!!!-CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS-!!! Real Person Prompt Post // June 1st - June 15th
This is a post for any REAL PERSON PROMPTS. All prompts with pairings of people under the age of 18 should be posted to the underage section.
A few reminders:
1. Use your subject lines! Please start with either REQUEST or FILLED also please list the pairing and kinks2. Please come up with a title for your fic ( Read more... )
A few reminders:
1. Use your subject lines! Please start with either REQUEST or FILLED also please list the pairing and kinks2. Please come up with a title for your fic ( Read more... )
***
“Sam? Sam!”
“Huh!” He jerks awake in confusion, is almost immediately engulfed in pain. Everywhere. Everything.
“Oh thank god,” says a fervent voice somewhere beside him.
“Wha…?”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk. You … took a nasty blow to the head.”
“Cliff?”
His eyes slide slowly to the left, seeking the source of the voice, but he’s seeing double and his head throbs angrily, hot red pulses that radiate from his temple all the way down to his fingertips.
“Poor Sammy,” says the strange voice as a clammy hand pushes his hair away from his face. “You look worse than that time you died.”
That makes no kind of sense, nothing makes sense, and everything hurts. His hands feel itchy and weird, his back aches, one of his knees seems kinda messed up, and Christ, his head… but the worst seems to be his left shoulder, where something is very, very wrong. Did he screw up another stunt? He feels like he fell off a fucking building. He must have really fucked up this time. He closes his eyes and slumps over in his chair again, welcoming the darkness.
***
“Here Sammy, you need some water. Can you take a drink?”
Everything is still kind of shimmery and fuzzy when he opens his eyes again. His head throbs with the beat of his heart and his shoulder … the pain is so intense that his stomach lurches unpleasantly. As he slowly lifts his head, he sees a very blurry, very large man hovering over him, twisting his hands together.
“How do you feel?” the man asks anxiously.
“Awf’l. Wha happen?” he mumbles, as he tries to push himself up with his good leg. He stumbles at the movement, falls back hard in the chair. Confused, he tries again, fails again.
“Hey, man, he’p me up?”
“You just stay right there, Sammy. I’m going to take care of you.”
He closes his eyes slowly and lets his head droop towards his good shoulder. Takes a breath. Another. Hopes that when he opens his eyes again the world will start making some kind of sense.
His hair is tickling his face and when he tries to brush it away, he notices that his hand is not following orders. Ten-hut soldier, he tells his hand. Still it doesn’t obey.
His eyes flutter open and he studies his right arm. Huh. Looks weird. All black and plasticky. He squints and finally brings his vision into focus.
His hand has been swallowed up by some kind of black…mitten? He tilts his head to the left. Huh. Both hands. Wrapped up in some…boxing glove type thing. And … and his wrists are handcuffed to the arms of a chair.
He sits up straighter, sudden surge of fear clearing the cobwebs from his brain.
“-- the fuck is this?”
“It’s okay, Sam. Don’t panic.”
“What. The. FUCK. IS GOINGON?” he shouts, yanking his wrists roughly against the scarred wooden arms of the chair.
Panic and adrenaline override even the hellish agony in his shoulder. He thrashes wildly, desperate to free his arms. Suddenly the world swoops around him and he’s cracking the back of his head against something very hard and unforgiving. The pain in his shoulder flares, agonizingly bright. Even though he’s stopped moving the world continues to dip and spin, and he’s sure he’s going to lose his lunch.
“Oops. I was afraid of that,” says the voice, sounding farther and farther away.
He sucks in a breath, dizzy and winded, wondering why he’s looking up at the ceiling. The broken pieces of the chair he’s cuffed to sag and groan around him like a dying animal.
“It’s okay Sammy, I’m here,” says the voice. He looks up into a pair of brown eyes, shining with sympathy.
“You’re so sad all the time, Sam,” the man says, reaching down to caress his cheek. “I just want to take care of you.”
Jared feels a fresh burst of terror squeeze his heart.
He is so screwed.
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“Jared! Jar-red! I’m an actor! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Jensen would never have let himself be caught in this stupid, humiliating situation, Jared thinks sourly as he tugs and twists at his cuffs. Which are, yep, still made of steel.
After he’d toppled over in his chair there had followed a short and furious struggle between Jared and his captor. One of the chair arms had snapped off, giving Jared a chance to free his right hand and get in a punch or two.
A chance. Right. A punch. Riiiight. He was injured, hobbled, gloved, concussed, cuffed, dehydrated, and confused as all hell. Also, Dru’s like, 6’3 and probably has a hundred pounds on him. When he gets out of this mess he’s definitely telling people he fought like a champion but suspects all he managed to do was flail around like a fish in a rowboat. The scuffle was over quickly when Dru grabbed Jared’s left shoulder and squeezed, hard, pushing his considerable mass into it.
Jared had screamed in agony, and then he had cried. That detail was also going to be left out when he’s telling this story over beers in the hopefully very near future.
After the dirty trick with the shoulder, it had been nothing for Dru to manhandle Jared over to the dusty bed in the corner of the room and re-secure him.
He can see now that he’s in some sort of run-down cabin, really just one big room with a tiny kitchenette, a saggy brown couch, and the bed he’s currently lying on. Oh, and he’s pretty sure there’s a family of mice living in the couch. Hopefully mice.
He tries not to worry about the fact that there’s only the one bed. He’ll be well away from this shithole before nightfall anyway.
Dru had tried to stretch Jared’s arms over his head and cuff them to the headboard, but his left shoulder ached so bad he couldn’t raise it and when Du had tried to force it, Jared had finally lost the battle to keep his nausea under control and started puking down the front of his shirt.
“You might’ve broken your scapula,” Dru had said apologetically.
So, Plan B apparently was cuffing his wrists and ankles to a chain around his waist, like a prisoner under transport.
Jared does not like to think about what Plans C or D might involve.
Then, there’s the mitts. Don’t forget the goddamn-motherfucking-mitts.
After the fighting and flailing and crushing, and the manhandling and the puking, when Jared can finally control the dueling pains in his skull and his shoulder enough to think a little more clearly, he finally asks.
“Umm…Dru… the hell are these…things… on my hands?”
“Just a precaution,” Dru says as he picks up the pieces of the broken chair.
Jared’s hands are folded into fists and trapped in these bizarre gloves that are so tight, he can’t even wriggle his fingers. The loss of mobility, his thumb locked away and useless, causes such an intense feeling of helplessness that Jared is dizzy with impotent rage.
Dru straightens up and walks toward the bed. Jared shrinks back as much as possible, which isn’t much.
“I know how good you are at picking locks and getting out of handcuffs,” Dru explains, as he tips a bottle of water towards Jared’s dry lips. “I had to pick them up at a … specialty store,” he adds, blushing.
Jared looks at the mitts again, realizes they’re made of some PVC-type shit, and closes his eyes.
“I got the handcuffs on Amazon though,” Dru adds brightly.
“Were these the only things you bought at the … specialty store?” he asks, ashamed at the pitiful note of hope in his voice.
Dru turns away and goes back to fussing around in the kitchen.
So. He is one ball gag away from being the gimp in Pulp Fiction. Or, God, Marcellus Wallace.
Jared closes his eyes again and follows the fluttering wings of panic back down the rabbit hole.
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“Gen?” he mumbles.
“It’s me, Sam. How do you feel?”
His eyes fly open. Fuck. It’s still not a nightmare.
Dru is standing over him with a wicked sharp pair of scissors, cutting his shirt to ribbons.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” Jared yells, struggling to sit up.
“Calm down. You’re covered in vomit, I’m doing you a favor.”
Jared sees the shredded rags of his shirt falling around him. Man, wardrobe was gonna be pissed.
As Dru continues snipping away at the sleeves, he begins to speak.
“I knew you would need me now,” he says. “I knew it was time to find you and take care of you.”
Jared gives up trying to sit, he can’t get any leverage with his hands cuffed in front of him. He just keeps jostling his broken shoulder. He’s playing a macabre game now of which he’d rather cut off to stop the pain. Head? Shoulder? Right now his head is leading by a hair. He imagines his skull as the edges of two tectonic plates grinding against one another.
“Continental drift,” he mumbles to the ceiling.
Hmmm. Maybe he does have a skull fracture.
Dru ignores him, gently lifting Jared up enough to ease the shirt from behind his back.
“When I learned you’d been left alone again, that Dean was gone, I knew you’d need my help.”
Jared’s only half listening. He’s mostly wondering how long it took Gen to notice he was missing. And then how much longer to realize something might be wrong and he hadn’t just wandered off like the goofball he was. If he was grateful for one thing, just one, it was that she hadn’t been with him when this happened.
“So if I can just keep you safe till Dean returns-”
“Until-what?”
“He’s in Purgatory you know. You probably figured that out. Crowley could have been a little more helpful but I knew you’d figure it out.”
“Dude. Fuck. There is no Crowley. There is NO DEAN!”
“Tssh. That temper of yours. You make really bad decisions when Dean’s not around, Sammy. I’m just trying to protect you from yourself.”
Jared tries to sit up again. “So, wait, if I promise not to do that…thing…I did last time, the blood thing, right? If I don’t do that will you let me go?”
“I’m doing this for you, Sam. It’s for your own good.”
Jared is quiet for a minute, wondering how long he can continue arguing with a man who’s clearly deranged before his head actually breaks apart (continental drift), and then says uneasily, “Why are you cutting off my t-shirt? It’s fine, really, totally clean, no puke-” But then it’s gone too, to be discarded with the busted chair and the blue plaid shirt that he had totally been planning to return.
He thinks of all those rows of tees and henleys and plaid shirts safely locked up, waiting for him and Jensen to return, and he feels homesick.
Jared clears his throat. “Kinda cold in here, you maybe have a shirt for me?”
Dru is silent. He sets down the scissors and then puts his hand back on Jared’s chest, slowly tracing the lines of his chest and stomach muscles.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.
---
tbc
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Earlier, Jared had spent 10 minutes babbling a steady stream of nonsense before Dru had snapped out of it and stopped stroking Jared’s bare chest. Even during the (assault? oh holy fuck) whatever it was, he knew he should be grateful that Dru’s hands hadn’t strayed below his waist (yet, a nasty voice whispered in his mind), and that he was still wearing his jeans (for now). That Dru had put the scissors down, instead of tracing the sharp edges of the blades along the same paths his hands were currently moving. The trick, finally, had been to throw ‘Jared’ under a bus and start pretending he was Sam Fucking Winchester.
“So, hey, this is nice ’n all,” he’d said, his voice sounding absurdly fake to his own ears, “but you…you should really stop touching me. Dean’s not gonna like it.”
Dru’s hands had stilled, though they were still splayed out over his naked skin.
“He’s just, heh, you know how protective he is.”
And finally, Dru had pushed himself away and stood up, bending to retrieve the soiled and tattered shirts and taking them outside.
That nightmare had been followed by a shuffling, awkward trip to the tiny bathroom off the kitchen so humiliating that Jared couldn’t bring himself to think about it. Didn’t want to think about it ever.
“You gonna take these things off my hands?” he’d asked as he limped his way into the bathroom.
And no, Dru was not.
Jared had never tried to take a leak before with someone else aiming his cock for him, and he hoped fervently never to have to do it again. He was surprised he could even start, he was so ashamed and repulsed, but he’d been knocked out for a long time and his bladder was uncomfortably full.
On his way back to the bed he’d spotted the rubber mallet sitting on the kitchen table.
He had already been starting to piece together the events that led him here, though his memories were still a jumbly confusion. But he definitely recognized that mallet as the source of every fresh hellish pain in his body, and he wanted nothing more than to grab it and start beating Dru until his insides were a mushy pulp.
He’s barely hanging on after the (don’t think about the bathroom, just don’t think about it everever) walk around the cabin, but seeing that fucking mallet resting on the table, still speckled with Jared’s blood, sent a new wave of rage through his body.
He took a deep, shuddery breath and tried to force himself to calm down. There was no way a fight right now would end in anything but another broken bone. His body was so wrecked that even without the chains he could barely fucking move, and the walk to the bathroom, his slow steps a pitiful shuffle slide, shuffle slide, had awakened the pain in his twisted knee to the point where it was trying to give his broken head and busted shoulder a run for the money.
So. So he’d just have to wait it out. Someone would find him soon, right? People had to be looking for him.
He pulled himself together enough to make it back to the bed without launching himself at Dru in a self-destructive rage.
“Hey man, I could sit on the couch,” he’d offered shakily, but Dru ignored him.
So, back to the bed, sitting up against the headboard, shoulder screaming, head pulsing like an egg sac about to burst, with the helpful addition of a spasming knee.
After the …events… of the last half hour (oh god, he was touching me) Jared had wanted to close his eyes and forget he existed. But Dru had pulled the remaining kitchen chair up beside the bed and just sat there, watching him. Jared tried to ignore him, hoping if he slept he might be able regain some strength (hah), but being watched was too unsettling.
Plus, he was starting to realize that a quiet Dru was a .…handsy Dru. A Dru who may or may not have a stash of even more appalling items that he’d picked up at “specialty” stores.
So, Jared gave in and started talking. Or rather, let Sam start talking.
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“I’ll keep you safe right here till he gets back.”
“Other, um, other people too, probably wondering where I am.”
“I don’t think so, Sam,” Dru leaned forward and rested his elbows on his meaty thighs. “You’re alone in the world now. That’s why I knew you needed me.”
Right. Fucking writers. “I, um, I was supposed to be on a, um, hunt,” he tried again, feeling like a fool for talking about ghost hunting like it’s an actual thing. “People could-there’s this monster, thing-“
“You’re not really in any shape to be hunting right now.”
No shit, you hammer-swinging dick, he’d thought savagely. But he tried to do some of that deep breathing stuff again to keep his emotions in check. Raging and flailing was not going to get him anything but more bruises.
When Jared had run out of Sam-like things to say, Dru had pulled a laptop from one of the duffels lined up against the wall (the contents of which Jared had very consciously not been thinking about) and set it on the bed. Before climbing on the bed with him.
“Um…”
But Dru hadn’t gotten too close (although really, Venezuela would be too close as far as Jared was concerned). Instead he’d set the laptop between them and queued up Netflix.
And now Jared is trapped watching himself make out with his wife on tv while Dru berates him about his life choices.
“I really, really don’t want to watch this,” Jared says, again, but of course Dru has extremely selective hearing. God, he hadn’t even wanted to think about Gen while he was trapped here, like just imagining her while he was in this hell would defile her somehow. And now he’s not allowed to look away from her.
He focuses on the keys of the laptop so he doesn’t have to look at the images, though of course he can still hear her voice, that snide tone that he doesn’t hear very often in real life. He remembers filming this, of course, how awkward it had been, how they were already into each other but trying to keep it a secret. Remembers how much it sucked to get half-naked on a soundstage full of teamsters.
Thinks about how much it sucks to be half-naked on a bed in front of Dru.
“That demon bitch really fucked you up,” Dru is saying, and Jared tries to shut down his depressing train of thought and follow the ‘conversation’ again. “And you’re not even over her. I saw her picture in your wallet.”
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Icy dread spreads over Jared slowly like a poisonous fog. This psycho, this crazy fuck, who had been hanging out only a block from Jared’s house, waiting for him to stroll by like the oblivious fool he is…. and how had Jared been so stupid, so completely fucking stupid, to assume Gen was safe at home, wondering where he was? What if she was, if she was, if he had…
He stops breathing while the implications of this possibility play through his mind in a hideous series of crime scene photos. Gen dead. Gen shot. Gen stabbed. Gen dead.
“You…” he gasps, struggling for control. “You haven’t seen her, have you? Dru? Have you seen Ruby??” Oh god. Oh god ohgod.
“Of course not, Sam. She’s dead.”
“She’s, she’s,” and he’s still struggling to breathe.
“Dean killed her. You were there.”
“And you, you,” deep breath, “haven’t seen her since? Since Dean killed her?” He tries to feel relief but this guy is so clearly incapable of telling fantasy from reality.
“How could I? Though I think he might run into her in Purgatory.”
Oh god. She was safe, right? She had to be safe. Of course she was safe. She was probably, she was probably out having sushi with her friends. Or at the movies. Or…no, that would be stupid. Her husband was missing. Okay, but even if she’s sitting by the phone unhappy, she was safe. She had to be safe. She was safe.
Jared almost wishes he'd black out again, just to get away from his aching body and the rabbity panic in his chest, but he stays alert. He shifts himself as close to the wall as possible and pretends to fall asleep though, and after awhile he’s calm enough to actually drift off on waves of pain. He listens with half an ear to the oddly comforting sounds of Jensen and Misha doing their Batman growls at each other before sliding into an uneasy, nightmare-filled sleep.
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You doing a great job Author-Anon.
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Dru snores softly next to him. The laptop has gone dark.
He’d snapped awake a few minutes ago to find Dru’s hand resting on his stomach, but a quick reflexive swat with his mitt and it had retreated.
Still, there’s no going back to sleep now. Not with that hand ready to crawl back across his defenseless body like a fat ugly spider.
He starts with his toes and works up to his head, trying to remember how each injury occurred.
Some of his aches are the result of his confinement; his lower back has started twinging because he can’t stretch his arms or move his torso very well. The skin beneath the chain around his middle is raw and abraded from the constant grinding of metal against flesh, and his bare ankles are torn and bleeding in a few spots. His fingers, forced into fists for so many hours, have begun to cramp painfully. He flexes them as much as he can, but it doesn’t really help. He figures the mitts were designed to be one-size-fits-all, a designation that’s never really worked for him.
Also, he has to pee again, which he’s trying very hard not to think about, for many reasons. He’d been tempted to just let his bladder go and damn the embarrassment, until he imagined Dru stripping away his jeans with the same scissors that had destroyed his shirts.
He’ll say he’s doing you a favor because you’re covered in piss.
But those are all minor annoyances in the scheme of things, so he focuses on the injuries he received from Dru’s fucking rubber mallet.
He could have used a hammer, you know. Pierced right through the skull.
The last blow he remembers receiving is the one to his head, and he wonders gloomily how long he’s going to last if his brain is bleeding.
***
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28 hours earlier
“Hey!,” a man calls, waving to him from the other side of the street. Jared sees a beefy guy kneeling on the ground in front of a white cargo van.
It’s a beautiful night, sky the deepest blue of twilight before it begins to sink into black, and a soft breeze plays at his hair.
“Hey, can you help me? Someone just hit my dog!”
“Sit, girl, stay,” Jared says, dropping the leash and jogging across the road. Behind him, Sadie whines. He kneels down next to the injured animal, a terrier mix that is clearly dying. The dog rolls her eyes up to him in misery and he says, “It’s okay girl, we’ll get you fixed you up.” The dog pants shallowly, already on her way out.
“Can you help me lift-” Jared says, and looks over his shoulder to see the man swinging a mallet.
He ducks instinctively but the blow connects anyway, brutally smashing into his left shoulder and sending him sprawling. He scrapes his face along the pavement, skinning his forehead above his right eye. He doesn’t really feel the pain in his shoulder, not yet, as his body is flooded with adrenaline. But when he tries to push himself back up, his left arm won’t cooperate at all. Instead he rolls onto his right side, just in time to see the hammer swinging down again, slamming into his thigh with bruising force.
The man grabs him under his bad arm and tries to shove him into the van’s interior but Jared twists in his grasp, kicks out with his good leg. That earns him a blow to the stomach, and he’s doubled over wheezing. The world shifts underneath him as he’s forced into the van on his knees. He’s gasping for air but makes one last dive for freedom, fighting his way towards the open door. The man grabs his leg, twisting it roughly as he hauls him back in, and Jared feels the cartilage in his knee come tearing loose. He’s pretty much down for the count at that point as his shoulder finally begins to send up searing flares of pain that race up his neck and down his arm. Still, the guy must decide Jared isn’t totally incapacitated. As he slumps on the floor of the van, struggling to catch his breath, a final swing of the mallet nails him in the back of his skull. He doesn’t know anything else until he wakes up here in hell.
***
Obviously, the blow to his skull is the most troubling.
(Blows. You smashed your melon again going over in the chair.)
His shoulder is excruciating but not life-threatening, and his knee might actually be benefiting from the enforced bed rest.
(Lucky he didn’t break your femur. He probably pulled his swings a little. )
His blinding headache has finally begun to recede, which Jared thinks is maybe a good sign. His thoughts are not as chaotic (not as brain-damaged) as when he’d first come around cuffed to a chair. Still, he’s not exactly lucid.
For one thing, he’s pretty sure the voice that keeps whispering in his brain is Sam’s.
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Oh, you leave me short of breath and anxious each time! And it's such a good thing, really it is, poor guy! Every second is a cliffhanger, really.
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