Title: Breathe
Author: "Solus Nemo"
Summary: What the Winchester brothers thought would be an easy hunt has turned into something much more sinister, when their game turns and begins to hunt them.
Author's Note: There really is a place called Arrowsic, Maine. It's an island near Portland with a population of about 477 and for the sake of this story I needed to fictionalize it a bit. I'm so sorry to anyone who reads my stories and lives there, but I can't exactly use an island here in Wisconsin because we don't have any. Besides, New England forever. Only the first chapter is in present tense.

Rating for violence, adult language and themes.
Disclaimer: I don't even work as a piece of chewed gum for Warner Brothers. That should help you in knowing that I don't own "Supernatural" or anything else even remotely related to the show. I only own the story which you are about to read (which is one hundred percent fiction, by the way) and whatever characters and/or world history I pulled from my mind.

Chapter One ; Let's Play God

Something is very wrong here, very very wrong.

Adam isn't in his room anymore. Nope, he's not. That cozy room on the top floor, in the attic, with the almost naked girl posters plastered all over his ceiling and the stereo system he saved up for months to buy – that's gone away, but he can't remember actually leaving it. That's strange enough, not remembering getting out of his big warm bed and coming to a place like this, but what's stranger is what this room is like.

He certainly would've remembered leaving his house (at some ungodly hour of the morning his mother'll slaughter him for) and coming here. Here looks like some kind of basement, but not Adam's basement. Adam's house is an old Victorian, a white and blue one registered on some kind of list, and its basement doesn't have concrete ceilings like this room does. The ceiling here, in this strange place, is green and blue and yellow with some kind of slimy substance that Adam really hopes won't drip down onto his face because that's just gross. Really, really gross.

This is a foreign ceiling to him, he doesn't remember ever coming to a place with such a puke-chuck-ralph inducing concrete ceiling. There aren't many places on the island that would have a concrete ceiling anyway, so if Adam had ever come here he would have remembered. But maybe he has been here before – how many people look at ceilings all day?

Just look around, get your bearings, and then go home before Dad takes out the belt. That's all you have to do and it isn't going to take any time at all. Just look around. That's easier said than done because Adam can't look around, he's having trouble moving his head. Not just his head, either, but his whole body. His whole body doesn't want to listen to his brain, is boycotting taking commands from his head and decides to lay like a wet noodle on the floor.

So maybe he'll ask for help. He couldn't have come here alone, not to a vile pit like this one, so he'll simply call out like they do in movies – "Is anybody here?" – and whoever answers can help him home. At least he has an excuse to give his parents now.

"I was sleepwalking or something, right? And when I woke up I couldn't move so I had to ask someone to help me home."

What if his parents don't believe him? He's never sleepwalked before and they might think he's lying if he tells them something like that. What else could it have been, though? He had to have been sleepwalking else he'd remember coming here. This isn't some sort of dream, either, because it's too real.

So, yeah, that's what he'll do: call out for somebody to help him. The sooner he does that the sooner he can be lying in bed under his Pamela Anderson poster, the one to the left of Juliya Chernetsky and just below Gisele Bündchen. He'll be spending a lot of time with them when he gets home, he'll surely as the sun rises be grounding for this little stunt. But it won't be so severely if he calls out soon and gets home quickly.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

That's what Adam says in his mind, anyway, because the words coming out of his mouth are deformed. There's something in his mouth – why didn't he realize that before? – and it's like a horse bridle or whatever those things are called. He's not into horses so he's never cared to know. Abby would know, his sister Abby. The annoying eight-year-old with the affinity for any kind of horse under the sun, the one who he has to drive to school every stinking day, she'd know.

But Abby's not here so Adam just has to call this thing in his mouth a horse bridle and be done with it. Now he has to start wondering why it's in his mouth and why he can't move. Thinking about it more it's like he's strapped down to the floor and that's why he can't move, and his head's in a vice or something because the only way it'll go is straight up – giving him the displeasing view of the ceiling.

This is starting to get scary now, really really scary.

Adam Sanders, 18, found gagged and bound in some creepy, slimy-ass basement in Arrowsic, Maine.

The paper headlines were going to say that if Adam didn't get his carrot orange locks out of this place soon. While he'd love some publicity, getting killed by some psycho lunatic isn't number one on his Things To Do list. But, let's face it, he's not MacGyver and isn't exactly smart enough to spring himself out of here with a piece of string and some chewing gum, if he even chewed gum. Getting killed in this freaky place by some random fruit cake was most likely going to happen.

Fuck, and he never got the chance to ask Marcy Ward to the year-end formal.

Maybe he still can if he can loosen the straps around his wrists and ankles. It won't hurt to try, can't possibly make the situation any worse, so why not go and do it. Just bang your fists down on the floor – no, it's a table because floors don't make empty, metallic, thwacking sounds. Bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang. Bang, until they get loose enough to slip your hands out of them or until they come off the table completely. Same with the feet. Bang, bang, bang.

No dice. Adam's too tightly strapped down to move his hands and feet enough to try and free himself. He's stuck. Stuck in a head vice and tied down to a table like one of those crazies in the old horror movies, the ones with the lunatic doctor performing surgeries on his Loony Barn patients while they're still very much awake.

No, stop thinking about that. He's seen enough of those movies to be thoroughly freaked the fuck out by thinking about them.

So stop thinking about them, numbnuts, and get yourself out of here.

Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Good idea, but how am I suppose to do that?

Don't know, I'm just the voice in your head.

Desperate now. Adam Sanders is desperately scared and wants to go home and have some fun with his girlie posters. That's what normal teenage boys do, have some fun with their girlie posters, not hang around in a basement, strapped to a metal table under a slimy ceiling.

Thrash, twist, turn. Rock, try to rock the table over – no! Bad idea, a broken arm isn't going to get Adam anywhere closer to his attic bedroom with the dirty magazines hidden under a loose floorboard. He'll never get home, though, if he doesn't try something. But what's he suppose to try if he can't move at all?

A single, short lived sound stops Adam dead cold. He's not struggling anymore, but listening. Listening to hear that sound again, the scrape of shoe heel against concrete floor.

Maybe his imagination's picked up intensity in the situation, but just in case he didn't imagine that noise Adam stops breathing. He'd stop his heart, too, if it was at all possible to do that and keep on living. But he needs absolute silence in order to hear, really hear, everything in the room.

And there is it again! He didn't imagine it at all because there it was. His heart's hammering in his chest now, acting like a wild ape trying to tear down the bars of its cage, because the sound was much closer this time. It sounded like it came from right next to Adam – oh, Christ – right next to him, it was so close.

Adam's breath is caught in his throat, his ears are buzzing from intensity, and his body's so stiff his sister could use him as a ladder to get up on her horse, Brownie. Even his eyes hurt, he's been staring at one bluish green slime blob on the ceiling so hard. But wait a second–

Oh, God, it's an eye! A blue-green eye with it's mate in a man's skull that just appeared out of nowhere when Adam blinked. Oh, God, the psycho lunatic's come for him. Oh, God!

He starts screaming now through his horse bridle-like gag, starts trying to set himself free with the fervor of a bird in a cat's mouth. He shuts his eyes and opens them – open, close, open, close, open – but the man looking down at him won't go away and it's just like Adam feared. The man's a doctor, a doctor with the eyes of a loony, and he's just staring down at Adam and won't dematerialize away.

There's a nurse behind him, a foreign sounding nurse, who calls over from someplace out of Adam's square of slimy ceiling that it's ready, "doktorr", it's ready. Oh, God, what's ready? What's ready?

And the doctor keeps staring down at his patient, smiling behind his whatchamacallit face mask – one of those really ancient looking face masks covered in blood with a matching white, dried blood stained hat – and says to the soon-to-be-dead Arrowic boy, "We'll take very good care of you, Adam." Jesus, he knows his name! He knows his name and he's acting like everything's going to be okay, but it's not. Oh, God in Heaven, it's not! It's not!

Crying now, Adam's crying, and he's thrashing and he's twisting and he's banging the table. But nothing works, nothing. And the doctor with the blue-green eyes keeps on staring and smiling and then he holds up a rusty medical skewer only it's much worse than rust, it's more dried blood.

"Calm down, Mr. Sanders," the doctor's telling him in a calm but frightening voice. "Calm down and this will be over with in no time at all. We'll fix you up good as new."

Fix up? Fix up?

No, no, no! Adam just wants to go home, he doesn't need to be fixed up because he just wants to go home! He just wants to go back to bed and sleep under Marilyn Monroe and Pamela, under his Victoria's Secret models and his Fuse VJ. No fixing up, just a trip home!

"Still, Adam. You need to stay still so I don't miss and drive this where I don't want to," the doctor's saying. "Like your eye." And then he puts one hand on Adam's head and pushes down and takes the poker and puts it right above his left eye, presses down until the weight between his eye and that supraorbital bone thing – he slept through that part of health class, fucking Christ – until his vision blurs in that eye and now he's panicking even more.

And here comes the pain – Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the pain! He can feel everything, everything, and it hurts so much. The skewer's crashing into his brain and it's being swirled around and around and it hurts so bad, and the doctor won't stop laughing. And the nurse, the foreign nurse, she's laughing too. They're all laughing because it's hurting him so bad and he won't stop screaming and trying to get away.

But all of a sudden eighteen years stop flowing forward, stops flowing all together. The tide shifts and now everything's going backward. Adam can see the years going backward or maybe that's just his brain panicking, it does that when it's put under so much stress, but the years are turning backward. And there's blackness at the end of the line, he can see that too, such a rich velvety blackness he can't resist jumping into it when it comes to him.