Mink (minkmix) wrote,

SPN Fic: Removed 2/7

Title: Removed part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - (Completed)
( & continued in sequel Indoctrination)
Author: Mink & Jink
Rating: R - hurt!Dean - abducted!Dean - Gen
Spoilers: General to all aired ep in USA
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.

Hunters knew how to treat their own.

They knew all too well that Dean was capable of making an escape out of the most complex restraints with the most unlikely and rudimentary objects. The first thing they had done was search his clothing almost inside and out, and take away everything but his jeans with turned out pockets, and his boots without laces.

Seeing his life scattered on the floor, his effects laid out before him and sifted through by strange hands made him almost angrier than having his ass handed to him. If he didn't have a rag stuffed half down his throat he would have asked why not do a goddamn full body cavity search while they were at it. After a few moments of reflection he was glad that the tape kept his thoughts to himself.

They were very pleased when they had discovered his phone.

He had been hoping against hope that it had gotten left in that parking lot or at least smashed to pieces while they were busy kicking his ass. But it figured the damn thing would go on the fritz if he sat on it but now after being tossed up and down and across the pavement it seemed to be working just perfectly.

They had left him in the corner, looking over at him occasionally when he rolled over onto his side or moved in any way.

They hadn't been messing around when they had chosen exactly what they would require to keep a human being with his track record of escape in one place. He had been actually shackled, his wrists encased with two steel unbending lengths. The center of it had a heavy duty chain attached that lead down to the same that had been fastened under his boot leather over his ankles. The chain was just short enough that he either had to be sitting up almost in a crouch, or laying on his side in an almost fetal position.

It sucked.

His muscles were cramping bad already and he knew from catching a glimpse at their watches that it wasn't even dawn yet. The tape across his mouth itched and burned, and the rag over his tongue was dry and irritating.

The three didn't talk all that much, passing his phone to each other as they went through it thoroughly, recording names and numbers, dates and God knows what else he had stored on there. He shut his eyes after a while, shivering slightly against the tile of the floor, his bare skin touching its cold surface. The room was in perfect dimensions in his head. Where the doors were. The lack of windows. The stainless steel table that sat in its center.

From what he could smell, cleaners and some underlying lingering stench of uncooked meat, he thought maybe these guys had done themselves up mobster style and set up shop in the back of an old butcher's. He wasn't quite sure where that put him in the scheme of things but by the next day, when his eyes opened to the sudden glare of fluorescent lights, he knew they had an interest in keeping him alive.

At least for now.

The lights came on with a distant soft buzz.

Dean sat up awkwardly as his chain was yanked sideways, forcing him up off the floor. He could see the man's watch easily from here. Had he actually slept for three hours? It was dawn now. Somewhere outside Sam would be just waking up and wondering where the hell he was.

He braced himself as the man reached for his mouth.

The tape was peeled back, the feel of it off his skin was blissful, the rag pulled out made him cough, his throat burned and his tongue ached.

"Water." The man said.

Dean looked at the water bottle and decided two things.

The first thing was that he wanted water so badly he wouldn't put it beyond his abilities to throttle this man with his bound hands if the guy attempted to deny him any. The second was that he had no idea what was in that water and there was no way in hell he was drinking anything these bastards tried to give him. He swallowed painfully, slowly becoming aware that this situation was meant to be and might end up being long term.

The bottle was pressed up hard against his lips.

"N-no thanks." Dean rasped, his voice hoarse and unused. The man's sigh told him he was in trouble.

"Son." The man smiled, trying again to reason with him. "Be easier if you just drank. I promise there ain't nothing in it."

"Yeah, forget it. I ain't drinking your goddamn roofie."

When the explanation came, Dean felt his stomach twinge a little.

"Do you know what the Vietcong did to prisoners of war that refused drink and food?"

Dean slumped a little back against the wall, unable to hold the position he'd been pulled in without the man's arm up under his own to support him.

"You see, they didn't want them to die. Suffer sure, but any officer death was bad news."

Dean swallowed again, the tone in the man's voice dropping like when he'd heard his father talk about the war. It was a veteran’s voice. A veteran that knew what he was talking about first hand.

With a small apologetic smile, he held up a length of clear plastic tubing.

He grabbed Dean hard by the chin, forcing him down onto the floor onto his back, his lower body twisted awkwardly the other way because of the chain. Dean reacted by bringing his knee up, making perfect contact with the side of the guy's face.

The fist that came back in retribution came down like a hammer. Dazed, Dean shook his head of stars as he vaguely felt his chin taken up again.


He felt himself gagging as the tube was pushed down his throat, there was a terrible moment when he couldn't breathe at all, his hands coming out to grab at the hands at his face. Another merciless strike downwards and he saw white, struggling to open his eyes in time to see the bottle of water twisted neatly into the tubes end. He coughed and gagged as it went down, his throat working around it convulsively, lungs hitching for air.

"You don't comply, we'll do this three times a day." He told him assuredly. "Food, once every other day."

Dean groaned and squeezed his eyes shut as the tube was withdrawn too quickly, his jaw finally allowed to slack, salvia wetting his lower lip and running down his chin. He realized he was shaking, his stomach churning with the forced water, he fought not to bring it back up.

"Do you understand me?"

"You - you fucking bas-"

The next strike sent Dean's head crashing into the wall, and after everything went white once again, it quickly seeped and stayed into the black.

"Yes, hello?"

Dean heard himself moan, his hands were still trapped, his ankles raw in his loose boots from twisting them in the metal clasps. His sore mouth had the rag back in it, a fresh new sharp smelling piece of tape held it firmly in place.

"Yes! Hello and good afternoon, I'm really sorry to have bothered you but--"

Dean rolled over, his chains and shackles making a loud noise when he landed in the other direction. The men were back, the one who had force fed him was holding his phone and talking to someone on it.

"Yes, I know, you see I found this cell phone last night in a parking lot and I thought I'd give it a try, you know, try to get it back to who it belonged." He said good naturedly.

Dean studied him, one of his eyes had swelled half way shut. His head throbbed and his stomach felt empty and sick. Who the hell was this prick talking to?

"I know I'd hate to lose mine! Can barely get out the door without it!"

He was talking to Sam. Oh God. Dean heard a small sound in the back of his throat. He couldn't yell. He couldn't even talk for that matter. He couldn't get Sam's attention from all the way over here and like this. Frustrated, he kicked his boots hard into the wall behind him. It unintentionally jerked the chain short and tight between his legs. With a harsh loud moan, Dean sank painfully back into the fetal position.

The men ignored him.

"Well, I work down at the library, why don't we just meet out on the front steps tomorrow?"

Dean shuddered as he tried to use his bound hands up against the floor to push himself upwards. Sam just listen to him, he's not a fucking book van driver, just listen to him...

"Noon sounds great! Pardon? No, no, it's no trouble at all, glad I could help!"

The phone clicked closed.

He turned to the others.

"Noon tomorrow, let's make sure we're ready."

Dean fell back on the floor, dull thuds of pain echoing up and down his spine and around his jaw and face. Ready for what? They couldn't just open fire in the middle of a public library. What did they want? He rolled onto his back in frustration, his hands pulled down and his legs tugged uncomfortably upwards. He realized the bondage alone was meant to torment the wearer.

A shadow fell and the one of the three he had chosen to dislike the most crouched down next to him.

"Did you know," he began. " ... that dehydration is the first sign of the body's decline?"

Dean stared back up at him, his strained muscles going limp when the chain was grabbed again like a handle. It was impossible to use his limbs to strike, he could barely breathe with the rag stuffed too deeply into his mouth.

The tape was carefully removed and the rag pulled free. The plastic tube was clear, dry and clean.

"W-water time huh?" Dean observed weakly.

"It helps if you don't fight it."

Dean kept that in mind.

Predictably, after having been forced water the third time, Dean began to feel a drowsiness that was unnatural and strong.

He fought his eyes from closing, but he soon learned why they had done it.

It seemed like his hosts were going out. They didn't leave the room often, Dean saw they had some of those old army cots folded up in the corner when they felt like sleeping. There was a tap for when they got thirsty and a door that lead out to somewhere. The front of their store front he guessed. They left nothing behind and they left nothing carelessly on the floor where he might be able to get at it.

Laying on his back, his knees twisted uncomfortably to his side he stared up at the much larger door that was right up behind him. It was almost the width of the wall and it was a pitted dull metal, closed by a heavy duty latch that sat on its side.

If he was right about the place than this thing was probably a meat locker.

His ankles had been freed just once and he was left in a bathroom. He was so dizzy and his muscles were so seized up he had to steady himself with one knee on the toilet just to relieve himself. The man walked in while he was still standing there and staring at the impossibly narrow window that sat up by the ceiling.

They put him back where he had been and his mind spiraled almost pleasantly down and up out of strange dreams. It was hazy and indistinct. He could smell smoke. The sweet heavy scent of cigars and the other more familiar smell of cigarettes. Someone was chain smoking them, one after another. Voices overlapped each other into a meaningless drone of babble that he couldn't follow. Dad would say this was a sign of someone who was nervous, afraid...

Sitting by itself in the center of the metal table, Dean's phone began to ring. He let his head roll in their direction, curious as to whether they'd answer it.

They did.

"Hello Sam." Gone was the friendly demeanor that had been used the day before. "You missed our appointment. Waited almost four hours. It was fairly rude of ya."

Dean listened, resisting the urge to drop off back to the undisturbed and peaceful sleep he had been drifting in and out of for hours? Days? ... He wasn't sure how long. It was tomorrow already? When had they left? He noticed several rifles leaning against the walls with sites on them. Those were new.

"Funny you should ask, he's right here, spending some time with us."

Yes, spending time. Dean nodded to himself, the need to sleep pulling him down again. Pulling him where it wasn't cold and the floor wasn't hard, where his throat didn't feel rough and scraped from being given water against his will.

"We don't want much Sam, we just wanted to meet you that's all." He smiled. "You're not easy to find."

Dean heard himself mumble incoherently behind his gag in agreement.

"Get this," The man smiled to his companions. "He wants to know why he should believe we've got Mr. Dean Winchester."

Dean felt his eyes close. Nice going Sammy. He sighed as he heard footsteps approach him. This should be good.

"Well, Sam, he can't talk right now, but I can prove he's here."

Dean kept his eyes closed.

The red burning end of the cigar pressed slowly and firmly into the delicate flesh of his inner arm. It took a few moments for his fogged brain to make out what was happening. But when it hit, so did his muffled scream. The second time it came down, another pair of hands now holding him down so the procedure would be perfect and not misaligned because of his struggles.

Dean let out another stifled moan when they let the burning hot cigar linger and smolder in his flesh, until they began to grind it, putting out the white hot ember into his skin.

He'd broken out into a sick sweat, finally seeing that his cell phone had been put right next to his face so the receiver on the other end wouldn't miss a thing. It was taken away when Dean finally grew silent except from some pained panting.

"Sound familiar Sam?" he asked. "I can prove it some more if you'd like?"

They let Dean slump back onto the floor, holding up his arms to himself in some semblance of protection. The burns had yanked him right out of his drug induced haze. Everything in the room was hyper bright and crystal clear, his heart tripping wildly in his chest. The room tilted sideways. Blinking, he felt himself start to choke.

"Take off the gag." The man instructed. "He's gonna sick up."

Distracted from the phone, the audibly loud voice on the other end caught his attention.

"Yes, yes, I 'm here, calm down now, son." He said in a tone that was too hard to be mistaken for comfort. "There is a place I'd like you to meet us. Tonight. Yes, your brother will be there. I can assure you that."

Dean spit out the rag just in time to bring up nothing but the dosed bottled water onto the floor, his sore body wracked with dry heaves when nothing else would come.

"That?" The man responded to an unheard question on the phone. "Oh, he's just not feeling very well."

Exhausted and trembling, Dean rolled back onto his side, realizing quite suddenly he had nothing in his mouth. He could talk.

"S-Sam... SAM, SAMMY DON'T LISTEN--" The fist that silenced him stayed, gripped tightly on his chin, and a thumb wiped away the blood that it had started to flow over his swollen upper lip. The drugs still rang through his pale and shivering skin. Dean smiled up at his captor, knowing it was red.

"I'd suggest you keep your cool Sam, and go to the address I've texted to your phone by midnight tonight."

Dean watched the phone’s display go dark as the call ended.

“Get him ready,” he instructed.

Dean struggled as his jaw was pried back open and one of them meticulously rolled up his rag and pushed it back over his tongue before reapplying the tape. Another one was unfolding a square black piece of cloth. A hood. Without ceremony the heavy thick fabric was slipped over Dean’s head, plunging him into a stifling darkness. He shook his head twice, in an effort to free himself of it clinging coyly and horribly to his face.

“We’re going for a ride.”


part 3

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