!!!-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... )
Because…because it’s been almost two days. If somebody had seen him getting thrown into a van, wouldn’t he have been found by now? It’s seeming less and less likely that a SWAT team’s gonna burst through the flimsy screen door and spirit him to safety.
He has no idea how far they drove while he was unconscious in the back of the van, and no idea where he is now.
It’s terribly disorienting to realize he has no idea where he is. How can he not know where he is? He sees himself as a tiny sailboat lost in a vast gray sea, and feels the clawing panic start to return.
-That’s not helping. Breathe. Assess.
So. Okay. He’d done some assessing earlier while Dru was in the bathroom, examining his bonds for weak spots. It was the first chance he’d had to test his restraints methodically, while he wasn’t in a state of blind terror or rage.
As awful as his situation is, it’s maybe not completely hopeless. For one thing, he isn’t actually secured to the bed. He’s hobbled by his chains-and his current lack of opposable thumbs-but he isn’t tied down. His ankles are cuffed together and a long chain secures his feet to a second chain that circles his stomach. If he can draw up his legs, he might be able to get in one good kick.
But his left knee feels hot and swollen, and refuses to bend no matter much he tries to persuade it. So it seems like kicking is off the table for now.
What about the handcuffs? You can’t buy real ones on Amazon. They have to have a weak spot or some kind of release.
Jared studies the cuffs. There does look to be some kind of quick-release mechanism along the sides near his thumbs, but he thinks maybe they’ve been filed down. Just the smallest nub sticks out of the right cuff, and when he casually tries to rub his hands together to trigger the spring against the other cuff, nothing happens.
-All right, leave that for now. There’s no point getting free while Dru’s right there.
But, he thinks that he might have weakened the little swivel screw that attaches the links to the bracelet during his freak-out last night. Maybe if he can just push through the pain it would cause his shoulder, he can pry them apart with brute force.
As Jared stares fixedly at the cuffs, and especially the small screw that looks like it’s working loose, Dru pauses the video stream.
“What was it like when you were growing up?”
Jared is startled out of his musing. Dru is looking at him sympathetically, which makes him want to scream. Instead he closes his eyes.
He thinks about long Texas summers, his parents and siblings. Wonders if he’ll ever see them again.
Jared sighs. “What do you want to know?”
“It must have been so hard on you, travelling all the time.”
He shudders when a consoling hand pats his elbow.
“It was…” he really doesn’t know what to say.
-It sucked.
“It sucked.”
Dru waits for more, and Jared finds himself making up rambling stories about sleazy motels and bad diner food until he finally trails off, exhausted.
-You gotta get out of here.
What would you do? If it was you?
-Try to get a message to Dean.
Great. Thanks. He’s as real as you are.
-Dru doesn’t know that.
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Would that actually work?
People must know he’s missing by now, so if a strange man turned up at the studio raving about the Winchesters, that should trigger some kind of an alarm. Would Dru be arrested on the spot?
What if they take Dru into custody and he never tells anyone where Jared is? How long would it take him to stumble down off this mountain on his own? He thinks he’s in the mountains anyway, based on the limited view out the window and the quality of the air.
-Focus.
Okay, so, Jensen’s already back at work. Maybe if he tells Dru he knows where Dean is…he feels a faint stirring of hope that he could actually con Dru into giving himself up.
Then he imagines Dru walking onto the set with a semi-automatic in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other.
Smashing up innocent crew members while he shouts about saving Sammy.
Snatching Jensen and trussing him up like a rodeo steer, to die in this prison next to Jared.
Shooting his wife in the head because he thinks she’s a demon from hell.
-Don’t turn him loose on your friends. Just get him to make a call.
Oh. That makes more sense.
***
Jared is scared to pull the trigger on this, his only plan, but it seems like time is of the fucking essence. He’s probably going to die of some awful blood infection if he doesn’t get his injuries treated.
Also, he’s going to have to piss again soon. Or worse.
A spasm of revulsion ripples through him.
“Dru?”
Dru is heating up a can of chicken soup on the tiny stove. Jared is, of course, on the bed. He’s worked himself up to a seated position where he feels less vulnerable.
“Dru, he’s, he’s back. Dean’s back.”
Dru turns, studies his face, impassive. “How could you know that?”
“Umm…”
-Psychic vision.
“I had, I had a vision. Just now. He’s back, he’s, he made it back somehow. You have to call him for me.”
Dru returns to stirring his soup. “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have those anymore.”
“I did, I’m serious. I don’t know how, I don’t know how they work. Look, please just call him for me. Please.”
The metal spoon against the sauce pan produces a scraping sound that sets Jared’s teeth on edge.
Dru steps outside a few minutes later, returns with his cell phone. Jared holds his breath.
“For the record, I don’t believe you. But I’ll try anyway. Gimme the number.”
Dru turns his back for a long moment, waiting for the call to go through. Jared nervously flexes his cramped fists.
This has to work. Right? It has to.
Dru ends the call without speaking and Jared sags against the headboard, studying the way his swollen knee is distending his jeans.
“Who the fuck is Jen-sen?”
“Just, heh, some guitarist Je--Dean likes. You know….one of his fake names.”
Dru is quiet for several minutes, the stillness of the cabin broken only by his heavy breathing. Jared rubs his wrists together in slow circles, too scared to speak.
“Sam,” he says finally, voice quiet with rage.
Jared looks up just in time to see the cell phone smash against the wall beside his head.
Jared flinches; hot coils of fear twist in his gut.
Dru looks livid.
“I told you I’d keep you safe, Sam! I can protect you better than your brother!”
“Okay, it’s okay Dru, calm down.”
“Don’t you tell me what to do!” he shouts.
“I didn’t, I’m sorry, just please calm down…”
“You’re safer here with me!” Dru’s eyes are black with fury.
The pot of soup comes flying at Jared next, but it bounces off the foot of the bed and onto the floor. Chicken broth splashes across his feet; a noodle wraps itself around one the links connecting his ankles.
“You’re not leaving me!”
Jared wracks his brain for something to say that will bring Dru back from the edge of insanity. He stares up at Dru, afraid to look away, aware of how helpless he is to defend himself.
So he watches as Dru picks up the mallet from the table.
Watches as Dru crosses the room in three quick steps.
Watches as Dru raises the hammer and slams it into his chest. Into his abdomen.
His vision goes dark again, and he misses the final smash that shatters his collarbone.
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“Sam? Sammy?”
Jared moans. Pain is once again fragmenting his thoughts.
“Please wake up Sam. I’m sorry that….you got hurt.”
Breathing is difficult. Maybe a busted rib. His whole left side feels twisted and wrong, jagged shards that wrap around his collarbone and down his back.
“Doct’r” he mumbles.
“It’s okay Sam, I can fix you up.” A hand brushes his shoulder and he groans.
***
Dru is taping up his ribs as Jared fights to keep his breathing even.
“You gotta get me to a hospital,” he says. His tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth, every word is an effort.
Dru clucks. “You can’t go to a hospital. How are you going to explain all this? We can’t exactly tell them you were attacked by a demon.”
Jared drifts in and out for awhile as Dru finishes taping up his torso and then moves down to wrap gauze around his raw and bleeding ankles.
“Don’t worry Sam. Nothing will happen to you as long as I’m around.”
At 8 o’clock Dru makes him eat a bowl of soup. By 9, Jared is vomiting blood.
***
The night is endless. Every time Jared starts to drift off, he inadvertently shifts or twitches and his body wakes up screaming. By morning he’s sick with fatigue, his body so wracked with pain he can no longer distinguish between his various injuries. It’s all just one throbbing, pulsating wall of hurt. If he concentrates, he can find spots on his body that don’t ache, and he tries to focus on those. His toes. His right knee. The tip of his nose.
He must look as terrible as he feels because it doesn’t take much convincing to get Dru to agree to go get him some medicine.
“Hospital?” he’d croaked.
“No Sam, that’s not possible. But I’ll see if I can get you some drugs to make you feel better.”
He lifts a bottle of water to Jared’s lips, then rechecks all the cuffs and chains.
“I won’t be long. You have to promise to stay in bed and be quiet.”
“’Kay.” he mumbles.
“You’ll feel better soon. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Jared looks at him sluggishly and then closes his eyes again.
He hears the screen door slam, the van start up. It all sounds very far away.
***
-Dammit, get up!
Shut up, Winchester. I’m tired.
-Get up NOW! You don’t have much time.
Jared blinks at the wall. The thought of standing, of moving around in this broken body, is almost too much to bear.
But he doesn’t want to die in this shitty cabin far away from his family. He doesn’t want that fucker Dru burying him in a shallow grave or salting and burning his body.
Groaning, he draws up his knees and eases his legs towards the side of the bed.
He swings his feet around and down and the rest of him follows with a thump. He collapses onto the dirty wooden floor; several minutes pass before he feels ready to move again.
Finally, he braces his right hand on the bed and slowly lifts himself up off the floor. His wrenched knee pulses angrily, but seems to be moving better than the last time he was on his feet.
Ten feet…eight…six… He shuffles his way slowly towards the kitchen table and the heavy rubber mallet resting atop it. Spots bloom before his eyes but he keeps moving forward. He’s aware of time moving very quickly as he creeps across the room.
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-Jared! Move your ass, man!
He blinks at the mallet, then at the mitts imprisoning his hands. The weapon is useless if he can’t hold it.
He looks again at the buckles, thinking that if he could just get his teeth on them.…but there’s no way he’s flexible enough to reach his hands, tethered as they are to his middle.
-You’re gonna have to break the cuffs.
He hooks one of his mitts through the back of the kitchen chair and drags it slowly to the edge of the room. He props his battered left shoulder against the wall, places a cuff on either side of the chair back, and pushes down with all his strength to force the swivel screw into snapping.
Nothing happens.
He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can with his cracked ribs, and pushes down again.
Nothing.
-Really Padalecki? How much can you bench?
Fuck you Winchester. This is all your fault anyway.
But he grits his teeth, lines up the links so the weakened screw is pulled tight, and begins to bear down again.
Jared breathes. Pushes. Breathes. Pushes.
When the screw is finally stripped from its hole and his hands break apart, he’s too surprised to catch himself and ends up slamming his chest into the chair back. His splintered clavicle howls in protest and he topples to the floor, pulling the chair with him. He lies on his side, breathless and trying not to pass out. After a few seconds he raises his arms in front of his face, relishing the ability to move his hands independently again.
-You’re running out of time.
Jared hauls himself back to a seated position and studies the mitt on his right hand. A black strap snakes around the wrist, fastened with a silver buckle like a belt. He takes the strap between his teeth, tugging his hand in one direction and his head in the other. He gags at the taste of the pleathery mitt. It’s tricky finding the proper angle he needs to pull the strap through the anchor.
After a couple of minutes he’s swearing in frustration. He closes his eyes, refocuses his attention, and tries again. And again. It takes several minutes for him to finally work the strap through the anchor and yank it free of the silver pin. He carefully threads the strap through the prong until it’s pulled free, flapping around his wrist.
Jared could cry with relief. He grips the tip of the glove with his teeth and yanks his arm out, finally freeing his hand of its suffocating prison. The air feels startlingly cool to his cramped, sweaty hand.
He reaches towards the left mitt to release his other hand but-his fingers won’t unfurl. They remain locked into a tight fist. He rubs them against his grungy jeans, then tries to flex them to work out the kinks, but his fingers feel dead and unresponsive.
-Okay, it’s okay. They’ll loosen up. Just get to your feet.
Jared rests his head against the wall, reawakening the squashy lump on the back of his skull. He’s not sure how much time’s passed, how much more time he has. The way things have been going, Dru’s already halfway back.
He used to feel like a pretty lucky guy. Had that really only been three days ago?
He tucks his good leg in and slowly pushes himself up, using the chair to support some of his weight, and since when did standing become an Olympic fucking event? His leg is shaking by the time he’s finally upright, and he’s reminded of how little he’s eaten over the past few days, how little he’s been able to keep down.
-You need to find a weapon. Now.
Right. He shuffles back over to the table, the mallet. But, Jared’s not sure he has the strength to swing it with the force he would need to take Dru down. A knife would be better. Or a gun.
-He probably has salt rounds in one of those bags.
Jared barks a laugh. His ribs protest.
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Jared doesn’t hear the screen door open behind him but he does hear the thunderous crack it makes when it slams back against the frame.
***
Before Jared has time to process the slamming door, Dru is smashing into his back with what feels like the force of a freight train, crushing Jared’s face down into the table.
“Bad, Sammy. Very, very bad,” he grits, pressing down on Jared’s neck.
And oh, fuck, everything’s gone swimmy again as Jared gasps for air, taking in the scarred table top in extreme close-up.
Dru’s legs are pressed up against his, pinning his thighs to the edge of the table. Jared tries to twist out of his grasp but Dru’s other hand has found his busted shoulder and he grinds his fingers into it.
“You…said…you’d stay,” Dru grunts, grabbing a handful of his hair and snapping his head back.
Jared is aware of something digging into his sternum, and remembers the mallet crushed beneath him.
Too weak, he thinks, wondering how he can hit Dru with enough force to keep him away.
-Aim for his nose. Or an eye.
Jared kicks back with his legs, connects, and Dru squawks as his knee hyperextends. He stumbles backwards, giving Jared enough room to push himself off the table and turn to face Dru.
“Sammy!” Dru cries, looking surprised. “That hurt!”
They stare at each other for a long moment. Dru rubs at his knee. Jared’s bad arm is wrapped around his middle and the mallet swings in his right hand.
“Stop…calling me…Sammy,” Jared snarls. Dru lunges toward him and Jared brings the mallet around with a force that surprises him, smashing it against his nose. Dru howls, and the look of stunned hurt on his face almost makes Jared laugh.
-Again.
He advances on Dru, feeling stronger, feeling like Sam’s presence in his mind has infused him with power.
Dru tries to block his next blow and Jared sees the bones crumple in Dru’s wrist. Jared takes another step towards him, and Dru stumbles backwards, falling heavily on his ass.
Jared looms over his captor, face twisted with loathing. But as he pauses to catch his breath, Dru climbs to his knees and tackles Jared around the waist, bringing him down heavily onto his back. Jared screams at the bright stabs of pain in his shoulder and his bare feet scrabble on the floor. Then he brings up his knees, slamming them into Dru’s balls.
Dru makes a pitiful keening sound in his throat and Jared’s reminded of the dog Dru must have bludgeoned in order to lure him to this hellhole. He swings the mallet around and smashes it into Dru’s cheekbone. Dru collapses his full weight onto Jared. Blood trickles from his broken nose and lands on Jared’s chin. Disgusted, Jared shoves the heavy man off of him, and Dru flops onto his back with a groan. Jared rolls on top of him and pounds the mallet into Dru’s left ear.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Until Dru is still.
Then Jared pushes up, slowly, up to his feet. He sways as he looks down at the motionless body, wondering if he should strike again. Wanting to strike again.
-He’s gone, man. It’s over. Go home to your family.
He watches Dru for another minute for signs of life before turning slowly towards the door. Distantly he thinks he should probably look through the duffel bags for the keys to his chains, but he can’t stay in this room for another second.
He pushes open the screened door with the mallet, still tightly clenched in his right hand. He steps into a clearing dappled by sunlight, the sky overhead a deep and peaceful blue. He breathes in air that is cool and sweet, sharply scented by the surrounding firs. Overhead, a mourning dove coos.
He’s alive. Somehow, he’s alive.
Thanks, Sam.
But Sam is gone, if he had ever really been there; Jared stands alone on the wooded mountainside. Free.
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Aaaaagh. Another absolutely fantastic update, my god. C'mon, Jared! You can do it!
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