SPN: In The Darkness by Legoline
Title: In The Darkness
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13, gen, angst, 1,000 words.
Summary: Dean's being held captive in the dark. (I saw "Papillon" last week. Best timing of a challenge ever)
In The Darkness
by Steffi
The dripping almost makes him go crazy. Not because of the sound-every bit of noise that interrupts the stillness is welcome down here. Anything that indicates time is passing at all. Dean’s tried counting, but he gave up somewhere around one thousand two hundred.
It drives him crazy because he doesn’t know how long he’s been locked down here-in the dark, where cold creeps up his spine and numbs his limbs, and he’s so, so very thirsty. His mouth has dried up completely. He can’t even wet his parched lips. The hunger he can deal with, but the thirst is about to kill him.
If he knew where the dripping was coming from, then God yes, he’d try to catch the liquid. He’d open his mouth and swallow each precious drop of water. He’d even lick the walls if he only knew where the damn water was dropping from the ceiling. He’s tried to find it in the dark, crawled over the floor and traced his hands along the rough, uneven concret walls but all he encountered was stone. No water.
Somewhere in the dark, the dripping continues to mock him.
He tilts his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes. Not that it matters whether he keeps them open or closed. The black around him is so complete and intense that it feels like it’s defying a law of nature. There are no windows in this room. At least Dean guesses it’s a room. Maybe a basement, or maybe some place down in the sewers. The door is made of metal or steel, Dean can’t really tell from running his fingers over the cold material, but he does know it shuts all the way and lets no light in.
There’s no way out of here. Dean has warm liquid running down his knuckles, now turned to scab, to prove it. He has no voice left from all the screaming and yelling. Wherever here is, nobody can hear him.
They were hunting a shapeshifter, Sam and him, and that freak thing grabbed him again. So it was a different shapeshifter than the one in St. Louis, but to Dean, they’re all the same. Supernatural sons-of-bitches. Bastards. Freaks of nature.
It didn’t kill him, so it probably adapted Dean’s shape and went after Sam. Dean tries to tell himself that Sam is smart and won’t be fooled by appearances, and that he’ll figure out what happened. That Sam will eventually find him. He repeats these things over and over again, but everytime he comes close to believing himself a voice in his head pipes up, Maybe Sam’s already dead. You’ll soon be anyway. Who are you kidding?
He’s always known that one of these days a hunt would be his end. That he wouldn’t grow old and wrinkly to move around in a wheelchair with a blanket spread over his legs. He’s had all his life to prepare for this moment, and even though he would have preferred going down in an actual fight rather than just starving to death, it’s something he can accept and wrap his head around. It’s not going to be pretty, and it’s not the way he would have wanted to go, but it doesn’t come as a surprise either. The only thing that worries him is that the shapeshifter may have done something to Sam. He pushes the thought far back, but it keeps popping back into his mind.
The minutes-hours-days? Stretch on.
Coughing fits shake his body. His hands start trembling, and his stomach is so empty it feels heavy. His denim jacket doesn’t keep the cold off, but Dean pulls it closer anyway. Thinking and forming coherent sentences in his head becomes an effort. Arranging words so they make sense.
His chin sinks to his chest and the dripping fades out for a while.
When the dripping wakes him again, his face is cold on the left side and Dean realises only after a long moment that he must have keeled over in his sleep. He attempts to push himself back into a sitting position but his arms are rubber and won’t support his weight.
He hears his heartbeat, faint and going too slow.
He’s dying. God, he’s dying.
Maybe it should upset him, but the only thought that does raise some sort of emotion in him is that he doesn’t know whether Sam’s okay.
Sam’s alive, he tells himself when the voice whispering that the shapeshifter killed Sammy invades his mind. He tells himself over and over again. Sam’s alive, Sam’s all right. Sam’s alive. Sam’s alive. Sam’s alive...
Until there isn’t even his own voice anymore.
Next time Dean wakes, warmth is coming from somewhere and it’s floating through his body. As he gradually becomes aware of his surroundings, he notices he’s not lying on the ground anymore, because the cold hard floor is gone. It has been replaced with something softer, much warmer.
The smell has stayed the same, though, so he must be in his prison still.
He can’t hear the dripping anymore because some other mumbled sound drowns it out, a mumbled sound that Dean recognises as Sam’s voice. He sounds worried, and relieved, but Dean can’t make out single words. Yet as the senses return to him bit by bit, he realises that Sam’s holding him, cradling him. There’s a hand at the back of Dean’s head, and an arm wrapped around his shoulder.
The hand at the back of his head carefully presses his forehead against what must be Sam’s chest, and Dean releases a quiet sigh. He’s so tired, and he’s so thirsty, and he can’t even say whether he’s still hungry. There’s this moment when Dean thinks that there are lips brushing the top of his head-but he must be mistaken because Sam would never do that-and the hand moves from his head until it’s cupped around Dean’s face protectively.
The world goes silent again at that point, and Sam’s voice fades away, but that doesn’t matter because Sam’s okay, and alive, and he’ll be there the next time Dean wakes up.
-end-
Author: legoline
Notes: PG-13, gen, angst, 1,000 words.
Summary: Dean's being held captive in the dark. (I saw "Papillon" last week. Best timing of a challenge ever)
In The Darkness
by Steffi
The dripping almost makes him go crazy. Not because of the sound-every bit of noise that interrupts the stillness is welcome down here. Anything that indicates time is passing at all. Dean’s tried counting, but he gave up somewhere around one thousand two hundred.
It drives him crazy because he doesn’t know how long he’s been locked down here-in the dark, where cold creeps up his spine and numbs his limbs, and he’s so, so very thirsty. His mouth has dried up completely. He can’t even wet his parched lips. The hunger he can deal with, but the thirst is about to kill him.
If he knew where the dripping was coming from, then God yes, he’d try to catch the liquid. He’d open his mouth and swallow each precious drop of water. He’d even lick the walls if he only knew where the damn water was dropping from the ceiling. He’s tried to find it in the dark, crawled over the floor and traced his hands along the rough, uneven concret walls but all he encountered was stone. No water.
Somewhere in the dark, the dripping continues to mock him.
He tilts his head back against the wall behind him and closes his eyes. Not that it matters whether he keeps them open or closed. The black around him is so complete and intense that it feels like it’s defying a law of nature. There are no windows in this room. At least Dean guesses it’s a room. Maybe a basement, or maybe some place down in the sewers. The door is made of metal or steel, Dean can’t really tell from running his fingers over the cold material, but he does know it shuts all the way and lets no light in.
There’s no way out of here. Dean has warm liquid running down his knuckles, now turned to scab, to prove it. He has no voice left from all the screaming and yelling. Wherever here is, nobody can hear him.
They were hunting a shapeshifter, Sam and him, and that freak thing grabbed him again. So it was a different shapeshifter than the one in St. Louis, but to Dean, they’re all the same. Supernatural sons-of-bitches. Bastards. Freaks of nature.
It didn’t kill him, so it probably adapted Dean’s shape and went after Sam. Dean tries to tell himself that Sam is smart and won’t be fooled by appearances, and that he’ll figure out what happened. That Sam will eventually find him. He repeats these things over and over again, but everytime he comes close to believing himself a voice in his head pipes up, Maybe Sam’s already dead. You’ll soon be anyway. Who are you kidding?
He’s always known that one of these days a hunt would be his end. That he wouldn’t grow old and wrinkly to move around in a wheelchair with a blanket spread over his legs. He’s had all his life to prepare for this moment, and even though he would have preferred going down in an actual fight rather than just starving to death, it’s something he can accept and wrap his head around. It’s not going to be pretty, and it’s not the way he would have wanted to go, but it doesn’t come as a surprise either. The only thing that worries him is that the shapeshifter may have done something to Sam. He pushes the thought far back, but it keeps popping back into his mind.
The minutes-hours-days? Stretch on.
Coughing fits shake his body. His hands start trembling, and his stomach is so empty it feels heavy. His denim jacket doesn’t keep the cold off, but Dean pulls it closer anyway. Thinking and forming coherent sentences in his head becomes an effort. Arranging words so they make sense.
His chin sinks to his chest and the dripping fades out for a while.
When the dripping wakes him again, his face is cold on the left side and Dean realises only after a long moment that he must have keeled over in his sleep. He attempts to push himself back into a sitting position but his arms are rubber and won’t support his weight.
He hears his heartbeat, faint and going too slow.
He’s dying. God, he’s dying.
Maybe it should upset him, but the only thought that does raise some sort of emotion in him is that he doesn’t know whether Sam’s okay.
Sam’s alive, he tells himself when the voice whispering that the shapeshifter killed Sammy invades his mind. He tells himself over and over again. Sam’s alive, Sam’s all right. Sam’s alive. Sam’s alive. Sam’s alive...
Until there isn’t even his own voice anymore.
Next time Dean wakes, warmth is coming from somewhere and it’s floating through his body. As he gradually becomes aware of his surroundings, he notices he’s not lying on the ground anymore, because the cold hard floor is gone. It has been replaced with something softer, much warmer.
The smell has stayed the same, though, so he must be in his prison still.
He can’t hear the dripping anymore because some other mumbled sound drowns it out, a mumbled sound that Dean recognises as Sam’s voice. He sounds worried, and relieved, but Dean can’t make out single words. Yet as the senses return to him bit by bit, he realises that Sam’s holding him, cradling him. There’s a hand at the back of Dean’s head, and an arm wrapped around his shoulder.
The hand at the back of his head carefully presses his forehead against what must be Sam’s chest, and Dean releases a quiet sigh. He’s so tired, and he’s so thirsty, and he can’t even say whether he’s still hungry. There’s this moment when Dean thinks that there are lips brushing the top of his head-but he must be mistaken because Sam would never do that-and the hand moves from his head until it’s cupped around Dean’s face protectively.
The world goes silent again at that point, and Sam’s voice fades away, but that doesn’t matter because Sam’s okay, and alive, and he’ll be there the next time Dean wakes up.
-end-