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Dean was going to cry. He was literally bored enough to cry.
His shoulders ached and his mouth was dry and he was hungrier than he had been in a long time and the stool he was tied to was so much more uncomfortable than any stool had a right to be.
He wanted Sam to hurry up and come get him. He also wanted Sam nowhere near the forty-plus members of the fucked-up, bloodthirsty cult he'd managed to get caught by. Forty was too many, even for his behemoth of a little brother, even with all the firepower he had access to. It hadn't helped Dean, after all.
Apparently, having your name passed around the country like high school gossip was even more of a problem than he'd thought. Sure, he knew to watch for feds, for cops, for patriotic "good samaritans" who were itching to call in a menace to society.
He did not think to watch for demonic cults who had decided he was marked as a sacrificial lamb for whatever entity they decided they were worshipping. He wasn't sure what about his wanted poster gave them that idea, and he wasn't sure he wanted to find out.
Against what should have been his better judgment, he tried to strain at his bonds again. Immediately, pain shot up his arms, bad enough to leave him gasping.
Right. Cut off blood vessels. Oh, and the fact that he'd already rubbed his wrists down to the bone. Right.
Okay, now he could just about cry from frustration.
Nope. Get it together, dumbass.
He was almost waiting for the moment when Sam got thrown down with him. He knew his idiot of a brother well enough to expect that he was looking for him, and he also knew Sam would lose that fight. He'd just be overwhelmed.
God, he hoped they threw Sammy down with him, instead of killing him on the spot. Though, if Sam did end up dead, Dean wouldn't have to live with his failure for long. No, he'd just be sacrificed to some demon. He might not even know, before he died. The whole afterlife reunion might be a surprise.
The door to the cellar opened, and he braced himself.
No Sam.
Just some hooded cult member, come to collect more of Dean's "hallowed blood." He wasn't sure what was so holy about his blood, or why that would make it so important to a bunch of peope who claimed to follow the devil himself, but it wasn't like he could ask. They'd gotten tired of his wisecracks hours ago and gagged him.
He barely even flinched when the cult member cut another gash into his chest, right next to the last one like another tally mark. He hoped they didn't do the whole "cross the fifth" thing, that would probably hurt more than cutting through fresh skin. He'd find out the next time they wanted more blood, he supposed, since now he had four.
The vial was cold against his skin and he tried not to breathe too heavily, as to keep the vial where it was. Normally, he'd be doing anything to be a pain in the ass of his captors, but the last guy who had come to collect had gotten annoyed enough to dig his finger into the wound he'd made. Dean had gotten nothing but extra pain for his trouble. Sadists, the lot of them.
Freaks.
Didn't even give him any Batman band-aids or anything. Before the cult member left him in the dark again, Dean could feel his blood trickling down his stomach, saw it dripping onto the stool, the metal between his thighs already rust-red with blood in various stages of drying.
He estimated it was about another hour before someone else came to collect. They didn't cross the fifth.
Or the sixth.
Or the seventh.
Or eighth.
Or the twelfth.
The hours started to blur. Dean was aware that he was losing too much blood, and he wasn't too proud to admit that he was getting scared. Well, not out loud. But he could admit it to himself.
He was going to die. By a blade held by just some guy. Not a daeva, not a werewolf, not even a vampire. Just a human with delusions of grandeur.
God dammit.
Hours? Days? How long had it been? His stomach had stopped growling and started cramping. His shoulders had stopped cramping and started going completely numb. He couldn't feel his feet, the ropes tight enough around his legs to cut off most of his circulation.
No one had come to collect in a while. Maybe they were done with him. Maybe he should just.. just sleep. Sleep until all his blood was gone, seeped out of the cuts that littered his chest, and he didn't hurt anymore. Until he couldn't feel the rope around his wrists rub against exposed muscle.
Until—
Until the cellar door flew open again.
He blinked against the light.
"Dean?"
That was... that voice sounded familiar.
"Dean! Oh my God."
Sammy. That was Sammy. There were fingers at his neck, on his pulse point. Dean tried to raise his head, to look at his little brother. It didn't really work, but Sam knelt to untie his ankles and Dean could get a look at him anyway. Sam looked.... scared. Terrified. Well, he didn't look all that scared, but he seemed scared. Dean could just tell.
Or maybe that was just the blood loss talking.
"What's wrong?" He tried to ask. It came out more like "Wuz rng?" Sam huffed and reached for a walkie on his belt.
"He's alive. Responsive. Slurring. There's blood everywhere. I'm gonna get him out. I'll meet you back at rendezvous."
He didn't actually answer the question, though. Dean's tongue felt like cotton in his mouth, but he tried again.
"Whas' wrong?"
Sam scoffed and rubbed at Dean's ankles until there was feeling in them again. It felt like thousands of needles, stabbing into the skin, but he grit his teeth and bore it.
"Well, Dean, I don't know if you've happened to notice the puddle of blood your sitting in, but it's not exactly my favorite thing to see."
"You don' like..." he took a breath. "Blood?"
Sam moved to where Dean couldn't see him anymore and sucked in a deep breath. Probably at the state of Dean's arms. He knew they had to look bad.
"I don't like your blood, man. I especially don't like seeing a pint of it on the floor."
"Some ofvit's on the—the stool. 'nd they took a bunch."
"That's not better."
"Sure it is."
"Are you incapable of not arguing with me?"
"Yes. Prob'ly."
"Dean?"
"Hmm?"
"Just shut up."
That sounded doable.
"Hmm."
He could feel every fiber of the rope peeling away from his skin, around and around and around. He sucked in a sharp breath when Sam reached his elbows.
"You okay?"
He grunted an affirmative. "Those kinky bastards."
The rope stopped unraveling, and then Sam was in front of him, lifting his chin. "They didn't touch you, did they?"
Dean snorted. "No. I jus' meant... the rope."
Sam let Dean's head drop back to his chest. "Good."
The wrists would hurt the most. He could still feel blood dripping sluggishly down the backs of his hands. Sam gave him a rolled-up scrap of his shirt to bite down on. That was never a good sign.
He just about screamed. It felt like Sam was pulling the rope out from under his skin.
"Shh, shh, it's okay, you're okay."
Of course it was okay. Sam had a hold on him, so even the spots that danced in front of his eyes weren't a threat. He wasn't going to die because of some ropes and a little pain.
But goddamn.
At least his shoulders were back where they were supposed to be.
Suddenly he was in the air. It felt weird, to not be sitting on that stool. Sam was carrying him, and Dean felt like he was five and he'd fallen asleep in the car, and his dad was carrying him into his bed.
The sunlight outside was bright. Way too bright. It hurt.
And then he was laying down, and normally his dad would be going to get Sammy from the car now, except he didn't, because he was Sammy, not Dad. And Dean was being taken to the car, not from it.
"Don' want... blood. On the seats."
"Yeah? Well I don't want blood on this shirt, but here we are."
"Y're a bitch."
"And you're a jerk."
Hah. Sam smiled. Mission success.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the smile was gone.
"Just... don't do that again, Dean."
"Don't get kidnapped?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"Hah. No prom'ses."
"I can't lose you, man."
"Yeah, yeah."
"I'm serious."
"Okay. 'nd I'm in pain. We can have this conversation later, 'kay? Or never."
Sam nodded. "Later."
"Or never," Dean reminded him.
He just made a weird sound in the back of his throat. "Whatever you say. Go to sleep, Dean."
And, well, that was something he could do.