blessed relief and gratitude as he messily gulped down the cool, refreshing water.
Listening to the footsteps moving around him, he cringed as he felt fingertips brushing the length of his torso, "you do look a mess Dean;" the voice mocked, "I really wish you could have made this easier for yourself."
His head slowly followed the sound of the footsteps, each and every movement becoming more painful and more laborious; he flinched as another fingertip brushed his back.
"I mean, you're putting yourself through hell to protect this cantankerous old sod, and where is he?" The voice gave a mirthless laugh, "He's nowhere to be seen; he doesn't give a damn about you!"
"Sc-screw you;" Dean whispered.
He fought to control his pained breathing, abused muscles tensing into a flickering knot as he waited blindly for his captor's next touch.
But it never came; instead, a lengthy, uncomfortable silence followed. Dean's blind unease increasing to overwhelming levels until eventually, he cracked. "Say s-something you bastard…" he growled.
"I'm sorry Dean," came the response, "so rude of me."
Dean responded with nothing but a breathless grunt.
The voice spoke up calmly; "you know Dean, I was reading a book last night; a book about a great man I admire a lot."
Dean made a point of ignoring the voice, trying to focus on calming his shuddering breathing so that he didn't look so pained, so weak; so frightened.
He shifted weakly from foot to foot, beyond trying to find a comfortable position. Right now he would just settle for not shaking uncontrollably, and not being unbearably cold, in pain and frightened out of his wits.
"The great man I was reading about was Admiral Lord Nelson;" announced the voice, "and do you know why I admire this great Englishman?"
He continued regardless of his captive pointedly ignoring him. "He was a great tactician, a man of great courage and integrity…"
Dean snorted bitterly.
"But do you know the quality I admire most in the man?"
Gathering all his remaining strength, Dean responded, wheezing through clenched teeth; "'cos he only h-had one eye an' one arm?" His breath shuddered through the pain as he continued, "'cos that's all you-you'll end up with when Sam's done with you."
The voice snorted with laughter; "very good Dean; you're funny!" The laughter abruptly ceased, "but no, the quality I admire most in the man was his sense of mercy."
Dean's head twitched, "like you'd know about m-mercy," he croaked.
"He was also a farsighted humanitarian." The voice continued, "In an age when life at sea was one never-ending round of inhumane and brutal discipline; where a man could get flogged to death for the most trivial transgressions; Nelson could see that the way to earn a man's loyalty was to treat him with respect, with empathy. He was a compassionate, merciful man."
Dean cowered away, sensing the closer presence of the two men.
"Have you ever seen the damage a flogging does to a man?" Suddenly, this was the second voice. Dean had only heard that voice a couple of times in his incarceration. This voice belonged to the sadistic bastard; the violent one with serious anger management issues. Clearly the other one, the one who liked the sound of his own voice didn't like to get his hands dirty.
"So he's le-let you off your leash …"
Dean cringed as he anticipated the retribution for his insult; but none came.
The second voice continued, warming to its theme; "it's visceral, Dean, utterly brutal. It claws the skin off a man's back, flaying, tearing, ripping." He spoke with longing, with relish, the way one might describe a beautiful work of art; "It leaves a man bleeding like raw meat … lays bare his ribs as it scourges away the layers of muscle beneath the skin..."
Dean heard the voice pause briefly as the man licked his lips; and suddenly his heart plunged into his guts as the awful reality dawned.
He knew what was coming, and the thought consumed him; his legs turned to water, buckling beneath him, as terrified anticipation gripped him. He wasn't strong enough any more+; this was beyond him, he would break.
"Anyway, is that the time?" The first voice spoke up, "this has been all very nice, but it's time to get back to business."
Dean shook his head; "no, no, no …" he pleaded desperately, voicelessly.
"Now, I really don't have time for all this nonsense, and I'm really hoping that you are going to tell me where Singer is."
Dean shook his head, biting his lip to maintain his silence as he fought back desperate tears, knowing only too well what was coming.
The lash tore across the small of his back with a hollow crack; he let out a strangled squeal as the sudden shock of agony jolted his entire body, burning like a bolt of lightning.
He slumped, panting, weakly shaking his head as the voice said, "give him five, then we'll see if he feels like talking …"
Chapter 6 here