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Fuck, fuck, Dru’s still sound asleep and the computer, with GODDAMN WIFI, is right fucking there…he jerks at the cuffs, tries to flex his fingers against the confining mitts, and thrashes against the chains in helpless fury. He yanks and twists his arms, desperate to free himself from his bizarre prison ( ... )
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(Hah. I sort of feel like with every comment I need to reiterate that this is good, because the comments are all very OH NO! - that's because I'm very invested in this, and the sadfaces are for WHAT's happening to this Jared, not HOW it's happening :) )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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