Mink (minkmix) wrote,
Mink
minkmix

SPN Fic: Removed 5/7

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 for Violence! - hurt!Dean - abducted!Dean - Gen
Spoilers: General to all aired ep in USA
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.



Things were so beyond bad when the car slowed to a halt that Dean had no doubt in his mind they were going to soon get unthinkable.

It was an interesting concept. The unthinkable. His thoughts wandered to the war so many of these hunters had been in, including his own father. When Dad had had a few he’d sometimes tell Dean some things no kid ought to have ever thought about before. But even then, when he was just a boy, he knew thinking about them and experiencing them were two completely different things.

No one liked being crossed but these guys had taken it to a whole new level that Dean couldn’t get in deep enough to really quite understand. All he knew was his job and who he had to make sure to keep alive. Sometimes that included himself.

Maybe getting in so deep that you couldn't think anymore was the wiser way to go about this life. It left no more room for everything else that tended to hole you up, slow you down, and pull the wool down over your eyes.

It was what they wanted. These men had gone so deep that didn’t know what to do with the surface anymore. For some reason they had deemed him acceptable and even chosen him to enter their self imposed ranks. He wasn’t a huge fan on how they bred loyalty but he found them remarkable nonetheless. They were so removed from the world’s set of laws, they had even detached themselves from the varied rules that long ago had been erected for those that walked the dark.

After you broke those, what exactly was there left but one man’s voice and will?

The trunk opened to the wet night sky.

Back with the bad guys. Or was it bad with the good guys? Whatever it was, it was unpleasant to dwell on for long. He’d be living it soon enough. The store front with its covered blank windows looked almost like home. A knife went through the plastic between his ankles and knees, and several hands hauled him up and forward, pushing him quickly towards the doors.

"He's probably still in town." There was an edge of worry on the voice. "I say we get out of here before the sun hits the sky."

"What are you so worried for, those IDs are locked in, you saw what he did, even if he wanted to change them again Sam couldn't--"

"I just want to get out of here, you got me?" A large ring of keys was searched briefly until the right one was found and slipped into the store door. "Jesus, do you even remember his father?"

Inside was musty and dank. The rain seeping in like the walls were made of thick paper, creasing and sagging were they stood. They let themselves into the back room and a combat boot shoved between Dean’s moving ankles, landed him hard on his spot on the floor.

Instead of removing the tight plastic cinch on his hands they just replaced the heavy steel shackles on over them. More than impatient with him now, the man yanked the chain through hard, reattaching it to the binds across his ankles with even less slack than he had had before. Dean’s face throbbed, his jaw ached on the tile. Halfheartedly, he tested his binds and found them like he had for the past few days. Inescapable. He felt his numb hands start to shake a little.

The youngest member of their team was there. Head bowed. The television off.

Dean listened as the two elder of the group reprimanded him for a great long while. Loss of privileges. Loss of duties. Loss of trust. Loss of whatever status he may have worked to achieve amongst the three. Their tone was half way stuck between sounding like a concerned father and a pissed of drill instructor that didn’t care if you lived or died just as long as you did it by the code. Dean attempted to feel a little sorry for him but failed.

Instead, he rolled his head away from them, his cheek sticking momentarily to the floor with his drying blood.

The conversation eventually turned back to his presence.

"I don't even know if keepin' this one is such a good idea." One man mumbled to the sound of a magazine being filled, the bullets rolling like marbles on the metal table. "He's weird. Like his old man."

Dean felt one side of his swollen mouth tug up in a smile.

"We need a new truck." He was saying. "I know a guy next town over, we'll pick it up tonight and just head over up north for a while."

"New truck?"

"Sam Winchester knows what the thing we got looks like, I don't wanna be thinkin’ about that every time I pass a city limit."

“He won’t try to follow, not after we call in an eye witness account of him, the feds want a piece of that more than they want us---“

“We got his blood you fucking idiot.” Was the low and shaking response, his words slow and precise. “That’s his goddamn brother.”

It was fascinating to listen to these men discuss his younger brother here in the dim lamp light with hushed voices. Voices filled with traces of barely concealed fear. Sam had gone and broke all the unwritten rules. Light and dark. He’d disobeyed every order given and didn’t even show up to play when there was a promise of blood being spilt. No, Sam had gone and was running their game all his own way. Just like he did everything. These hunters weren’t expecting it and they sure as hell weren’t liking it.

Dean thought of every fight Sam and their father ever had and felt his chest hitch in a small soft laugh. Dad would have hated to have loved to hear all about this one.

The other man shifted in place before he sank down into a seat. “You said Sam would be dead by now,” He said tensely. “You said that we wouldn’t have to worry.”

“Well, Sam’s not dead is he?” The magazine slid home into a semiautomatic weapon. “So I suggest you start worrying.”

The other one stood up with a syringe.

Dean didn’t watch as he slid it into the flesh of his arm and then swabbed the spot with alcohol. More drugs. More insurance. Now with Sammy on the hunt they had to be extra special careful didn’t they? His eyes fluttered as whatever it was coursed through his bloodstream. He felt heavy. He felt light. His thoughts started to weave in and out of one another.

He flexed his numb bloodless hands, a song unwinding lazily in the back of his mind, turning into a hum, low and off tune. Maybe he and these guys weren’t that different after all. When he got scared he got mightily annoyed too.

But they weren't all scared.

Not the youngest one.

He was the opposite of scared.

He hadn’t stopped staring at Dean since they had arrived.

And he was fucking furious.















It was the first time Dean was sorry to see the older of the two hunters leave.

Usually it meant nothing more than some somewhat gentler handling by their younger cohort and all in all, generally being left alone unless it was goddamn tube time. But not this time. This time the hunter he considered the softest had turned out to be the one he should have been worrying about all along.

Dean listened to the steady pace of footsteps back and forth the width of the room. He waited for them to stop and halt over him. He didn’t have to wait long.

"Hi Dean."

The guy’s eyes were dilated to black, his rage kept in check right under his surface. There was something terrible trembling under each movement and every step, every word. The man sat against the wall, head lowered on his chest, face hidden by his cap.

"Hi." Was all Dean could say.

"They got you pretty good?" He asked conversationally.

"Uh-huh."

"Betcha had a good time out there."

"Actually--"

Dean didn't have much to say when his face suddenly exploded in a violent burst of pain. His head smacked the floor hard where he fell, gasping for air. He slowly opened and closed his mouth almost certain his jaw had been broken, but it hadn’t. Once again, Dean thanked whoever or whatever it was that had granted him such a hard head. He shook his head sharply to clear his vision, vaguely noting that the restraints on his ankles were being unlocked and tossed noisily aside.

"Get up." The man bent down and dragged him to his feet.

"I-If you insist." Dean panted, smiling through the blood. A fist landed in his stomach so hard that he curled in on himself, making small pained noises.

"Can ya breathe?" He asked from above him.

Dean choked, gasped and found, to his surprise, that he could.

"Yeah." He wheezed.

"Damn." A knee came up this time.

Dean doubled in on himself convulsively, choking, the contents of his stomach rising to the back of his throat.

"How about now?"

Quickly, Dean leaned over to the side to keep from enraging the guy further by yakking on his boots. He groaned as he was lifted by the shoulders and slammed against a wall. The man was so close spittle flying into his face.

"I told you not to mess it up Dean." He gripped the shoulders of Dean’s muddy army green T-shirt. “I told you not to mess it up.”

Dean felt the swell of his muted anger starting to peak, he was beyond caring what this man or any of them could do to him anymore. He felt his trapped fists flex and unflex.

“And now…” he brought his captive's face close enough so his hot breath was in Dean’s ear. “…Now you've messed it up for me too.”

That was it. Without thinking to hard about it, Dean’s bound hands came up and shoved him backwards. With another swift motion upwards, he caught the steel edge of his shackles up under the guy’s chin. The man didn’t lose his grip but he stumbled back in enough surprised pain that it brought a real grin to Dean’s face. Dean messed him up huh? Served the bastard right for falling asleep on the watch. His Dad would have woken him up with a nice hot cup of coffee to the face or worse.

“What can I say man,” Dean shrugged. “Did your team at least make the spread?”

He saw stars before he even saw the fist coming.












Dean listened to himself breathe slowly in and out.

He lay in the pile of glass, fine splinters singing in his palms, cutting into his cheek. Amid the chaos, his head was strangely clear. They had mutually paused, both collapsed in opposite sides in the disaster of the room.

"Wanna cigarette?" The hunter was breathing like a bellows. Blood from the cuts in his lip oozing down his chin.

"Nah."

"Didn't wanna do this, Dean." The man was against the wall, shoulders heaving. "Why'd ya hafta fuck everything up? You were doing so good.”

“So I heard.”

It was like laying on his back in the ocean, listening to his heart thud in his ears and his lungs expand and sluggishly contract.

"Do you know my name?"

Dean had to admit, head reeling, barely feeling floor beneath him, that these details had never occurred to him. He turned his face to the side and spat red next to his shoulder. God, his throat burned like it had been scraped with iron wool. From where he sat, the man crawled over with an outstretched hand. Fingers wrenched in Dean’s hair making his teeth to clench, forcing his neck up and at attention.

"You're gonna die." The man said with regret. "So I think you oughta know who's gonna do it."

Dean's groan came out a laugh before he could stop it, a pained, uncontrolled chuckle. To his numbed surprise, he heard the man laugh too, his shoulders shaking slightly as he released him.

"Heh. Yeah, kinda funny isn't it?"

“Hilarious.’ Dean agreed.

He picked Dean up and threw him against the wall, shattering the last remaining glass meat case. Face and arms cut, blood warm and running down his skin, soaking his clothes and hair. Dean lay among the shards and laughed.

"What the fuck's so funny now, asshole?"

The laugh came out more like a gasp.

"Y-your hat." Dean weakly raised a bloody finger. The threadbare baseball hat had fallen off onto the floor.

The hunter’s hands went self consciously up to his head which was completely bald but for a very badly grown out comb over. Dean lost it, bound hands shaking on his chest as he rolled to his side trying to keep his pained laughter in, as unstoppable as it was.

That was when the big guy picked up the TV.

That shut Dean up pretty quick.

Automatically, he tossed and held his arms over his head, hearing the crack of bone as the television shattered down on top of him. His left arm was suddenly limp and useless, blood seeping through the sleeve of his T-shirt.

The pain tightened his voice to a hiss.

"Son of a bitch!"

He heard the man lumber through the wreckage and heard something clank loudly, the release of suction and the sound of a door scraping across the floor. It was the meat locker door he’d been staring up at all week.

N-No--” Dean breathed when he was grabbed up under his arms and dragged backwards. The weight of the shackles on his left arm made him groan nice and loud through his teeth, his good arm trying to support it in some way.

The smell in the locker was rank. Raw and damp musty, not from dust and debris but from red flesh and skin. Locked up and stale he breathed it in gulps as he fought back the nausea the pain in his shoulder was giving him. Dean looked up when they paused, the ceiling lined with chain and massive hooks left for hanging sides of beef on. With one swift motion, he was lifted, his shackles catching on the curved hook just above his head.

Dean cried out as the weight fell on his shattered arm, the toes of his boots touching but just barely grazing against the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting not to yell out again, the drugs pumping through his system making him as light headed as the agony that radiated up and down his left side.

Oh-Oh God—“ he moaned when he started to feel all the links to his pain start to snap away. One by one by one, leaving him fighting to remain conscious at his very core.

The rag was pushed tightly between his teeth, left there with no tape to mesh it in place. He felt the black cloth being tugged back down over his head, his face and hair matted with sweat and blood. It was smothering, taking away all the dank air he had left. He shook his head back and forth wildly to get it off, the scent of it mixing with the heavy musk of dead flesh and bone.

Just as the knot was tied tight around his throat….

Dean passed out.
















Couldn’t see.

Could hear a little.

It was the door that roused him.

It scraped open bringing with it a gush of fresh air he could feel against his body but could not breathe in. His hands tingled with pin and needles as if they were on fire. His left arm seemed to be gone. Missing from the anatomy of his body. At least it seemed that way until he made the stupid mistake of trying to twist it.

There was a voice. The man was talking again.

The agony of even being moved on the hook made him whimper in the back of this throat. He heard himself trying to say no, and please and didn’t care how pathetic it was. Strong arms encircled his waist and lifted him, letting the length of the cuffs slip off the hook's barb. Dean crumpled to his knees, knowing that the guy was ready to finish this now.

He could heard noises, the rush of the drugs still getting in the way of his reality and what was right there hidden by the black hood. He couldn't control his breathing, but he felt the man coming close to him again. He did the only thing he knew how to do. He fought back.

With a yell, he threw himself backwards and flung out his legs.

There was a satisfying crashing sound and he knew he'd floored him. Rolling back on his damaged arm, he struggled to remain lucid enough to get on top of the body he knew was beside him. He straddled it, using the heavy metal bar that connected his wrists together to press as hard as he was capable down across the man's neck.

Hands were pushing him back, gasping sounds and words fleeting like someone cycling too fast through radio stations. Hands gripped painfully into his forearms and firmly shoved him backwards.

With the one hard push, he landed hard on his back, his shoulder and arm exploding in an agony he didn't think was possible. He heard the man stand.

This was it. This was all she wrote.

What did the hunter have now?

A cinder block to crush his skull?

A loaded gun to slide under the hood?

Maybe just a few well placed sharp kicks to his chest.

Dean tried to roll over, tried to back away, but any movement made him freeze, crying out and biting down hard on the gag wedged firmly between his teeth. He couldn't move. He couldn't catch his breath. He was done.

A hand yanked at the knot under his chin of the hood.

A face to face end huh?

Dean could live and die with that. Better than waiting here in the dark for something to happen. Now he could watch the knife sink in, he could see the bullet in the chamber, he could--

The hood came free, air immediately cooling his sweat glazed face, blood stinging his eyes and running freely from his nose.

"Jesus Christ." Came a soft disbelieving voice.

Dean blinked rapidly, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light of the locker.

"S-Sam?"


tbc

part 6


Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 58 comments
Previous
← Ctrl ← Alt
Next
Ctrl → Alt →
Previous
← Ctrl ← Alt
Next
Ctrl → Alt →