Out Of The Dark (The Barbara Rose Remix) 2/3
Title:Out Of The Dark (The Barbara Rose Remix)
Characters: Dean, Sam, OCs
Genre: Gen, preseries
Rating: PG
Word count: 8443 total: 1485 this part
Summary: People get misdiagnosed all the time. Especially Winchesters.
A/N: My horribly late remix for the hoodie_time Dean focused h/c remix challenge. I remixed adrenalineshots fic
Barba Rossa . I loved the outsider POV of the E.R. staff and wanted to work with the Dean POV on their assumption that Dean was drunk, not injured.
The first thing Dean’s aware of is sound; wheels squeaking, the murmur of voices, footsteps hurrying past. Wherever he is, he’s out of the wind and whatever he’s lying on, it’s not pavement. Beyond that, nothing much matters and he fades back into the dark.
When he comes around again, the room is circling slowly around him. Or he’s spinning and it’s holding still, he can’t really tell. It doesn’t help that he’s in motion, light fixtures and ceiling tiles rotating fuzzily overhead as he’s wheeled into an exam room. Two people hover around his gurney as it lurches to a stop and Dean tears his eyes away from the ceiling and tries, unsuccessfully, to focus on them instead.
They’re talking to him, voices rumbling, though the words aren’t clear. Dean can feel them squirming through his ear canals, but once they reach his brain they scatter like kids on a playground. He gives chase, trying to catch the words as they run and jump through his mind. It’s a lot of effort, almost more than he wants to put into anything right now, but words are important. You have to hear and remember and he still hasn’t found Sammy. Maybe these guys know where he is.
He’s slow. The words rocket past and zip around for another run and finally, he manages to tackle one. He hangs on to it tightly until he can decipher what it says, and he’s glad he managed to run down this word, because obviously there’s something that needs to be set straight here.
“ ‘m not…’m not drunk!” Dean tries to sit up to give his words more weight, because, really, who’s going to take you seriously when you’re flat on your back, but a hand pushes him down like he’s a child. More words follow and Dean manages to grab onto cold, streets and condition. “Not…not dr’nk.”
The sitting up was a bad move, Dean barely has time to realize, before his stomach contracts and his sandwich and coffee are projectile vomited across the room. There are hands on him again and he tries to knock them away but they’re too fast, he can never quite connect. There’s something shiny moving up his chest and it’s cutting his shirt away and it’s too bright, he’s not back in the dark, he’s not, he’s not. Dean flails at the scissors helplessly. “G’t… get ya f… ffrri’ing hands ‘ff me!”
Dean’s wrist is encircled in a firm grip and held down on the gurney. The voice is rumbling again; restraints, afraid.
“Hold the fuck still, Dean.” He’d fought, he’d fought as hard as he could, but four against one and with the four having mind mojo that keep him pinned like a bug are odds he couldn’t beat. They’d dragged him from the apartment and into the back of a waiting van, and at least they’d left his baby untouched, they’d better have fucking left her untouched and there’s the clank of metal behind him, then they’re snapping thick cuffs onto his wrists and attaching them to a heavy iron chain and they know almost every hiding place; they take the paper clips and the pens and every little thing he could use to get himself free, but they don’t find the paper, fuckers don’t find that, and then they pull him down underground, into the dark and…
He can’t be tied up, can’t risk not being able to get out of here when he gets his chance. Sammy can’t be alone. So he lies still and lets the hands cut and rip the filthy clothes from his body. The soaked fabric pulls as they try to remove it, sticking to sores and peeling off scabs. It’s warm where he is now, his body’s not freezing any more, not protected from pain by the cold and he grits his teeth against the moan that wants to slip free.
They don’t tie him down, and they’re not really hurting him. His clothes are disappearing into a plastic bag, but they were wet and smelled bad and he’s not sorry to see them go. The men are still talking, but he doesn’t think they’re talking to him, so he lets his mind drift for a moment and mutters words to himself, trying to find some that make sense.
Water sloshes nearby and Dean’s not thirsty. He wants to tell them that, but a hand holding a warm cloth begins to gently wash his face and he relaxes with a sigh. Not in the dark, not back in the dark. The hand moves to his chest, easy over the bruised flesh and then to his arm, reopening the cut from Stevie’s broken bottle and that gets Dean’s attention.
“I’m not… ge’ off me.” There’s someone here and he’s not sure where here is and, “Don'-- Sammy?”
More words slither his way, and he hears Eddy, so okay, not Sammy then. But then it’s Sammy and he doesn’t know what the hell to think until your name? and then he knows because Sammy would already know who he was. Is. Something. Dean wants to tell the man his name, but it’s not right there where the words are and he’s going to have to go find it.
Name, Dean thinks, and tries to follow the word as it leaves the nothingness of the space he’s been camping out in. His mind’s swirling and he thinks maybe he should swim to wherever his name is, but just as he reaches the edge of where he’s been and starts to dive off, the bees come. They’re loud enough that the buzzing actually hurts and they force him back into the empty spaces. The name’s not coming, and he can’t go to it, not with the bees there, so he goes back to what he does know.
“-’m not-‘runk.” Dean knows what being drunk feels like and it’s not like this. Except it sort of is, but this is something else, he’s sure of it. “Do… y- I can’t… can’t ‘member a thing.”
Talking’s not getting him anywhere, so he floats in his mind and listens, because listening is what you do when you want to find things out. Everything’s slowing down and as the words drift by, it’s easier to catch some of them. Pretty eyes. He’s fairly sure he’s heard that before. Head trauma. Yahtzee. Yahtzee? His head feels like it was traumatized by an eighteen wheeler running over it and he fucking told them he wasn’t drunk. There are hands on him again, gently turning his head and running fingers through the matted tangle of his hair. The fingers find the lump on the back of his skull and a bolt of lightning strikes his brain.
“We’re going to let you go, Dean.” He doesn’t believe them, of course he doesn’t believe them, they’re not going to do all this, tell him all this, and then just let him go. He’s at the end of his strength, and they know it as well as he does and maybe they think he’ll die up there, but he’s not going to give them the fucking satisfaction and then they’re dragging him to his feet. One’s got an iron bar in his hand and he swings it like a baseball bat at the back of Dean’s head and as Dean’s falling they’re telling him they’ll be back in a few days and if he hasn’t died from his brain being slammed into his skull like a fastball, they’ll take him up above and let him to freeze to death in some back alley. They leave arguing about whether it would be more fun if John never found out what happened to him, or if he knew his son had died like a drunken bum, alone in the cold. When they come back Dean’s alive but fading fast, he can’t see straight, he can’t talk straight, he definitely can’t think straight and they laugh as they drag him up out of the dark and…
The bees. The bees are coming, Dean can hear the buzz, feel the vibrations of millions of wings. He knows there’s nowhere for him to hide, so he flails blindly for whatever’s within reach and there’s someone there. Someone’s there and he grabs on tight, hoping they’ll pull him to safety. He’s hurting so it’s got to be Sammy, who else would it be? Who else does he know?
“Sammy, … you’r here. Sammy… I wanna… I wanna go homm- please… I just… wanna go homm.“ The bees overrun him and there’s no escape; the furious buzzing drowns out everything as the swarm begins to stab red-hot pokers into his brain. Then he’s convulsing, slamming into the gurney and there’s time for a moment of heart-stopping terror before a stinger plunges into his arm and he’s catapulted back down into the dark.
Part 3 here:
Characters: Dean, Sam, OCs
Genre: Gen, preseries
Rating: PG
Word count: 8443 total: 1485 this part
Summary: People get misdiagnosed all the time. Especially Winchesters.
A/N: My horribly late remix for the hoodie_time Dean focused h/c remix challenge. I remixed adrenalineshots fic
Barba Rossa . I loved the outsider POV of the E.R. staff and wanted to work with the Dean POV on their assumption that Dean was drunk, not injured.
The first thing Dean’s aware of is sound; wheels squeaking, the murmur of voices, footsteps hurrying past. Wherever he is, he’s out of the wind and whatever he’s lying on, it’s not pavement. Beyond that, nothing much matters and he fades back into the dark.
When he comes around again, the room is circling slowly around him. Or he’s spinning and it’s holding still, he can’t really tell. It doesn’t help that he’s in motion, light fixtures and ceiling tiles rotating fuzzily overhead as he’s wheeled into an exam room. Two people hover around his gurney as it lurches to a stop and Dean tears his eyes away from the ceiling and tries, unsuccessfully, to focus on them instead.
They’re talking to him, voices rumbling, though the words aren’t clear. Dean can feel them squirming through his ear canals, but once they reach his brain they scatter like kids on a playground. He gives chase, trying to catch the words as they run and jump through his mind. It’s a lot of effort, almost more than he wants to put into anything right now, but words are important. You have to hear and remember and he still hasn’t found Sammy. Maybe these guys know where he is.
He’s slow. The words rocket past and zip around for another run and finally, he manages to tackle one. He hangs on to it tightly until he can decipher what it says, and he’s glad he managed to run down this word, because obviously there’s something that needs to be set straight here.
“ ‘m not…’m not drunk!” Dean tries to sit up to give his words more weight, because, really, who’s going to take you seriously when you’re flat on your back, but a hand pushes him down like he’s a child. More words follow and Dean manages to grab onto cold, streets and condition. “Not…not dr’nk.”
The sitting up was a bad move, Dean barely has time to realize, before his stomach contracts and his sandwich and coffee are projectile vomited across the room. There are hands on him again and he tries to knock them away but they’re too fast, he can never quite connect. There’s something shiny moving up his chest and it’s cutting his shirt away and it’s too bright, he’s not back in the dark, he’s not, he’s not. Dean flails at the scissors helplessly. “G’t… get ya f… ffrri’ing hands ‘ff me!”
Dean’s wrist is encircled in a firm grip and held down on the gurney. The voice is rumbling again; restraints, afraid.
“Hold the fuck still, Dean.” He’d fought, he’d fought as hard as he could, but four against one and with the four having mind mojo that keep him pinned like a bug are odds he couldn’t beat. They’d dragged him from the apartment and into the back of a waiting van, and at least they’d left his baby untouched, they’d better have fucking left her untouched and there’s the clank of metal behind him, then they’re snapping thick cuffs onto his wrists and attaching them to a heavy iron chain and they know almost every hiding place; they take the paper clips and the pens and every little thing he could use to get himself free, but they don’t find the paper, fuckers don’t find that, and then they pull him down underground, into the dark and…
He can’t be tied up, can’t risk not being able to get out of here when he gets his chance. Sammy can’t be alone. So he lies still and lets the hands cut and rip the filthy clothes from his body. The soaked fabric pulls as they try to remove it, sticking to sores and peeling off scabs. It’s warm where he is now, his body’s not freezing any more, not protected from pain by the cold and he grits his teeth against the moan that wants to slip free.
They don’t tie him down, and they’re not really hurting him. His clothes are disappearing into a plastic bag, but they were wet and smelled bad and he’s not sorry to see them go. The men are still talking, but he doesn’t think they’re talking to him, so he lets his mind drift for a moment and mutters words to himself, trying to find some that make sense.
Water sloshes nearby and Dean’s not thirsty. He wants to tell them that, but a hand holding a warm cloth begins to gently wash his face and he relaxes with a sigh. Not in the dark, not back in the dark. The hand moves to his chest, easy over the bruised flesh and then to his arm, reopening the cut from Stevie’s broken bottle and that gets Dean’s attention.
“I’m not… ge’ off me.” There’s someone here and he’s not sure where here is and, “Don'-- Sammy?”
More words slither his way, and he hears Eddy, so okay, not Sammy then. But then it’s Sammy and he doesn’t know what the hell to think until your name? and then he knows because Sammy would already know who he was. Is. Something. Dean wants to tell the man his name, but it’s not right there where the words are and he’s going to have to go find it.
Name, Dean thinks, and tries to follow the word as it leaves the nothingness of the space he’s been camping out in. His mind’s swirling and he thinks maybe he should swim to wherever his name is, but just as he reaches the edge of where he’s been and starts to dive off, the bees come. They’re loud enough that the buzzing actually hurts and they force him back into the empty spaces. The name’s not coming, and he can’t go to it, not with the bees there, so he goes back to what he does know.
“-’m not-‘runk.” Dean knows what being drunk feels like and it’s not like this. Except it sort of is, but this is something else, he’s sure of it. “Do… y- I can’t… can’t ‘member a thing.”
Talking’s not getting him anywhere, so he floats in his mind and listens, because listening is what you do when you want to find things out. Everything’s slowing down and as the words drift by, it’s easier to catch some of them. Pretty eyes. He’s fairly sure he’s heard that before. Head trauma. Yahtzee. Yahtzee? His head feels like it was traumatized by an eighteen wheeler running over it and he fucking told them he wasn’t drunk. There are hands on him again, gently turning his head and running fingers through the matted tangle of his hair. The fingers find the lump on the back of his skull and a bolt of lightning strikes his brain.
“We’re going to let you go, Dean.” He doesn’t believe them, of course he doesn’t believe them, they’re not going to do all this, tell him all this, and then just let him go. He’s at the end of his strength, and they know it as well as he does and maybe they think he’ll die up there, but he’s not going to give them the fucking satisfaction and then they’re dragging him to his feet. One’s got an iron bar in his hand and he swings it like a baseball bat at the back of Dean’s head and as Dean’s falling they’re telling him they’ll be back in a few days and if he hasn’t died from his brain being slammed into his skull like a fastball, they’ll take him up above and let him to freeze to death in some back alley. They leave arguing about whether it would be more fun if John never found out what happened to him, or if he knew his son had died like a drunken bum, alone in the cold. When they come back Dean’s alive but fading fast, he can’t see straight, he can’t talk straight, he definitely can’t think straight and they laugh as they drag him up out of the dark and…
The bees. The bees are coming, Dean can hear the buzz, feel the vibrations of millions of wings. He knows there’s nowhere for him to hide, so he flails blindly for whatever’s within reach and there’s someone there. Someone’s there and he grabs on tight, hoping they’ll pull him to safety. He’s hurting so it’s got to be Sammy, who else would it be? Who else does he know?
“Sammy, … you’r here. Sammy… I wanna… I wanna go homm- please… I just… wanna go homm.“ The bees overrun him and there’s no escape; the furious buzzing drowns out everything as the swarm begins to stab red-hot pokers into his brain. Then he’s convulsing, slamming into the gurney and there’s time for a moment of heart-stopping terror before a stinger plunges into his arm and he’s catapulted back down into the dark.
Part 3 here: