Alright - here it goes, my second fanfic, and if I ever thought that this was getting any easier, I was so wrong!
Still nervous, but what the hell…
This story takes place sometime during late season 2…so maybe some minor references up until "what is and what should never be".
This fic is solely Sam and Dean, and for some weird reason I cannot seem to write anything without some hurt/Dean in it, so whoever thinks of me as a freak…at least I'm not the only one, then…
Some other things I should probably mention: Don't own them…too bad.
Also, again: English isn't my first language, so please be gentle and forgive my mistakes.
Other than that…I hope you enjoy and as always…please let me know what you think!
Dean let himself sink lower into the bathtub, allowing the warm water to engulf him and lull his aching muscles to relax.
Damn, that felt good.
He waited until the water reached up to his chest, waited until he heard the first soft gurgling sounds as the water reached too high and started disappearing down the overflow at the top of the tub. He stretched out a leg to turn off the faucet, leaned his head back against the small sill surrounding the tub, closing his eyes and found himself drifting off to sleep easily.
It felt like barely minutes later when a sharp bang on the bathroom door jerked him roughly out of his slumber.
"Dean, everything alright in there?" Sam's voice sounded slightly irritated. Maybe laced with a little worry, too. You never knew, they both had been banged around a bit the past couple of days, on another hunt, in another town, but nothing serious. They had been through worse. And besides digging up this freaking grave for nothing for hours tonight, they both seemed to have been in pretty decent shape, just wired and tired. Nothing unusual.
Dean stifled a slight groan, shot a look at his watch which he had placed on the sink, frowning. He'd been in the tub for almost an hour. Oh yeah, Sammy would be so pissed.
"Be right out!" he called out, rubbed at sleep-clogged eyes with wet and wrinkled fingers. He lowered himself even farther into the now slightly cooler water. The tub was too short for him to be able to stretch fully so he propped his legs up on the wall atop the faucet to be able to dip his head under water, closing his eyes and mouth, sinking until only his nose still broke through the surface, allowing him to breath.
As kids he and Sammy had often made bets as to who was going to able to hold his breath longer. He remembered jumping into that lake behind one of their temporary "homes", facing each other, counting to three and then diving under the surface, eyes kept open to keep track of the other as they fought their silent battle. Dean would usually be the one winning, he was the older one after all, had a lot more physical training at that time. Later, when Sam was physically up to him, they had somehow lost the fun in the game.
Dean had to smile at the memory. He should remember to bring the dare up again as soon as they found a decent lake…and some warmer weather, too. Maybe they should head down to Florida or something, find themselves a hunt. After they finished this one. He'd bring it up with Sam later.
He sat up again, reaching for the shampoo and started to rub it into his hair, noticing that the bottle was almost empty. He'd have to remind Sammy to get a haircut some day. The kid was using up way too much shampoo with that thick mop of hair of his.
They'd have to make a run to the pharmacy soon, grab shampoo and some other necessities. As he dunked down into the tub once again, letting the water wash over him he started making a list of what they would need. Some shampoo and toothpaste, medical supplies, too. Bandages and gauze they always needed, used it up far too quickly for his liking, lately. Aspirin and Tylenol and some disinfectant. And while they were at it, there was always space for some Twizzlers and M&Ms. He had seen a CVS when driving into town, he'd make a supply run tomorrow. Right after sleeping for at least twelve hours straight.
Dean reached out with his toes pulled out the chain of the drain, staying down until the water washed out of the tub before getting up and turning on the shower to wash the excess foam off his head and body. He felt a lot better already, muscles still a little sore but loosened up enough to make moving not painful anymore. Again he let the warm spray of the water lull him a little and again he was startled by a heavy bang on the door, less patient this time and Sam's voice was definitely way past worried, heading straight into full on annoyed now.
"Dean, for crying out loud. Are you planning on coming out of there any time soon?"
Dean reached for the almost empty bottle of shampoo, threw it against the door as an answer to Sam's yelling.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah…out in a minute." he muttered under his breath, turning off the water and reaching for a towel to wrap around his waist. Picking up his discarded clothes he unlocked the door and stepped out into the dimly lit, slightly grimy motel-room he was sharing with his brother.
Who currently sat on the chair, a bunch of fresh clothing on the table next to him, giving Dean a very pissed off look.
Dean shot Sam a wide, most innocent grin, dumping his dirty clothes on his bed.
"Dean, what the hell…if you used up all of the hot water I'm going to kill you."
This drew another toothy grin from the older hunter as he grabbed his duffel from underneath the bed.
"I let you hit the shower first because you promised to pick up some dinner if I you got the first turn. Dean, that was over an hour ago…I'm dirty, and tired and starving…"
"…and oh so pissed!" Dean added with a mischievous grin, ducking quickly to avoid being hit by a rolled up ball of Sam's dirty socks.
"Chill, Sammy, would you? I'm on my way in a minute."
Dean turned away from his brother, not able to wipe the smile completely off his face as he sifted through his duffel for some clean, or at least semi-clean clothes. Laundry should be on their to-do list as well.
When he turned back towards the room he realized that Sam was still sitting there, staring at him and he had to work hard on keeping the smile plastered on his face like that. OK, maybe he had taken it a bit too far. Sam did look like hell, sweaty and covered with mud and dirt. And exhausted. Apparently digging up this grave for nothing had done nothing to improve his mood any, either. Dean did feel a sudden surge of guilt seep through him and swung around quickly so Sam wouldn't see it in his eyes. His little brother was so annoyingly good at reading his emotions, it drove him mad sometimes.
"Are you gonna stay and watch me get dressed or what?"
A grunt was the only answer he got to that and finally he heard a chair being pushed back and then the bang of the bathroom door as it slammed shut.
Dean dropped the towel and pulled up his boxers and jeans, quickly dried off his torso before putting on a grey t-shirt and a red shirt on top of that. After lacing up his boots he grabbed his wallet and the car-keys from the nightstand and was about to leave when another grin lit up his face and he retraced his steps back to the bathroom, knocking on the door. When he received no answer he knocked again, harder this time, smiling as he made out a muffled curse and finally the water being turned off.
"What now, Dean…?"
Oh yeah, very pissed indeed.
"Sammy, I'm heading out now…" he chuckled as he heard a string of expletives, clearly directed at him.
He knocked again, only after the water had been turned back on, of course, waiting for the swear-words to ebb off before asking in his most innocent voice:
"You want pizza or Chinese?"
He chose to ignore the words that followed, didn't even hear the water being turned back on as he was already out the door and starting up the Impala to head for the nearest pizza-joint happily humming along to Metallica blaring from the speakers.
Now, that was weird. More than just weird…very strange or…whatever. He kind of had trouble forming a coherent thought and that in itself was, well, maybe a little strange. Sammy would probably say that it wasn't, come to think of it, but it really was.
Damn, he was cold. He tried to shuffle over, reached for his blankets which he must have struggled off the bed, as usual, but couldn't find them anywhere near his body. Hmmm, now, come to think of it, the bed did feel kind of strange too, far too hard, even for the run down mattress he was sure this kind of motel would provide. Plus it smelled funny. He wasn't really sure that he wanted to find out why it did though… No, definitely not, but still it did smell…kind of earthy… musky?
And again, damn, he was cold. Plus, he was pretty sure that he had just opened his eyes but it was still far too dark in the room, even though being face first on the smelly mattress and all, he was pretty sure that the room should be considerably lighter than this.
He turned his head around, winced at the apparent kink in his neck.
Oh, just great. When exactly had he fallen asleep on the floor, by the way? Because that was definitely not a bed he was currently lying on. He couldn't even remember coming back to the motel last night after picking up the food. Hell, he didn't even remember picking up the food, let alone eating it. The last thing he did remember was teasing Sammy a bit. He had to smile at the memory, only to find out that smiling hurt, kind of.
Now what the hell?
Dean shifted his body around, felt something solid against his back. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, brought a hand up towards his face to feel his left temple, which was apparently the source of his headache. Had he noticed that before? Maybe he had gone out last night? Could be that Sammy had been so pissed at him that he had gone out and gotten thoroughly drunk and then passed out somewhere…
Well, he usually didn't get drunk that badly, especially not when in the middle of a hunt…but it certainly would explain a couple of things.
OK, so that had to be it. Gotten drunk, dropped somewhere to sleep it off. Maybe he'd gotten in a fight too, because his left side felt a little funny. Not really badly injured, but a little off. It was just too dark to really assess the damage properly right now. Besides, his thoughts were still too muddled to set his priorities at the moment.
He had now come to the conclusion that his eyes indeed were open, after a couple of minutes of just sitting there and working against the nausea that threatened to push up past his composure he was able to make out the outlines of…well, mainly just walls. Rough brick walls surrounding him. Not a lot of space, if he judged the distance right. Taking that there was a wall just like it behind him against his back he appeared to be surrounded by four solid walls, rough brick, mouldy and moss-covered in places.
OK, definitely weird.
He massaged his temples for a minute, eyes closed until reopening them, checking again.
Nope, nothing had changed.
OK, so this needed to be checked out. Now. He pushed himself to his feet, was satisfied enough that it seemed to be working just fine. So he really couldn't have been that drunk, that usually felt different. His shoulder hurt, his whole left arm plus his side and when he reached out to check he realized that he had somehow lost both his shirt and his jacket, only wore his t-shirt anymore. That would explain the cold, anyway. It was still too dark to see and he decided to leave the apparent injuries for later, find out where exactly he was instead.
He trailed along the wall, fingers tracing over the plaster to find a crack, a door, something.
There was nothing.
All four walls seemed to be solid, no opening. OK, so how in hell was that possible? The room seemed to be about six to seven feet in length and just as wide. Just about long enough to let him stretch out all the way if he lay down. He stared up towards the sky, or at least where the sky was supposed to be, according to the laws of nature.
Or rather, darkness despite a thin line, about as wide as the general size of the room, where a little light seeped through some kind of crack in the ceiling. Yet the light coming through the crack didn't make it all the way to the bottom of his prison.
That was the moment he felt a slight tingle of panic creep first down, then up his spine again, making the fine hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He circled the room again, then another time, just for good measure, his paces more frantic now, hands running first at shoulder level, then reaching down to check again at knee level. That was when he found it. Way down, almost at the bottom there was some kind of change in the texture of the wall and closer scrutiny revealed some sort of door, apparently.
But his initial high at the find was immediately smashed again as he realized that this so called door was first of all way too small for him to fit through, and, second of all, it was too small because it was covered almost all the way up to the top with earth or whatever else that made up the floor of this room. All that was left of the door was about fifteen inches in height of the top end with a small window in the middle, about as high as his foot, about the same width too. He could feel hinges on the right side of the door, but of course, they would open inwards, not outwards. No way of pushing the door open from his standpoint.
So this was definitely not the way he had gotten in. Not the way he'd get out of there, either.
Again he glanced up, again fighting down the initial panic. The room or cellar or shaft or whatever was pretty deep. It was hard to tell with the darkness, he couldn't really judge the height. But it appeared to be at least twenty feet, probably more.
Dean feverishly racked his brain on how the hell he had gotten himself into this mess. He didn't remember anything after…after he'd left Sammy to get some food.
He didn't think he'd made it to the restaurant, remembered driving by the cemetery they had both abandoned only about two hours before, where they had dug up the grave of Isabella Thorne. Her ghost had supposedly hunted and killed several young men of the town over the past six months now, had somehow grabbed them to be found a week later in an abandoned part of the graveyard. Cause of death with all the victims seemed to have been drowning, even though they had all been found on dry land, nowhere near any water at all.
So Sam and he had done some research, had found out where Isabella was buried, dug up her grave. A simple salt and burn, that's what it was supposed to be, what they had both expected. It hadn't quite turned out that way when they found Isabella's grave empty. Her coffin there, but no body in it. That's when they had decided to close the grave again, get back to the motel, get some rest and a decent shower, then do some more research to find out where the hell her body could have gone to. Not easy and definitely frustrating, which explained some of Dean's unbearable behaviour and Sam's grumpiness.
It still didn't explain this.
So, OK, something must have happened on the way to pick up dinner. He thought he distinctly remembered something, he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he thought he had seen something out of the corner of his eyes…in the cemetery parking lot? Had he stopped to check it out?
"My baby better be Ok, or else…whoever or whatever did this is SO going to pay…"
His voice sounded foreign, hollow somehow in the surroundings, echoing off the walls and coming right back at him. Again he cast his eyes upwards, trying to judge the distance anew. It momentarily struck him that the sight above reminded him of that movie Sammy and he had watched just a couple of weeks ago…he just couldn't quite remember the name…what had it been?
Oh yeah, The Ring…how could he have forgotten? That illuminated circle which turned out to be the hatch of a well that this girl had been dropped into. The ring being all she saw till she died.
He shuddered involuntarily as it stuck him how much like that his own situation looked right now. Despite the fact that his "ring" was not actually a ring but a rectangle, but that didn't really make much of a difference, did it?
Automatically he reached into the waistband of his jeans, checking for his handgun, but of course coming up empty. Again he couldn't quite remember if he had left the gun at the motel or if it had been taken from him. Considering that he had just gone out to grab some pizza, it was probably the first, though. Right now that didn't comfort him very much, and the reference to "the ring" didn't quite help to put his mind at ease either. That reminded him to check for his cell but he wasn't really surprised anymore when he came up empty as well.
Ok, so this was not just some crash after one beer too many, this was something else entirely.
Unconsciously he checked around once more before again concentrating on the task at hand. He had to get out of here. And damn, was he cold, freezing. He wrapped his arms around his torso, again wincing as his left side stung violently at the touch. His fingers found torn fabric and underneath he felt the unfortunately very familiar feel of dried blood. He carefully traced the bruising, skin ripped and peeled off in places and found that it ran all the way from shoulder to elbow, then moving over to his side and down to his left hip before the much thicker fabric of his jeans apparently had stopped further damage to skin and flesh.
Some prodding and poking revealed that at least nothing seemed to be broken, he was sore and freezing but all in all he had been through a lot worse.
Ok, so this was settled. What next? Oh yeah, get put of here, and quick.
He paced the length of his prison, trying to figure out a way to get out. Even this close up scrutiny of the walls didn't reveal anything in the ways of a ladder or rope or other means of escape. He ran his fingers over the wall again, found shallow impressions between the single stones and figured that this was, unfortunately, his only choice right now.
He rubbed his fingers over his jeans, dried them off as good as possible so the frail hold he had on the stones would not slip through his fingers, so to speak. Then he figured that he would have a much better hold on the bricks without his blunt boots on. So, with a heavy heart because his feet really were cold enough as it was, he took them and his socks off too. With that done he searched for the deepest recesses in the wall and started climbing.
This was really so much harder than he had thought it would be. His fingers hardly found real grip on the slippery surface, his toes faring even worse than that. The fact that he was still shivering with cold, his muscles only slowly warming from the physical exercise didn't help at all and his banged up side didn't help to make this any easier as well.
Still he made it almost halfway up the wall before suddenly the toes of his right foot slipped. He held on desperately, nails splintering as he slowly lost his grip on the damp surface. He struggled desperately to regain his footing, to find leverage again, but it was no use. The momentum plus the sudden extra pull on his fingers became too much within seconds and he slithered, tumbled down the mossy incline, fingers, palms and chest scraping over the rough surface, desperately grabbing for hold but of course not finding any.
He hit the floor with a dull thump, a crack and a painful smash on the side of his head and he must have been temporarily knocked unconscious because when he came to again the blood on his head had already started to dry, leaving a crusted and cracked layer from his temple down over his ear and on over his throat.
Oh just freaking great.
He groaned, rolled over onto his side, stayed curled up for a while, trying to steady himself, to work that damn hitch out of his laboured breaths. After a couple of minutes he again started the arduous task of assessing the damage that had been done.
This was so not fun anymore. Hadn't been, ever, to be honest, but now it really started to piss him off.
He thought that his right hand felt kind of funny – maybe he had cracked something there, maybe a rib or two, as well. Still nothing felt broken…Ok, on second thought, maybe the arm. Jeez, it actually hurt pretty badly, the way it had been twisted underneath his fallen body. Dean ran his left hand over the throbbing limb, hissing as he touched swollen, tender flesh.
There was a golf-ball-sized lump an inch or two below the wrist, a second one halfway down the arm. Definitely broken, and not a clean break, from the look of it. The dull ache that radiated thought the whole lower limb quickly picked up force, developed into a full on stabbing pain that spread up and down the whole arm in no time. But that he could deal with, would have to. He was pretty good in blocking out pain, always had been, up to a certain point. Still he decided that climbing up that wall was something he wasn't going to try again, at least not in the near future. He might, later on, once he got desperate enough.
Maybe he should try calling for help? He had no idea where exactly he was, but calling out for help couldn't hurt any, right? Besides attracting the ghost or spirit or whatever had gotten him into this mess, and he was almost sure now that he had actually fallen victim to something supernatural, but that would maybe be a good thing? Then again, maybe not, him being weapon less right now. Still he had to try something. You never knew. Someone might be walking by at just this moment…his brother might be looking for him by now.
Dean checked his watch – why hadn't he thought of that earlier? – and realized that he had left the motel about five hours ago. Give or take. But either way, Sam would be worried by now, definitely out looking for him, too. The only problem being that of course his brother didn't have a car, so it would take him a bit longer to find his way around. All figuring that he was still in the closer vicinity of the town, of course. Which he hoped, really hoped, he was.
How else was he ever going to get out of here?
Alright, so that's the first chapter. Thanks for taking the time to read and I hope someone likes it and I get the chance to post the next chapter…
So please let me know what you think…but remember to be gentle – I'm just so fragile ;-)