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A hard surface was beneath Dean. That was about all he was aware of. That and the soreness it put in the left side of his body. An ache was steadily growing along the side of his head and to his temple. Still, tired, he kept his eyes closed, deciding to keep trying to sleep through the pain.
A vague thought passed through his mind, wondering why there was pain, but Dean dozed.
Yet as he slept he was aware of the hard surface against him, and slowly, the smell of dirt and old blood was becoming known to him. Dust tickled at his nose.
Then the strangeness of it all began to impress upon his mind. Dean cracked his eyes open. The light was dim, seemingly coming from a bulb held by a single chain on the outer side of old rusted bars that contained him. Dark stone was around him, and he was lying on it as well. Aside from the various types of grime, there was nothing else.
Wait….
How did I get here?
That was when it fully hit Dean that he was in a cell.
Instantly, he was on his feet, but swaying. There was pain in the back of his head as well, and his vision blurred. He grabbed onto the bars, although his movements were sluggish, like his muscles were too tired and were trying to move through mud.
“Hey!” he cried, voice rough from lack of use. “Hey, whoever the hell you are, you better let me out of here!”
Dean tried rattling the bars, and banged against them.
He shook his head, trying to lessen the feeling of being disoriented. It didn’t work, much. Had someone hit him? Had he been drugged? Last he remembered he was with Cas, continuing their search for Sam in some mountains in Alaska of all places.
Had they been attacked? He couldn’t remember.
Dean felt like he was going to collapse, and hung on to the bars hard, letting rust scrape against his palms and the delicate undersides of his fingers.
“Dean?” a familiar voice called, though it was rough and weak.
Holy shit.
“Sam?” Dean called.
The voice had come from the left, and he went to the wall there, pressing a palm flat against it as if he could feel where Sam was.
“Oh god, Dean, they got you too?”
Holy fucking shit, it was Sam!
“Sam! Cas, Cas and I were looking for you. Are you okay?”
There was a long pause. Dean almost wanted to repeat the question.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just been here for….” He trailed off, clearly having lost track of time.
“Three weeks,” Dean said.
But still, that pause, the weakness in his voice. He wasn’t okay. What was he hiding?
“Did they—did they hurt you?” Dean asked. “And who has us here anyway?”
“I don’t know, some demon,” Sam answered, ignoring the first question. “They call him the master. Still, I really don’t know what’s going on. How’d they get you?”
“No idea. Hey, have you seen or heard Cas anywhere?”
“No.”
Dean leaned his head against the stone wall. “Fuck,” he muttered.
There was shifting, and a groan left Sam.
“Hey, hey!” Dean called. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re hurt.”
“Dean, I’m fine.”
“You’ve been here for three weeks. You’re not fine.” He looked around his tiny cell, tried to find a weakness in it.
They had to get out of here, if only so Dean could help Sam with whatever injury he was trying to hide. How bad was it? When had he gotten it? Was it infected? Was he being treated at all, if only to be kept alive?
And where was Cas? Was he being tortured? Kept somewhere else?
Had he escaped? Was he coming to save them?
His hopes of Castiel having escaped whatever attack he and Dean had befallen were dashed from his mind as a creaky door opened from down a long hall. In seconds, Cas, bloodied and beaten, was being dragged past Dean, to a cell on his right. Dean tried to reach out, but his arms were too thick to fit between the bars. Oh, if only he could have had his fingers brush against Cas’, to let him know he was there, let him know that it was going to be okay (even if that was a lie).
A demon all in black was the one holding Cas. He completely ignored Dean, just focused on locking Cas up.
There was creaking, a jingle of keys. Were manacles being placed on Cas? Then there was a horrible sound, quick and sudden, and wet, almost. Cas let out a choked scream, and then he was breathing heavy, grunting, the demon laughing.
“That’ll keep you here, I bet,” the demon said. “We don’t want our little angel running away.”
“Hey, you keep your hands off of him, you son of a bitch!”
The demon went to Dean’s cell now. He was tall, almost as tall as Dean, and muscular. He has a buzz cut that really didn’t look good on him.
“And what are you going to do, huh? Just be grateful the master hasn’t wanted to see you yet. I know Sam can tell you how awful he is.” Then he called off to the side, “Isn’t that right, Sam?”
Dean growled, rattling the bars.
“Don’t even think about touching him,” Sam said from his cell, but again, his voice was faint, making Dean think of beams of light trying to pierce through dark waters.
The demon suddenly came forward, snarling, but Dean had had enough real jumpscares in his life to stand his ground.
He tried to lift his chin and look down his nose at the demon.
“You’re gonna be the first son of a bitch I kill once I get out of here,” Dean said, voice cold, and quiet as he made his promise.
The demon winked, and turned away, saying, “Looking forward to it. Now, be good, boys!”
Dean yelled, kicked his bars, and fell back, panting. His heart was racing, just from a tiny bit of exertion. He must’ve been drugged. But his head hurt. They could’ve hit him too. Why do just one to knock him out when you could do both and ensure that Dean Winchester, one of the greatest hunters ever, was truly unconscious?
He paced his cell, looking for weaknesses, feeling his breaths come fast, as all he had to listen to were Castiel’s pained grunts, like he’d been stabbed, and Sam’s quiet groans that he tried to hide.
Somehow, Dean had to get out, and he had to save his family.