SPN/DA crossover fic: Of Desire and the Status Quo (10/38)
Story Title: Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter Title: Past in the Present
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Dark Angel
Summary: In the end, it’s a complete accident that gets Dean Winchester out of Hell.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter X: Past in the Present
Whoever had knocked him out did a good job, Dean can’t help but think somewhat metaphysically as he swims inside of his own head of darkness. And he has standards for this kind of thing-he really doesn’t wish to calculate just how many times he’s had the living daylights smacked out of him. Though it’s kinda worse this time, seeing as how he’s pretty sure the guy who sent him flying out of the real world isn’t demonic or supernatural. Least not in the ways beyond being a massive douchebag.
And that really annoys him, ‘cause Dean should have seen him coming, heard him coming. Just because he might be a little off his game lately doesn’t mean he’s lost all his training and reflexes. That’s what pisses him off more than being kidnapped. (He knows that’s what it is, the kidnapping part.) He’s gotten out of worse scrapes than just being abducted; this is just another day at the office. Er…former office, he supposes.
He’s not sure how long it is until the unconsciousness starts to wear off, but when it does, he can feel he’s still in the process of being transported wherever-he can feel the truck rumbling across a road-and, in case of someone sitting right to the side of him, he opens his eyes infinitesimally, keeping his body mimicking the same movements as being unconscious. Steady breaths, uncontrolled twitches, no talking.
He wishes he knows how long he’d been out; that way, he could calculate how fast the vehicle is moving, and roughly where they’re headed. Like that time Sam was taken by those vampires. At least then they’d kept him awake. Truth be, Dean really, really would rather be in the company of vampires, even if they weren’t the “good” ones, than twisted humans. His motto still rings true, he realizes with an internal groan: Demons he gets, people are crazy.
The aphorism gains even more weight when Dean overhears what they’re saying. Some of the words are muffled, but Dean definitely catches something about the kidnappers doing some things to Dean that, well, he would much like not to happen. Something about some synthetic chemicals that he’s not sure the purpose of…shackles…interrogation room…surgical room…
It’s enough to make Dean hyperventilate with memories coming up fast and hard, no matter that these are flesh and blood humans, and not the bastards down in Hell. He thinks he’s just hyperventilating in his head, but the accelerated breathing, the unnatural movements of his chest up and down don’t lie.
The talking ceases, and the person next to Dean (he was right on that one) looks up at the person in the passenger seat, before making a face at Dean and then taking the butt of his pistol and slamming it into Dean’s temple. There’s a crack, and then he succumbs again, this time his mind without coherent thought.For Cindy, the world slowly comes back into focus and color as she opens her eyes, the lighting as dull and low as every other day that she can remember. Sitting up blearily, Cindy rubs her hand over her neck, expecting to feel bruising and soreness, but if it hadn’t been for her knowing she’d passed out and missed an as-yet-indeterminable amount of time, she wouldn’t have known Dean had put a sleeper hold on her. Speaking of…
“Dean? Max?”
She looks around the warehouse, frowning when she sees neither of the two she’d known were here before she’d lost consciousness. She begins to get concerned when she realizes they’re definitely not in the building, and wonders if she’d wholly misread Dean, and he really is a psychopathic murderer who’d dragged Max out into the alley and cut her up into little pieces while he escaped into the insouciant streets of Seattle.
But then she sees the teenage transgenic on whom Max had given her the short version of who he is, and, standing up with a little bit of dizziness, and making a note to herself to give Dean a piece of her mind next time she sees him. (It’s now she gets a thought that maybe she won’t see Dean again, and that makes her rather troubled. For all his bluster and mystery, the guy really had grown on her.) She thinks that when Max gets a chance, she’ll call her, and although Cindy doesn’t expect to hear very soon from her best friend, it doesn’t mean she won’t still wait impatiently for it. She knows that eventually Max will get back to her, and Cindy will surely berate her for leaving her wondering, but she also knows that Max has more on her shoulders than she ought to, and in the grand scheme of things, Cindy’s aware that a fiesty Ordinary, friend and confidante or no, is a lower priority than a lot of things.
“Aiight, kiddo,” Cindy says, walking over to Zero, who’s leaning against the wall in a very un-soldier like pose. “Where’d they get off to? No one killed anyone, did they?”
“Okay, first of all,” Zero says, annoyed, “I’m not an Information desk, unlike what you and Max apparently think. Secondly, no one died; Dean knocked Max out, took her motorcycle, and went off somewhere. And finally, how the hell should I know? Dean knocked Max out, took her motorcycle, and went off somewhere. When she woke up, all she said was she needed to find Dean. Didn’t really occur to me to ask anything else.”
It made sense, Cindy has to admit. If she hadn’t spent any time with Max or Dean, hell yeah she’d be reluctant to ask either of them anything. Especially if she’d just witnessed a fight between two badasses, both utilizing all their badassery to bend the other to their will, and only one of them succeeding. Still, that doesn’t make her any less pissed off that both of them had just left her there, unconscious, without doing squat to make sure she was okay or something. She knows they have priorities-Max with both T.C. and finding Dean, and Dean with finding Sam-but come on. Even a little note would’ve been nice.
“So you got nothin’?” Cindy asks unhappily. “Jus’ that they left?”
Zero shrugs. “Sorry.”
Cindy groans, and eyes Zero up and down. “You got a way to get me back to my place? I really ain’t lookin’ forward to walkin’ back there,” she inquires.
Zero raises his eyebrows; he hadn’t really considered the need to not just walk. X5s weren’t pleased with it necessarily, but they’d dealt with worse, and Zero had been trudging around himself for weeks, not paying much mind to it.
“Um…think I saw an old car out there that I could hotwire,” he proposes, wondering if he’d actually be able to use the vehicular lessons Manticore had put him through. At the time, he hadn’t understood why he was using them, mainly because Manticore had blown up before he’d had to employ the lessons, but now he thinks maybe he will get to do so. “There should be one somewhere.”
“Sweet,” Cindy says, not a stranger to being in gray areas of the law. “Let’s go.”
He’s not quite sure what to make of this Ordinary that is nothing like any Ordinary he’s seen before, her no-nonsense, upfront, audacious attitude new to him. The humans he’d seen and heard about were all scared shitless of transgenics and all that Manticore represented, and yet here this woman shows none of that. Zero imagines it has a lot to do with her being friends with Max, but still. He has a feeling she’d be fearless even if she’d found out a different way, and wasn’t friends with Max.
It’s because of this that Zero leads Cindy out into the howling rain towards the old clunker that he figures Max had either missed or thought too ostentatious. He hopes he does actually remember the process on how to steal a car, and also that Cindy won’t want to keep track of him like she and Max had with Dean. He’s just not ready for that yet.
Luckily, they seem to be preoccupied with the man Zero had also come to like, so he thinks he’s safe. With that, Zero makes quick with the stripping of wires, and in no time, they’re heading down the streets, Cindy giving directions like it’s every day a transgenic she doesn’t know offers to hotwire a vehicle after she’d been knocked unconscious by a maniacal criminal. Nonetheless, as he coaxes the dilapidated car through the roads, he ponders where he’ll go next, and if he’ll run across Max or Cindy or Dean again.
Probably not.Miles away, Dean also wakes again groggily, his head feeling like it’s filled with marshmallows, his brain synapses sluggish and half-hearted. He can’t stop a groan from escaping once his neurons finally realize that, oh, Dean’s in pain. He doesn’t know how long he was out this time, but he knows that they must’ve done something more to him, because at least before he’d felt bruised but generally okay, and now he feels like he was friggin’ tasered.
Dean’s not been tasered that many times, but the last time he was-okay, so maybe it was in part due to his own stupidity, but come on, that damn Rawhead was going to kill those kids, and probably Sam and himself as well-he almost died. Somehow he doubts there’s going to be a skeevy faith healer and his psycho wife to save him this time.
He wonders just why the fuck he’s still feeling the hurt, considering now that he’s a little more aware, this discomfort doesn’t remind him quite so much as electricity through his veins as something more…chemical? Dean flexes his arm muscles just enough to become knowledgeable of the things sticking out of his elbows, and he realizes belatedly that he’s got IVs jammed in him, both sides.
Getting a very bad feeling about all this-and that’s saying something; last time he can remember this feeling, ol’ Yellow Eyes was bearing down on him as he lay useless against a headstone; then he’d felt exhilarated-Dean aims to move his arms, rip those fucking needles out as soon as he can.
Except he can’t. He now feels the cold, harsh metal of restraints across each wrist, way heftier than he’s been secured with before, and immediately Dean’s heart rate skyrockets. The chains jingle, but aren’t anywhere close to breaking, and from the little movement he can make his ankles do, he knows they’re shackled as well. He’s strapped to a cold metal table, too, and all of it combined pushes his blood pressure nearly to the limit.
Dean snaps open his eyes, and he recognizes the white walls, fluorescent lights, and linoleum as a hospital room; or, at least, one that resembles a hospital room. He looks down his prone body and sees that he’s been re-clothed into scrubs like the ones he’d had when he was comatose in South Dakota, plain white T-shirt, blue pants, no socks. This is worse than South Dakota, though: he was basically dead then, freakin’ Tessa had told him so; now, he’s damn sure he’s very much alive.
“Oh look, he wakes.”
The voice comes from behind Dean, from where he can’t see it, but the words…Dean’s breath starts hyperventilating again to match his rapid heart beat, his muscles straining against their metal fetters.
White-hot manacles fastened over his bleeding wrists. Flaming blades carving across his face, hairline to shoulder. Fire-reddened brands blistering his torso, marking him, making him smell his own flesh burning off his bones. Pliers wielded by scabbed, putrid hands ripping out his teeth, one by one. The instruments held by an innocent-looking little girl, but whose eyes are whiter than death and who snickers, Oh lookie, he wakes! in that child’s voice Lilith has plagiarized. Screams he’s disembodied from, and yet knows they’re his…
No…no…I’m out, I’m out! Dean thinks frantically to himself. I’m in Seattle! Hell’s not…it’s…I can’t be back…I’m OUT!
“Sam,” Dean chokes out, his throat drier than when he’d first busted out-he had busted out, he had! He’s-He’s sure of it. (Right?) “I’m out! This isn’t Hell!”
The voice in back of him laughs, a kind of barren laugh that betrays any semblance of jocularity. “Don’t you worry, we’ll make it Hell for you,” it says.
The man comes around the table Dean’s strapped to-and, oh God, what are they going to do to him? No knives, please, I can’t…-wearing a tailored suit, his stature not impressively tall, but the cold air and unforgiving face masked by chiseled features and combed hair are more than enough compensation. And-wait…Dean’s seen this guy before.
“Who are you?” Dean whispers, the tears that were so close to being released now halting, Dean realizing that he’s got to be back in Seattle. Or at least this demon is familiar to him. What had Dean called him again? Oh, yeah. Suit.
Suit’s thin lips curl into a sinister smile, and he steps closer to Dean, seeming to delight in the panic reflected in his prize’s eyes. “Don’t give me that,” says Suit, his expression so similar to Lilith’s that Dean expects him to shrink and his brown eyes morph into white. “We’re well-acquainted, aren’t we, 494? We’ve spoken previously, but seems you’ve managed to escape that little contingency I placed on you. What kind of man would I be if I ignored that? Can’t play favorites, you know.”
Dean’s breath hitches for a moment at this. There’s that epithet again. And he’s still just as confused about it as ever. Hell’s demons had called him so many things, even incorporated salacious numbers, but never put an inflection on it so that it sounded like an actual name. He guessed they’d never come up with a number that would really serve as anything torturous to Dean.
But this man…he acted once more like the numbers should mean something to Dean, like Dean should feel chilled or furious at them or something. It’s this that completes Dean’s body coming down from its peaking overload, lungs and heart gasping for replenishment. Dean’s bound to a table, and the man used words that Lilith and Alastair and so many others had used, but when he focuses his senses on whether the room is purely real, on whether it has that dark aura around it that Hell’s visions had always brought, he finds nothing except solidity.
Truth. And, regardless of what level of dangerous situation he’s in now-and he knows he is-he’s more relieved than anything else. Earth’s dangers he can deal with. It’s Hell’s that he can’t.
His body now for the most part under his control, Dean tries to ascertain a way to get his ass out of here. Wherever “here” is. He assumes there’s at least some sort of entrance or exit somewhere behind him, be it an archway or door or whatever, because he’s pretty sure the guy didn’t just materialize, but there’s no door or window of any sort in Dean’s eyeline, no way of breaking out that direction.
Dean then, ignoring the pleased, almost entertained, expression on the unknown man’s face, examines the restraints he’s wearing. They’re not the usual leather and metal clasps that one would see in a psychiatric ward or a general hospital or wherever; they’re hardcore, thick, welded titanium, if not freaking tungsten, and, far as Dean can tell, hardy enough to hold a friggin’ tiger.
He’s a bit amused (as amused as his broken psyche can be at the moment) that they thought him so much a threat as to go this far, but really, it’s kind of overkill. He’s been subdued and sufficiently kept in check with just a few wraps of rope, a chair, and a gag; titanium cuffs are…odd.
“Look, pal,” Dean says, clearing his throat to get his voice at least a tad more imposing, “it’s bad enough when real evil monologues, worse when humans do. So get on with whatever you’re planning to do to me or let me go, you son of a bitch.”
Dean never really puts much thought into diatribes he gives, but usually they result in some sort of anger. If not anger, then maybe maniacal laughter, sometimes both, and sometimes his adversary bashes his head in with something to shut him up that way. They don’t just stare as creepily as before at him and smile. Which is what the man does, and Dean’s not liking it one bit. In fact, this thing is getting weirder and weirder by the second, and he’s hating this fucked, Kubricked version of Oz.
“That’s always the way with you X5s,” Suit fake-ponders aloud. “To think, you could have come to be such an asset, and it’s all wasted on smartass remarks and stolen scotch.”
X5? Dean usually prides himself on being able to obtain as much information about a situation as possible, and accurately extrapolate things from them, but he’s treading water on this one. He keeps attempting to get back to his planning how he’s going to escape from this place, and then Suit says something else totally mental, and Dean doesn’t know how to take it.
The only possible card that Dean may hold is that he’s pretty sure Suit is mistaking him for someone totally different. And not “different” as in Dean’s shapeshifter double, but “different” as in someone completely not Dean. All he’s gathered of this other person is that he perhaps goes by the name 494-whatever that stands for-and is, what, part of some special business or military faction? X5 sounds ominous enough for that. But even with those two pieces of information, it’s way too sketchy for even Dean to act on. He’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, sure, but Dean’s not stupid.
So, when in doubt: stall. Or, in Dean’s case, antagonize the guy until you get the intel you need.
“Hey now, don’t be like that,” Dean taunts facetiously, wishing he had his Colt M1911 resting inside his waistband to fortify him. He manages to morph his face into a shit-eating grin, centering his self-control to not show the pain he’s still most definitely in. “I like a nice Cabernet if the occasion calls for it. But you look more like an amaretto and Irish Cream kinda guy yourself.”
Okay, now that was definitely an irritated twitch, Dean observes with satisfaction. Tip number one for riling guys up: assume and then ridicule their alcohol preferences. In Dean’s experience, it works every time. Apparently, Suit isn’t immune. Moreover, just that tiny spasm in Suit’s façade ups Dean’s ego to a certain degree. Dean went to Hell, and yet his famed power of irking people remains intact.
“You know,” says Suit, handling curiously the IV drip bags to the right of Dean, “you’re looking rather off, 494. Strain of being trapped in that cesspool of a ‘city’ too much for you? Too bad, I expected you to last longer.”
Dean’s eyes narrow as he tries to comprehend Suit’s newest words. From the way he said it, it sounded like he wasn’t referring to Seattle in general…is there a city inside of Seattle that Dean had somehow missed or something? Some underground society thing? What kind of role is this “494” person supposed to be-or, more likely, still, since Dean’s in that guy’s place (and what the fuck is up with that, Dean would like to know)-playing in that city? Dean’s not too fond of questions. At all.
He sighs, just for the hell of it giving the restrains another sizable yank. If anything, they move even less than when Dean had jarred them before. Super. “Strain? Nah, I’ve had worse,” Dean replies conversationally, disliking the brutal truth in his own words, though knowing Suit doesn’t pick up on it. “Just thought a little sightseeing would be nice. What with Seattle looking so postcard-y this time of year. Rain and dereliction, gotta love it.”
Suit takes a breath, Dean’s impertinence obviously shortening his temper. The good thing is, Dean thinks, that he appears to be impersonating this 494 guy well enough. Suit hasn’t seemed to think they’re two separate people just yet, anyhow.
That said, though, Dean’s starting to wonder…how is it that someone who’s obviously got means, knowledge, and opportunity could mix up two people so badly? Not even realize he’s talking to the wrong one? Dean’s brain sends him a memory, one of when Cindy and Max were discussing the plausibility of him being a clone or whatever. Dean was pretty out of it, but the recollection of that conversation is crystal clear to him.
So maybe…is it possible Suit is under the same impression Cindy and Max were? That Dean’s a clone of someone else? Maybe even one of the other clones? It would fit the situation, Dean thinks, but how’s he supposed to even wrap his head around it, let alone spin it to his advantage? Really, clones? It’s way too Star Wars for him.
“Well, sorry, man,” Dean says, continuing with completely speaking out of his ass, “you’re not my type. Try the brothel next town over.”
“I should have known,” Suit says, like Dean had told him something in confidence. “X5-452. Guess your affinities for being pains in my ass are appealing to yourselves. Ironic, really, considering I heard you two were rather against breeding together. Though, I suppose she is the best out of your slim pickings.”
Dean makes a small choking noise in his throat, caught totally off-guard for a minute. Breeding?! What is he, a stud horse? Sure, he’s had his fair share of women, but he would never call it breeding. And for that matter, who is X5-452? Obviously someone similar to whoever 494 is, and apparently they’re in close proximity to one another, and maybe it’d help if Dean knew who either one is, but he doesn’t. It’s really starting to piss him off.
“Okay, I don’t know what the hell your deal is, dude,” Dean says, shifting around in the cuffs. He’s virtually back to nonchalance in terms of being shackled down, now that he knows it’s by a meager human, and not by anyone that can truly hurt him, “but I’ve really got better things to do than star in your creepy fantasies while you get your jollies off of my bondage here. So why don’t you just get back to watching porn like a normal person?”
Suit chuckles, and bends down to lean closer to Dean’s face. “You’re right about me getting pleasure from this,” he says. “However, it’s far from what you presumed. No, I’m wanting more…well, let’s just say you’re here for a little transaction. And, if it can be wrangled, bait.”
Bait? Dean thinks. What the fuck for? No one in this jacked reality even knows who I am, let alone I’m out of Hell. “It won’t work,” Dean says with conviction. “No one’ll come for me.”
“We’ll see about that,” says Suit with a smug smile. “452 has a propensity for saving mutants like yourself. I’m sure you rank high on her list. Last I heard, you two were running your little clubhouse over there. Undoubtedly there’ve been some…behind the scenes tactics discussions.”
Dean doesn’t miss the badly veiled euphemism, and although he still doesn’t know who 494 is, apparently Suit thinks he and whoever 452 is have some kind of relationship. Dean’s not sure whether to dispute it or not. “Yeah, well, what can I say,” Dean smirks, going with the latter…sort of. “I’m somewhat of a catch.”
Suit purses his lips. “You think you’re funny,” he says rhetorically.
Dean can’t help it. The setup is just too good. “I think I’m adorable,” he answers with a grin that has more to do with Suit uttering Henricksen’s line than anything else.
“I’ll put it this way,” says Suit, Dean’s flippancy getting on his nerves. “Give me 452, and you can go on your way. I’ll even not put anything on your brainstem this time.”
The phrasing reminds Dean vaguely of what that demon had offered, but it just doesn’t have the same punch this time. Even if Suit decides to torture him-which, in all honesty, Dean would put some money down that he would-the farthest he could go would be to kill him. As opposed to Hell, where, by all natural standards, Dean would be sliced beyond life, yet the demons could still inflict their will upon him. It puts things in perspective, if nothing else.
Although he doesn’t exactly feel loyalty to 452 or 494-chiefly because, again, he doesn’t know them-he gets a sick joy in annoying this guy. “No can do, Armani,” Dean replies lightly. “Changing positions only works on the second date.”
Suit sighs, expecting this. It’s not like he is under any illusions that 494 would give in easily. “We’ll see about that,” he declares. “Maybe a little diphenhydramine will change your mind.”
Dean assumes this is some kind of nasty drug, and indeed, Suit sucks up some clear liquid from a bottle into a syringe and plunges it into one of Dean’s IVs. He thinks the amount is kind of high, but soon, ice runs through his veins, and he feels all his senses starting to go haywire. Dean imagines he would previously have screamed, or at least writhed in pain, but, all things considered, this is pretty light stuff. He can’t help clenching and unclenching his fists-it’s not like this is making a fucking daisy chain here-but other than that, he gives no reaction.
Suit, understandably, has no idea Dean went to Hell (or even that Dean is Dean), so he simply figures that because “494”’s system is stronger than a normal human’s, the drug would take longer to affect him. Regardless that he’d doubled the dosage. Well, quadrupled, if one were going by the recommended maximum. Essentially, all he’d given his captive was the main ingredient in Benadryl-a generally harmless medicine-but in high concentrations…well.
Thus his expectation for “494” to start with the symptoms soon. Okay, so it’s no secret that Suit doesn’t know everything about transgenics; plus, for all he’s aware, Manticore had made 494 along the same lines of perfection as 452. Indubitably, according to the few employees of Manticore he’d talked with, 494 was one of their prize X’s. Even ignoring that Berrisford disaster, he was a stellar soldier. Granted, his barbed tongue, insolence, and stamina are equally as legendary, but despite this, 494 isn’t invincible.
Suit knows he has some time before he anticipates 452 possibly finding her partner-well, that and, in the state he expects “494” to be in soon, the transgenic would likely prove unhelpful-so he calmly walks out of the room, intending to confer with his right-hand man. Otto may not be quite as versed with 452 and 494 as he is, but nevertheless, the man is a good sounding board. Besides, maybe he can come up with new techniques. Even Ames White doesn’t know all of them.
Next
Chapter Title: Past in the Present
Fandom(s): Supernatural, Dark Angel
Summary: In the end, it’s a complete accident that gets Dean Winchester out of Hell.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter X: Past in the Present
Whoever had knocked him out did a good job, Dean can’t help but think somewhat metaphysically as he swims inside of his own head of darkness. And he has standards for this kind of thing-he really doesn’t wish to calculate just how many times he’s had the living daylights smacked out of him. Though it’s kinda worse this time, seeing as how he’s pretty sure the guy who sent him flying out of the real world isn’t demonic or supernatural. Least not in the ways beyond being a massive douchebag.
And that really annoys him, ‘cause Dean should have seen him coming, heard him coming. Just because he might be a little off his game lately doesn’t mean he’s lost all his training and reflexes. That’s what pisses him off more than being kidnapped. (He knows that’s what it is, the kidnapping part.) He’s gotten out of worse scrapes than just being abducted; this is just another day at the office. Er…former office, he supposes.
He’s not sure how long it is until the unconsciousness starts to wear off, but when it does, he can feel he’s still in the process of being transported wherever-he can feel the truck rumbling across a road-and, in case of someone sitting right to the side of him, he opens his eyes infinitesimally, keeping his body mimicking the same movements as being unconscious. Steady breaths, uncontrolled twitches, no talking.
He wishes he knows how long he’d been out; that way, he could calculate how fast the vehicle is moving, and roughly where they’re headed. Like that time Sam was taken by those vampires. At least then they’d kept him awake. Truth be, Dean really, really would rather be in the company of vampires, even if they weren’t the “good” ones, than twisted humans. His motto still rings true, he realizes with an internal groan: Demons he gets, people are crazy.
The aphorism gains even more weight when Dean overhears what they’re saying. Some of the words are muffled, but Dean definitely catches something about the kidnappers doing some things to Dean that, well, he would much like not to happen. Something about some synthetic chemicals that he’s not sure the purpose of…shackles…interrogation room…surgical room…
It’s enough to make Dean hyperventilate with memories coming up fast and hard, no matter that these are flesh and blood humans, and not the bastards down in Hell. He thinks he’s just hyperventilating in his head, but the accelerated breathing, the unnatural movements of his chest up and down don’t lie.
The talking ceases, and the person next to Dean (he was right on that one) looks up at the person in the passenger seat, before making a face at Dean and then taking the butt of his pistol and slamming it into Dean’s temple. There’s a crack, and then he succumbs again, this time his mind without coherent thought.For Cindy, the world slowly comes back into focus and color as she opens her eyes, the lighting as dull and low as every other day that she can remember. Sitting up blearily, Cindy rubs her hand over her neck, expecting to feel bruising and soreness, but if it hadn’t been for her knowing she’d passed out and missed an as-yet-indeterminable amount of time, she wouldn’t have known Dean had put a sleeper hold on her. Speaking of…
“Dean? Max?”
She looks around the warehouse, frowning when she sees neither of the two she’d known were here before she’d lost consciousness. She begins to get concerned when she realizes they’re definitely not in the building, and wonders if she’d wholly misread Dean, and he really is a psychopathic murderer who’d dragged Max out into the alley and cut her up into little pieces while he escaped into the insouciant streets of Seattle.
But then she sees the teenage transgenic on whom Max had given her the short version of who he is, and, standing up with a little bit of dizziness, and making a note to herself to give Dean a piece of her mind next time she sees him. (It’s now she gets a thought that maybe she won’t see Dean again, and that makes her rather troubled. For all his bluster and mystery, the guy really had grown on her.) She thinks that when Max gets a chance, she’ll call her, and although Cindy doesn’t expect to hear very soon from her best friend, it doesn’t mean she won’t still wait impatiently for it. She knows that eventually Max will get back to her, and Cindy will surely berate her for leaving her wondering, but she also knows that Max has more on her shoulders than she ought to, and in the grand scheme of things, Cindy’s aware that a fiesty Ordinary, friend and confidante or no, is a lower priority than a lot of things.
“Aiight, kiddo,” Cindy says, walking over to Zero, who’s leaning against the wall in a very un-soldier like pose. “Where’d they get off to? No one killed anyone, did they?”
“Okay, first of all,” Zero says, annoyed, “I’m not an Information desk, unlike what you and Max apparently think. Secondly, no one died; Dean knocked Max out, took her motorcycle, and went off somewhere. And finally, how the hell should I know? Dean knocked Max out, took her motorcycle, and went off somewhere. When she woke up, all she said was she needed to find Dean. Didn’t really occur to me to ask anything else.”
It made sense, Cindy has to admit. If she hadn’t spent any time with Max or Dean, hell yeah she’d be reluctant to ask either of them anything. Especially if she’d just witnessed a fight between two badasses, both utilizing all their badassery to bend the other to their will, and only one of them succeeding. Still, that doesn’t make her any less pissed off that both of them had just left her there, unconscious, without doing squat to make sure she was okay or something. She knows they have priorities-Max with both T.C. and finding Dean, and Dean with finding Sam-but come on. Even a little note would’ve been nice.
“So you got nothin’?” Cindy asks unhappily. “Jus’ that they left?”
Zero shrugs. “Sorry.”
Cindy groans, and eyes Zero up and down. “You got a way to get me back to my place? I really ain’t lookin’ forward to walkin’ back there,” she inquires.
Zero raises his eyebrows; he hadn’t really considered the need to not just walk. X5s weren’t pleased with it necessarily, but they’d dealt with worse, and Zero had been trudging around himself for weeks, not paying much mind to it.
“Um…think I saw an old car out there that I could hotwire,” he proposes, wondering if he’d actually be able to use the vehicular lessons Manticore had put him through. At the time, he hadn’t understood why he was using them, mainly because Manticore had blown up before he’d had to employ the lessons, but now he thinks maybe he will get to do so. “There should be one somewhere.”
“Sweet,” Cindy says, not a stranger to being in gray areas of the law. “Let’s go.”
He’s not quite sure what to make of this Ordinary that is nothing like any Ordinary he’s seen before, her no-nonsense, upfront, audacious attitude new to him. The humans he’d seen and heard about were all scared shitless of transgenics and all that Manticore represented, and yet here this woman shows none of that. Zero imagines it has a lot to do with her being friends with Max, but still. He has a feeling she’d be fearless even if she’d found out a different way, and wasn’t friends with Max.
It’s because of this that Zero leads Cindy out into the howling rain towards the old clunker that he figures Max had either missed or thought too ostentatious. He hopes he does actually remember the process on how to steal a car, and also that Cindy won’t want to keep track of him like she and Max had with Dean. He’s just not ready for that yet.
Luckily, they seem to be preoccupied with the man Zero had also come to like, so he thinks he’s safe. With that, Zero makes quick with the stripping of wires, and in no time, they’re heading down the streets, Cindy giving directions like it’s every day a transgenic she doesn’t know offers to hotwire a vehicle after she’d been knocked unconscious by a maniacal criminal. Nonetheless, as he coaxes the dilapidated car through the roads, he ponders where he’ll go next, and if he’ll run across Max or Cindy or Dean again.
Probably not.Miles away, Dean also wakes again groggily, his head feeling like it’s filled with marshmallows, his brain synapses sluggish and half-hearted. He can’t stop a groan from escaping once his neurons finally realize that, oh, Dean’s in pain. He doesn’t know how long he was out this time, but he knows that they must’ve done something more to him, because at least before he’d felt bruised but generally okay, and now he feels like he was friggin’ tasered.
Dean’s not been tasered that many times, but the last time he was-okay, so maybe it was in part due to his own stupidity, but come on, that damn Rawhead was going to kill those kids, and probably Sam and himself as well-he almost died. Somehow he doubts there’s going to be a skeevy faith healer and his psycho wife to save him this time.
He wonders just why the fuck he’s still feeling the hurt, considering now that he’s a little more aware, this discomfort doesn’t remind him quite so much as electricity through his veins as something more…chemical? Dean flexes his arm muscles just enough to become knowledgeable of the things sticking out of his elbows, and he realizes belatedly that he’s got IVs jammed in him, both sides.
Getting a very bad feeling about all this-and that’s saying something; last time he can remember this feeling, ol’ Yellow Eyes was bearing down on him as he lay useless against a headstone; then he’d felt exhilarated-Dean aims to move his arms, rip those fucking needles out as soon as he can.
Except he can’t. He now feels the cold, harsh metal of restraints across each wrist, way heftier than he’s been secured with before, and immediately Dean’s heart rate skyrockets. The chains jingle, but aren’t anywhere close to breaking, and from the little movement he can make his ankles do, he knows they’re shackled as well. He’s strapped to a cold metal table, too, and all of it combined pushes his blood pressure nearly to the limit.
Dean snaps open his eyes, and he recognizes the white walls, fluorescent lights, and linoleum as a hospital room; or, at least, one that resembles a hospital room. He looks down his prone body and sees that he’s been re-clothed into scrubs like the ones he’d had when he was comatose in South Dakota, plain white T-shirt, blue pants, no socks. This is worse than South Dakota, though: he was basically dead then, freakin’ Tessa had told him so; now, he’s damn sure he’s very much alive.
“Oh look, he wakes.”
The voice comes from behind Dean, from where he can’t see it, but the words…Dean’s breath starts hyperventilating again to match his rapid heart beat, his muscles straining against their metal fetters.
White-hot manacles fastened over his bleeding wrists. Flaming blades carving across his face, hairline to shoulder. Fire-reddened brands blistering his torso, marking him, making him smell his own flesh burning off his bones. Pliers wielded by scabbed, putrid hands ripping out his teeth, one by one. The instruments held by an innocent-looking little girl, but whose eyes are whiter than death and who snickers, Oh lookie, he wakes! in that child’s voice Lilith has plagiarized. Screams he’s disembodied from, and yet knows they’re his…
No…no…I’m out, I’m out! Dean thinks frantically to himself. I’m in Seattle! Hell’s not…it’s…I can’t be back…I’m OUT!
“Sam,” Dean chokes out, his throat drier than when he’d first busted out-he had busted out, he had! He’s-He’s sure of it. (Right?) “I’m out! This isn’t Hell!”
The voice in back of him laughs, a kind of barren laugh that betrays any semblance of jocularity. “Don’t you worry, we’ll make it Hell for you,” it says.
The man comes around the table Dean’s strapped to-and, oh God, what are they going to do to him? No knives, please, I can’t…-wearing a tailored suit, his stature not impressively tall, but the cold air and unforgiving face masked by chiseled features and combed hair are more than enough compensation. And-wait…Dean’s seen this guy before.
“Who are you?” Dean whispers, the tears that were so close to being released now halting, Dean realizing that he’s got to be back in Seattle. Or at least this demon is familiar to him. What had Dean called him again? Oh, yeah. Suit.
Suit’s thin lips curl into a sinister smile, and he steps closer to Dean, seeming to delight in the panic reflected in his prize’s eyes. “Don’t give me that,” says Suit, his expression so similar to Lilith’s that Dean expects him to shrink and his brown eyes morph into white. “We’re well-acquainted, aren’t we, 494? We’ve spoken previously, but seems you’ve managed to escape that little contingency I placed on you. What kind of man would I be if I ignored that? Can’t play favorites, you know.”
Dean’s breath hitches for a moment at this. There’s that epithet again. And he’s still just as confused about it as ever. Hell’s demons had called him so many things, even incorporated salacious numbers, but never put an inflection on it so that it sounded like an actual name. He guessed they’d never come up with a number that would really serve as anything torturous to Dean.
But this man…he acted once more like the numbers should mean something to Dean, like Dean should feel chilled or furious at them or something. It’s this that completes Dean’s body coming down from its peaking overload, lungs and heart gasping for replenishment. Dean’s bound to a table, and the man used words that Lilith and Alastair and so many others had used, but when he focuses his senses on whether the room is purely real, on whether it has that dark aura around it that Hell’s visions had always brought, he finds nothing except solidity.
Truth. And, regardless of what level of dangerous situation he’s in now-and he knows he is-he’s more relieved than anything else. Earth’s dangers he can deal with. It’s Hell’s that he can’t.
His body now for the most part under his control, Dean tries to ascertain a way to get his ass out of here. Wherever “here” is. He assumes there’s at least some sort of entrance or exit somewhere behind him, be it an archway or door or whatever, because he’s pretty sure the guy didn’t just materialize, but there’s no door or window of any sort in Dean’s eyeline, no way of breaking out that direction.
Dean then, ignoring the pleased, almost entertained, expression on the unknown man’s face, examines the restraints he’s wearing. They’re not the usual leather and metal clasps that one would see in a psychiatric ward or a general hospital or wherever; they’re hardcore, thick, welded titanium, if not freaking tungsten, and, far as Dean can tell, hardy enough to hold a friggin’ tiger.
He’s a bit amused (as amused as his broken psyche can be at the moment) that they thought him so much a threat as to go this far, but really, it’s kind of overkill. He’s been subdued and sufficiently kept in check with just a few wraps of rope, a chair, and a gag; titanium cuffs are…odd.
“Look, pal,” Dean says, clearing his throat to get his voice at least a tad more imposing, “it’s bad enough when real evil monologues, worse when humans do. So get on with whatever you’re planning to do to me or let me go, you son of a bitch.”
Dean never really puts much thought into diatribes he gives, but usually they result in some sort of anger. If not anger, then maybe maniacal laughter, sometimes both, and sometimes his adversary bashes his head in with something to shut him up that way. They don’t just stare as creepily as before at him and smile. Which is what the man does, and Dean’s not liking it one bit. In fact, this thing is getting weirder and weirder by the second, and he’s hating this fucked, Kubricked version of Oz.
“That’s always the way with you X5s,” Suit fake-ponders aloud. “To think, you could have come to be such an asset, and it’s all wasted on smartass remarks and stolen scotch.”
X5? Dean usually prides himself on being able to obtain as much information about a situation as possible, and accurately extrapolate things from them, but he’s treading water on this one. He keeps attempting to get back to his planning how he’s going to escape from this place, and then Suit says something else totally mental, and Dean doesn’t know how to take it.
The only possible card that Dean may hold is that he’s pretty sure Suit is mistaking him for someone totally different. And not “different” as in Dean’s shapeshifter double, but “different” as in someone completely not Dean. All he’s gathered of this other person is that he perhaps goes by the name 494-whatever that stands for-and is, what, part of some special business or military faction? X5 sounds ominous enough for that. But even with those two pieces of information, it’s way too sketchy for even Dean to act on. He’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, sure, but Dean’s not stupid.
So, when in doubt: stall. Or, in Dean’s case, antagonize the guy until you get the intel you need.
“Hey now, don’t be like that,” Dean taunts facetiously, wishing he had his Colt M1911 resting inside his waistband to fortify him. He manages to morph his face into a shit-eating grin, centering his self-control to not show the pain he’s still most definitely in. “I like a nice Cabernet if the occasion calls for it. But you look more like an amaretto and Irish Cream kinda guy yourself.”
Okay, now that was definitely an irritated twitch, Dean observes with satisfaction. Tip number one for riling guys up: assume and then ridicule their alcohol preferences. In Dean’s experience, it works every time. Apparently, Suit isn’t immune. Moreover, just that tiny spasm in Suit’s façade ups Dean’s ego to a certain degree. Dean went to Hell, and yet his famed power of irking people remains intact.
“You know,” says Suit, handling curiously the IV drip bags to the right of Dean, “you’re looking rather off, 494. Strain of being trapped in that cesspool of a ‘city’ too much for you? Too bad, I expected you to last longer.”
Dean’s eyes narrow as he tries to comprehend Suit’s newest words. From the way he said it, it sounded like he wasn’t referring to Seattle in general…is there a city inside of Seattle that Dean had somehow missed or something? Some underground society thing? What kind of role is this “494” person supposed to be-or, more likely, still, since Dean’s in that guy’s place (and what the fuck is up with that, Dean would like to know)-playing in that city? Dean’s not too fond of questions. At all.
He sighs, just for the hell of it giving the restrains another sizable yank. If anything, they move even less than when Dean had jarred them before. Super. “Strain? Nah, I’ve had worse,” Dean replies conversationally, disliking the brutal truth in his own words, though knowing Suit doesn’t pick up on it. “Just thought a little sightseeing would be nice. What with Seattle looking so postcard-y this time of year. Rain and dereliction, gotta love it.”
Suit takes a breath, Dean’s impertinence obviously shortening his temper. The good thing is, Dean thinks, that he appears to be impersonating this 494 guy well enough. Suit hasn’t seemed to think they’re two separate people just yet, anyhow.
That said, though, Dean’s starting to wonder…how is it that someone who’s obviously got means, knowledge, and opportunity could mix up two people so badly? Not even realize he’s talking to the wrong one? Dean’s brain sends him a memory, one of when Cindy and Max were discussing the plausibility of him being a clone or whatever. Dean was pretty out of it, but the recollection of that conversation is crystal clear to him.
So maybe…is it possible Suit is under the same impression Cindy and Max were? That Dean’s a clone of someone else? Maybe even one of the other clones? It would fit the situation, Dean thinks, but how’s he supposed to even wrap his head around it, let alone spin it to his advantage? Really, clones? It’s way too Star Wars for him.
“Well, sorry, man,” Dean says, continuing with completely speaking out of his ass, “you’re not my type. Try the brothel next town over.”
“I should have known,” Suit says, like Dean had told him something in confidence. “X5-452. Guess your affinities for being pains in my ass are appealing to yourselves. Ironic, really, considering I heard you two were rather against breeding together. Though, I suppose she is the best out of your slim pickings.”
Dean makes a small choking noise in his throat, caught totally off-guard for a minute. Breeding?! What is he, a stud horse? Sure, he’s had his fair share of women, but he would never call it breeding. And for that matter, who is X5-452? Obviously someone similar to whoever 494 is, and apparently they’re in close proximity to one another, and maybe it’d help if Dean knew who either one is, but he doesn’t. It’s really starting to piss him off.
“Okay, I don’t know what the hell your deal is, dude,” Dean says, shifting around in the cuffs. He’s virtually back to nonchalance in terms of being shackled down, now that he knows it’s by a meager human, and not by anyone that can truly hurt him, “but I’ve really got better things to do than star in your creepy fantasies while you get your jollies off of my bondage here. So why don’t you just get back to watching porn like a normal person?”
Suit chuckles, and bends down to lean closer to Dean’s face. “You’re right about me getting pleasure from this,” he says. “However, it’s far from what you presumed. No, I’m wanting more…well, let’s just say you’re here for a little transaction. And, if it can be wrangled, bait.”
Bait? Dean thinks. What the fuck for? No one in this jacked reality even knows who I am, let alone I’m out of Hell. “It won’t work,” Dean says with conviction. “No one’ll come for me.”
“We’ll see about that,” says Suit with a smug smile. “452 has a propensity for saving mutants like yourself. I’m sure you rank high on her list. Last I heard, you two were running your little clubhouse over there. Undoubtedly there’ve been some…behind the scenes tactics discussions.”
Dean doesn’t miss the badly veiled euphemism, and although he still doesn’t know who 494 is, apparently Suit thinks he and whoever 452 is have some kind of relationship. Dean’s not sure whether to dispute it or not. “Yeah, well, what can I say,” Dean smirks, going with the latter…sort of. “I’m somewhat of a catch.”
Suit purses his lips. “You think you’re funny,” he says rhetorically.
Dean can’t help it. The setup is just too good. “I think I’m adorable,” he answers with a grin that has more to do with Suit uttering Henricksen’s line than anything else.
“I’ll put it this way,” says Suit, Dean’s flippancy getting on his nerves. “Give me 452, and you can go on your way. I’ll even not put anything on your brainstem this time.”
The phrasing reminds Dean vaguely of what that demon had offered, but it just doesn’t have the same punch this time. Even if Suit decides to torture him-which, in all honesty, Dean would put some money down that he would-the farthest he could go would be to kill him. As opposed to Hell, where, by all natural standards, Dean would be sliced beyond life, yet the demons could still inflict their will upon him. It puts things in perspective, if nothing else.
Although he doesn’t exactly feel loyalty to 452 or 494-chiefly because, again, he doesn’t know them-he gets a sick joy in annoying this guy. “No can do, Armani,” Dean replies lightly. “Changing positions only works on the second date.”
Suit sighs, expecting this. It’s not like he is under any illusions that 494 would give in easily. “We’ll see about that,” he declares. “Maybe a little diphenhydramine will change your mind.”
Dean assumes this is some kind of nasty drug, and indeed, Suit sucks up some clear liquid from a bottle into a syringe and plunges it into one of Dean’s IVs. He thinks the amount is kind of high, but soon, ice runs through his veins, and he feels all his senses starting to go haywire. Dean imagines he would previously have screamed, or at least writhed in pain, but, all things considered, this is pretty light stuff. He can’t help clenching and unclenching his fists-it’s not like this is making a fucking daisy chain here-but other than that, he gives no reaction.
Suit, understandably, has no idea Dean went to Hell (or even that Dean is Dean), so he simply figures that because “494”’s system is stronger than a normal human’s, the drug would take longer to affect him. Regardless that he’d doubled the dosage. Well, quadrupled, if one were going by the recommended maximum. Essentially, all he’d given his captive was the main ingredient in Benadryl-a generally harmless medicine-but in high concentrations…well.
Thus his expectation for “494” to start with the symptoms soon. Okay, so it’s no secret that Suit doesn’t know everything about transgenics; plus, for all he’s aware, Manticore had made 494 along the same lines of perfection as 452. Indubitably, according to the few employees of Manticore he’d talked with, 494 was one of their prize X’s. Even ignoring that Berrisford disaster, he was a stellar soldier. Granted, his barbed tongue, insolence, and stamina are equally as legendary, but despite this, 494 isn’t invincible.
Suit knows he has some time before he anticipates 452 possibly finding her partner-well, that and, in the state he expects “494” to be in soon, the transgenic would likely prove unhelpful-so he calmly walks out of the room, intending to confer with his right-hand man. Otto may not be quite as versed with 452 and 494 as he is, but nevertheless, the man is a good sounding board. Besides, maybe he can come up with new techniques. Even Ames White doesn’t know all of them.
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