The Vision Giver: Chapter Two
They were passing mile marker 89 when Dean glanced at the man in the passenger seat and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life. He'd bought a human. A human who was passed out against his car door.
Returning his eyes to the road, he thought about what the seller had told him. There was a locator chip implanted in the back of the Giver's neck. The tracking device was in Dean's pocket. Should the Giver ever decide to run, it wouldn't take more than a couple hours to find him.
Like a dog.
The Doper handed him a two-week supply of what he termed transitional medication. Probably the same stuff they'd injected him with earlier. Syringes included. But Dean had no intention of using it, even if the same distress reared its ugly head again. He was trained in hand-to-hand combat. He could handle it. And his hope was that once the Giver realized he had no intention of hurting him, he'd cooperate. At least a little. How many other choices did he have?
Dean narrowed his eyes as the signs for a motel came into view. He'd passed several motels earlier with the intention of creating a wider search area, should anyone attempt to track him from the warehouse. But it was getting late. He wasn't about to sleep in the car with someone who'd probably cut off his nose to spite his face.
A neon Vacancy sign had him pulling into a parking lot. He warily eyed the sleeping Giver before climbing out of the car, taking the keys with him. This whole willing slave… employee… Giver thing was new to him. He wasn't sure how skittish they were.
Shaking his head as he slipped into the office, he automatically booked them a room with two beds. Afterwards, he wondered if Givers were supposed to sleep in beds. He didn't see why they shouldn't. They were still human. Self-sacrificing, tortured humans, certainly, but humans nevertheless.
He was pleased to see the Giver still waiting for him when he returned to the car. It was a brief drive to the room, but it was enough to wake him. Good.
"Awake, huh?" He asked quietly, parking the car. "I got us a room for the night. I'm exhausted, and I'm not about to give you the keys."
Bleary eyes looked over at him when he turned off the engine.
"Because of the drugs," he added, as an afterthought. "You-"
He cleared his throat and tried not to squirm under the Giver's stare, finally exiting the car. He popped the truck and grabbed the bags. They hadn't given him any of the Giver's possessions, so Dean was working under the assumption that he didn't have any. That was okay. He'd picked up an extra toothbrush, comb, and some other crap before going to the warehouse.
The passenger door swung open as he closed the truck. Two bare feet, still tethered with a plastic cord, slowly lowered to the pavement.
Dean glanced around. There was no one in sight, so he decided to cut the cord only once they'd entered the room. He wasn't in the mood to chase anyone tonight, drugged or not. They could trade the cord for handcuffs until morning. The drugs would be out of the Giver's system by then, and they could discuss the ground rules.
"Come on, dude." Dean waited for him to emerge from the car. He did so unsteadily, keeping a hand on the Impala for balance. To anyone watching them, he probably appeared to be just another drunk who'd somehow misplaced his shirt and shoes during a night of partying. If they only knew.
Room nine.
Dean led the way inside, dropping his bag on the bed closest to the door. The Giver entered the room behind him, closed and locked the door, and then just stood there, swaying. So Dean gently took him by the elbow and led him to the far bed.
"Take a seat," he muttered, reaching for the lamp switch. It was a piss poor excuse for a bulb, casting them in a dim glow. But it emitted enough light for him to examine the scars that marred the Giver's chest and arms. They were savage and disturbing, but the fresh bruises were more Dean's concern. Especially those along his rib cage.
He sighed. Freaking Enforcers. "I'm going to get you some ice for those, all right? There's an ice machine by the office. Just don't go anywhere. You don't have any shoes and it's too cold to track you down tonight."
Sam stared at the motel door after the buyer left. Dean, his name was. Dean. It was a good, strong name. Better than Sir, which is what his last owner insisted on being called. Whatever. They remained his owners and he remained their Giver, and no name would change that.
Shivers began to wrack his frame, making him wince. Every time he was dosed, there was a period during which his body tried to rid itself of the sedative. Shaking, sweating, even vomiting a couple times. It also made him cold one moment and hot the next. Being dosed sucked.
Sam was contemplating whether or not Dean would let him lay down when the door opened and he reappeared, toting a bucket of ice.
"Sorry it took so long. The ice machine needed a kick or two. This isn't exactly the Ritz, am I right?"
He placed the ice bucket on the table, kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket. Sam shifted on the bed uneasily. His side did ache, but he was also freezing - for the moment at least - and the idea of being put on ice was less than appealing.
Dean looked up, eyes taking in his discomfort. "Hey, are you all right?" He moved closer, until he was kneeling about a foot away. "You're shaking. What's going on? Talk to me."
Sam felt a jolt of concern flood through him when Dean rested a hand on his arm. It was confusing. He clenched his eyes tightly, inwardly pleading for the touch to recede.
It did.
The emotion faded, allowing him to open his eyes without feeling overwhelmed with sensory information. He took a deep breath.
"It's probably the drugs they shot you up with," Dean speculated. "Sorry it happened that way. I just need your help, that's all. I was worried they'd hit you over the head or something if you didn't stop fighting." He stood and returned to his bed to grab something from the duffle bag. "I do have clothes for you, but I don't know if they'll fit. The pants might be a little short."
His eyes trailed over Sam's torso. "You might want to take a shower before putting these on. It'll warm you up and wash the dirt off. Warehouse floors aren't clean, you know?"
Sam was too tired to take a shower, but what the buyer wanted, the buyer got. That was the first rule he'd been taught after signing over his life in exchange for Jessica's freedom. He couldn't conjure visions, but he could obey most other requests.
For the most part, he'd never been asked to do anything outrageous or sexual, and when he was, it was just that. He was asked. His previous owners seemed to think that causing him severe emotional distress would break his ability to have visions, the very reason they'd purchased him in the first place. If he never corrected such assumptions, well, it made his life more bearable.
He completed household chores and outdoor maintenance if they lived at a base. He rode with them if they traveled from hunt to hunt. Almost daily, he'd have head-splitting visions to report. Whenever those visions weren't desirable, he'd endure pain at the end of whatever weapon was handy, but his owners tended to quickly lose interest in hurting him.
It wasn't the easiest life, but it was his life. And as long as Jess was safe and happy, that was all that mattered. So when his new owner Dean suggested that he take a shower, it was just another duty, another night, another task. He answered in the only way he had the energy to. With a nod.
"Awesome," Dean smiled, appearing relieved. He knelt down and flipped open a switchblade. If Sam hadn't been drugged, he might have reacted somehow. Instead, he stared stupidly as the cord was cut from his ankles.
There was a hint of wariness in Dean's eyes when he stood. "Go ahead, then. Take these clothes." He held them out. "Just leave the door open. So I know you're not climbing through any windows."
Sam thought the last part might have been a joke, but he didn't comment on it as he accepted the clothing and walked into the bathroom. The tile was cold, but not as bad as the pavement outside. The light switch triggered a low hum as the lights flickered to life.
He turned on the shower nozzle, yanking his hand back when water sprayed from the showerhead. His heart pumped in slow, steady beats, but the sound grew louder in his ears. The air thickened as steam drifted from behind the plastic curtain.
Don't lose it. He grit his teeth, lowering his head. Memories of his last shower were washing over him. The humiliation and terror of Givers around him had been difficult to block out. They were stripped of their clothing, thrust under icy water, and given new clothes. One by one. Giver by Giver. Now he was suffering through an echo, a rush of previously-felt emotion that only lasted a few terrifying seconds.
"You okay, man?" he heard. Looking up, he met Dean's eyes. He nodded. He was okay. Everything was fine.
"Here." Dean leaned into the bathroom to turn the fan on. "No need to suffocate."
Sam straightened and unbuttoned his jeans. The motion caused Dean to retreat further into the room, allowing him some privacy. With shaking hands, he pushed down his jeans and stepped out of them. He hadn't been given any underwear, but at the very least, it meant less laundry. Maybe there were boxers discretely hidden in the clothes Dean gave him.
The water was hot enough to scald him when he stepped into the tub, but he welcomed the twinge of pain. He wanted to wash away the past six years. Every scar, every bruise, every haunting vision. He wanted to wash it all away.
Fifteen minutes later, Dean was cleaning his favorite pistol, ears perked for whenever the shower turned off. The last thing he needed was to be caught off guard, disarmed, or both. But he wanted to be prepared for the Giver's next vision. No matter what it was, he wanted to check it out. He was open to anything at this point. And while he didn't doubt the validity of the Giver, proof that his visions were useful would set Dean's mind at ease.
Thud.
His head snapped up at the sound of something heavy falling in the bathtub.
He sprang to his feet and strode to the bathroom. "You all right in there?" he called.
There was no answer. From the consistent drum of water, half on skin, half on tile, there was no movement beyond the curtain.
With an exasperated sigh - it was too late for this crap - Dean peered behind the shower curtain to see the Giver's naked body sprawled at an unnatural angle. His eyes were closed. And he wasn't moving.
Shit.
Dean turned off the water and threw back the shower curtain. He grabbed the nearest towel, draping it over the Giver like a blanket.
"Hey. Hey, dude." He rested a hand on the man's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "Come on, wake up and talk to me."
The Giver groaned. His eyes cracked open, and he blinked a few times. The muscles in his neck tensed as he tried to raise his head from the lip of the bathtub.
"That's it," Dean encouraged him. "Wake up, pal."
Unable to lift his head, the Giver turned it toward him instead. "It's Sam."
Then his eyes rolled back in his head and his chin slumped against his shoulder.
Dean inwardly cursed, moving the towel to see the angry bruises that covered the Giver's left side and wrapped around his back. There was no telling if they were the reason for his sudden lapse in consciousness or if he was simply exhausted beyond belief. Either way, they needed to be iced as soon as possible.
"Sam, huh?" Dean questioned, absently running his hand through the Giver's wet hair. "Well, Sam, it looks like they did a number on you. Hope you don't mind if I patch you up a bit."
After rolling up his sleeves, he grabbed the remaining towels on the rack, spreading one over the tile and draping two over his arm. Then he knelt by the tub and began methodically drying Sam off. Between his shivers and flushed appearance, he could use more than one night of rest. But people were dying out there. There wasn't time to take it easy for two weeks.
Drying Sam's arms, chest, and legs was relatively simple. It was lifting him from the bathtub while maintaining his dignity that was the challenge.
He stood somewhat behind Sam, slipping his arms under his shoulders. With a deep breath in, he heaved. His back muscles twitched in protest. A strangled grunt of exertion left him. When Sam was half on the lip of the tub, Dean shifted to his side, easing him onto the floor towel as gently as possible. Which wasn't very gently. The man was all muscle.
Snatching the clothes off the counter, he slid the boxers onto Sam, quickly followed by sweatpants. Deciding to forgo the shirt, he glanced at Sam's closed eyes before freely studying the scars on his chest. They overlapped in a way that suggested he'd been beaten multiple times over a short period. There were also cigarette burns and knife wounds alongside scars he couldn't immediately identify.
Heartless sons of bitches.
Ice, he reminded himself. Sam needed ice. The tar V and FR on his chest had been mostly scrubbed away, taking the top layer of skin with it. It looked painful.
Dean half-carried, half-dragged Sam to his bed. A fireman's carry might have been easier, but he didn't want to risk further damaging his ribs. It wasn't worth it.
As soon as Sam was settled, he packed three bags of ice and carefully placed them around his injured side. He only left them there until he was finished cleaning up the bathroom. And hiding his pistol. Then he removed the bags, and yanked the covers out from under Sam so he'd be kept warm overnight.
"I'm going to be honest with you, dude," he spoke quietly, tucking the blankets around him. "I don't know exactly what I'm getting into here. I don't know if you can help me, and I don't know if I can make life any better for you than it has been. But I do know that I will never, ever hurt you the way they did. They were sick. You don't need to worry about that anymore."
There was no response, but Dean wasn't really expecting one. He rested his hand on Sam's forehead, thankful when he didn't pull away. There was no unnatural heat that suggested a fever. Aside from the occasional shiver, Sam looked as though he'd fallen into a deep sleep.
Dean readied himself for bed, brushing his teeth and stripping down to his boxers and a white t-shirt. His last order of business was to handcuff Sam's right wrist to the headboard. He didn't want to, but nothing would piss him off more than to find himself at the wrong end of his own gun before morning.
It was better this way. At least until he could further understand Sam's state of mind. And his gifts.
With a yawn, Dean turned off the lamp and wearily crawled into his own bed. The cool sheets and fresh scent of detergent were heavenly. Tucking his knife under his pillow, Dean closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.
Sam bolted upright in bed, heart pounding in his ears. Fire surrounded him. Flames climbed the walls, roaring over the ceiling. An unbearable heat washed over the bed, charring his skin.
Bits of flaming wallpaper drifted onto the bedspread. He dove forward to put them out, but something clinked around his wrist, holding him back. That's when he realized the wall behind him was also aflame, streaks of blue mingling with white.
A strangled sound of panic rose in his throat. He rolled off the bed, a bed he didn't recognize, tugging at what bound his wrist. It appeared to be a pair of handcuffs, though the room was filling with smoke and it was too hazy to know for sure. He threw himself back, hoping his weight would be enough to break the headboard. Or at the very least, slip his wrist through what bound him.
He coughed and sputtered. Tears filled his eyes as smoke rose around him. It was growing too dark to see clearly, but the relentless glow beyond the haze was terrifying. He couldn't breathe. Fire pressed in on all sides, sure to burn him alive.
It was consuming the bed. If he didn't move fast, he would be next.
His struggles increased until his wrist ached, and blood trickled down his arm. But anything was better than burning to death. He doubled his efforts to break free.
Dean rolled over in bed, snuggling deeper into his pillow. He'd been having the most amazing dream about a pair of redhead twins in matching bikinis. Hunting for a monster octopus with over a dozen tentacles, he was just explaining to the young ladies how they should take care when entering the water. They might never know what lay below the surface. That's when he suggestively unbuttoned his shirt and flashed a million-dollar smile.
It was a dream that was going places. And he could get back to it, if only whoever was yanking on handcuffs would stop.
His eyes flew open. Please don't let it be someone he picked up for a night of innocent fun and passed out on. That had only happened once, but he could have died under her glare. It wasn't a mistake he cared to repeat.
Blearily gazing around, he realized there was no one else in his bed. There wasn't much light to see by, only what shone through the crack in the curtains from the vacancy sign out front. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:24am. He groaned. Shaking off the remnants of sleep at three anything AM was damn near impossible.
The handcuffs rattled again, followed by the sounds of someone straining to break free.
What the-
As far as he could recall, he'd conducted no recent interrogations. Or even took on any cases that would require-
Sam.
The events of the previous night rushed back to him. The warehouse, Sam, driving, shower, scars, sleep, cuffs. He threw back the sheets with a curse, fumbling for the lamp switch. If Sam thought he was escaping this early in the game, he had another thing coming. Dean knew he'd been through some rough crap in the past, but trying to escape mere hours after purchase seemed a bit premature.
Light flooded the room. Sam was frantically yanking at the cuffs on the other side of his bed. If he noticed the light, he gave no indication. He didn't cease struggling to look up.
"Sam. Hey!"
Dean rounded the bed, fully intending to restrain him. But as his eyes adjusted to the light, they took in details that replaced his anger with confusion. A sheen of sweat glistened over Sam's torso. Too much sweat to be the result of drug detox. He was frantically looking around the room between tugs, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The muscles in his arms bulged, veins protruding as if his life depended on immediate freedom. He didn't seem to notice Dean's presence.
"Jesus," Dean breathed, eyes resting on the blood coating Sam's arm. The sight of blood spurred him into action. He didn't care if this was a night terror or part of the vision thing. Sam was shredding his own arm in his desperation. And that? Not okay.
"That's enough," he said, voice level and calm, hoping he wouldn't need to hold Sam down again. It wasn't a healthy platform for building trust and loyalty.
But Sam didn't respond at all to his words. If possible, his struggles only increased.
With a reluctant sigh, Dean moved in fast. He grabbed Sam's flailing wrist. A firm, controlled twist was all it took before Sam only had use of his legs. A gentle nudge to the hollow of one knee sent him bending over the bed at the waist, face buried in the covers.
It took a moment for him to realize he couldn't move. When he did, he began thrashing in panic.
Not this again.
Dean climbed onto the bed, straddling Sam's rib cage and pressing down on the hand he'd trapped behind his back.
"Sam, can you hear me?" He spoke directly in Sam's ear, keeping his voice calm. "Nod your head if you can hear me."
Nothing. Except a weak tug on the handcuffs.
Dean closed his eyes. This was turning out to be one hell of a first night. So far, buying a visionary was the worst idea he'd ever had. One of the worst, anyway. He had no idea why Sam wasn't responding to him. Or how dangerous this episode was. To top it all off, his morals were scattered to the winds if the trembling body below him and bloody handcuffs were any indication. Sam was as unwilling as they came.
Dean's eyes darted to the drug box near the duffel bags, wondering if a small dose would be necessary to keep Sam from hurting himself. Then he squared his jaw at the thought.
No. This situation would work, it had to. And he didn't need drugs to calm Sam down. What if this was just a nightmare? He could barely remember his mother, but there was one thing she'd always done to calm him down. But… he clenched his eyes shut. It was too weird. Sam wasn't a child. He was a grown man.
With the irrational fear of a child, a voice inside his head reminded him.
He sighed. He was so getting shit for this in the morning. That was, if Sam remembered anything.
Another weak buck of Sam's hips was enough to steel his resolve.
"Hey Jude," he whispered, voice cracking. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart. Then you can start to make it better…"
It might have been his imagination, but Sam's breathing seemed to slow. Encouraged, he went on, "Hey Jude, don't be afraid. You were made to go out and get her. The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better…"
The tension left Sam's muscles as he went all but limp. He wasn't asleep yet. More like half-asleep, glazed eyes staring at the far wall without truly seeing it. Still, at least he wasn't fighting anymore.
Dean carefully eased off the bed, supporting Sam's uncuffed arm so he would stand. Then he guided him to turn and sit on the bed, against the headboard. He couldn't tell if Sam finally remembered him or where they were. The eyes staring back at him were fatigued, and a bit vacant.
Still humming Hey Jude, he crossed the room to dig out the handcuffs key from his jacket pocket. The truth was, he was a little freaked. While he never expected to buy a Giver with an instruction manual, this was different from what he'd imagined. But there were some basics to take care of, namely bandaging Sam's injuries. He could do that.
He warily eyed Sam for any reaction as he unlocked the handcuffs. He didn't believe this to be a ploy to escape, but it was better to err on the side of caution.
He needn't have worried.
Sam didn't move at all. Not even when Dean dug out the bandages and carefully wrapped his wrist. Cleaning the wound was unnecessary, especially considering the course of antibiotics he planned to start administering in the morning. Sam could soon step on a nail and go for a walk through the sewers without catching an infection.
Once his wrist was bandaged, Dean guided him to slip between the sheets. He didn't realize he was still humming until Sam turned onto his side, facing him, eyes clear.
Whoa.
His eyes were haunted and unguarded. Dean abruptly fell silent as they bore into his soul. There was a flicker of disappointment in them before they fluttered closed.
Hint taken.
Dean softly resumed humming, turning off the light and climbing into his bed. He had no intention of sleeping while Sam remained free, but he hardly expected him to sleep with someone hovering over him.
He didn't know how long he hummed in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted after a time. He thought of his mother, and the maternal things she used to do for him, for their family. He thought of his father and how he hadn't seen him in years. How he didn't care to.
Most of all, he thought of the future, and what it would mean to have Sam by his side, facing the horrors of the world with him. What it would mean to no longer be alone. As the soft glow of daylight peeked through the curtains, he fell silent and succumbed to sleep.
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The Vision Giver Masterpost
