A/N Ok, this is my first attempt at fanfic and I hope you like it. There are going to be loads of glaring errors you seasoned writers will pick up on but I've written this story because I love the characters and being ever so slightly obsessed I wanted my own little piece of them (in a good way, not the scary stalker way).

DISCLAIMER TYPE THINGY:- Eric Kripke owns Supernatural, Dean, Sam and Bobby. Please don't sue me.


Chapter One

Dean was lying flat on his back when he realized that he was really cold and very, very uncomfortable. He couldn't believe that he'd actually managed to fall asleep; the bed was so hard, and where were the goddamn covers? He tried to move into a more comfortable position, to reach under his pillow and touch his knife, but his arms and legs didn't seem to want to work. He couldn't get his eyes open either, and a tiny flutter of panic settled in the bottom of his stomach. Stay calm, relax, he told himself. He told his lungs to take a couple of deep breaths but his head started to throb painfully and he felt like he was going to vomit. I'll never drink again, he promised himself.

"Wake up," a voice said, sounding like the speaker was talking into a metal bucket. Dean stirred, not sure he recognised the owner of the voice. Maybe it was Sam. Maybe he'd fallen asleep in a doorway somewhere on his way home from a bar and Sam had found him; it wouldn't have been the first time. Yeah, thought Dean, that's it. I'm not in bed, I'm on the floor, so that's got to be the bar-keeper. Dean wanted to tell the bar-keeper exactly what he thought of him, but he was fairly sure he only managed to mumble something incoherent.

"Wake up." The bar-keeper's voice sounded much more insistent this time and it was followed by a sharp poke to Dean's ribs. Dude's poking me with a stick, thought Dean. His ass is so kicked, just as soon as I get up.

"Get him up," the bar-keeper said. Great, thought Dean, that's exactly what I had in mind, but just give me a few more minutes.

A pair of hands took hold of Dean's jacket and t-shirt, and Dean's hands, which only moments before had been beyond his control, instinctively flew up to grab the wrists of whoever had hold of him. The hands let go of his clothing, and Dean, unable to bear his own weight, lost his grip on the wrists and fell back the few centimeters he had been raised, his arms and hands again useless at his sides. Sudden pain erupted in Dean's left side as someone's size nine connected with his ribs.

Dean gasped as the breath was knocked out of him, his hands weakly clutching his side as he rolled away from his attacker. Dean's eyes flicked open as adrenaline began to pump through his system—that is, his left eye opened, but the right decided to stay firmly shut. Dean briefly saw a terra cotta tiled floor before pain and nausea caused his vision to waver and dark spots appeared, forcing him to close his eye. Oh come on, please don't let this be the men's room, Dean thought. He felt hands pulling on his arm and flipping him over onto his back. The hands grabbed hold of his t-shirt again, ripping it in the process. Dean felt himself being pulled up from wherever he had been lying and onto his knees. The pain in his side flared as his torso straightened out and he grunted.

"Put him on the chair," a voice ordered. Dean felt himself being dumped unceremoniously into a hard backed chair. He seemed to have a little more movement in his arms, and attempted to grab the wrists again, without success. Dean wondered briefly who he'd managed to piss off this time, and if alcohol dissolved bones.

"Hold him in place, you idiot," said the voice as Dean began sliding back to the floor. Powerful hands grabbed him and Dean felt himself being hoisted back into a sitting position and held steady. The same large hands gripped the tops of Dean's arms and forced him back in the chair. He allowed his head to roll back onto the stomach of the man behind him. Dean was almost comfy and thought a quick sleep would do him good; the voices began to fade away.


The owner of the voice stared hard at Dean's bloody face. The wound over Dean's eye had almost stopped bleeding; the split lip was not worth worrying about, nor were the bruises. The man was vaguely troubled over the large bleeding lump on the back of Dean's head, but not troubled enough to staunch the blood. He needed Dean to answer some questions, and his partner, the gorilla in a suit, had almost brained him with his fists.

The man pursed his lips and turned to the sink behind him to draw a large glass of water, then turned and threw the contents at Dean's upturned face. The majority hit the unconscious man, and a smaller amount splashed over his face, splattering watery blood over the gorilla's already dirty brown suit. The gorilla raised his head and glowered at the man in front of him, his small eyes burning with malice.

"Wake up." The voice was more insistent this time. Dean stirred, his head jerking forward as he inhaled water, his mouth open gasping for air. The man smiled, content that Dean was at least responding.

Dean's head dropped forward onto his chest, his breathing coming easier now that the water was out of his nose. He could hear movement around him and his eyes flickered open, both of them this time, but the light was too bright and it hurt his head so he closed them again. A low groan escaped his lips.

"Dean." The voice sounded muffled in Dean's ears as his eyes opened again and he tried to focus on the man's legs and shoes in front of him. Black suit and brown shoes, not a good mixture, Dean thought.

"Wake up," the voice said again, and a sharp slap stung the side of Dean's face. Dean tried to raise his head to see the speaker, but the room began to swim and his focus blurred, so he stopped trying and closed his eyes again. The voice also had hands, and one of them gripped Dean's hair and none too gently pulled his head up so that Dean was face to face with the man in front of him. Dean's eyes opened and slowly focused on the man standing in front of him.

"Where's Laura Stevens?" The speaker was a short stocky man. Dean thought he looked more like an accountant than a bar-keeper—an accountant with bad breath.

"Who?" gasped Dean, attempting to pull away from the odour. He was feeling nauseated enough without having to deal with dog breath.

"Man, you ever heard of breath mints?" Dean asked none too subtly. The accountant's lips almost disappeared; he didn't reply but his grip on Dean's hair tightened painfully and Dean's head was forced back so far that he was staring at the ceiling. For a fleeting moment Dean thought the accountant was actually trying to rip his head off.

"Don't you ever talk to me like that again, you piece of shit," snarled the accountant, breathing hard and fast as he tried and failed to control his temper. The accountant brought Dean's head back level with his own and spat into his face. The spittle ran down Dean's cheek.

Repulsed by the phlegm on his face, Dean didn't allow himself to flinch, but did allow his eyes to quickly move around to assess his situation. He was in an old kitchen that looked like it hadn't been modernised since the 1930's. There was a humming sound behind him which Dean assumed came from a refrigerator. The only lighting came from a low wattage light bulb dangling in the center of the room over a small wooden table. Dean was occupying the only chair. From his position he could see the back door and a window, which reflected the image of the gorilla/man behind him, his own pale face, and the back of the accountant who still gripped his hair. Dean was shocked by his own image, seeing blood running down his face and into his right eye. He became aware of a coppery taste in his mouth. At least he wasn't drunk; he had clearly been beaten and brought here, wherever here was.

"What the hell's going on?" Dean demanded and tried to move his hands up to his face. The gorilla's grip on Dean's arms tightened, forcing Dean harder into the chair.

"Dean," the accountant snapped, "your attention please." Dean stopped his attempt to reach his face and looked quizzically into the face of the deranged man.

"No tricks, no more time-wasting. Where is Laura Stevens?"

"Who's Laura Stevens?" asked Dean, stalling for time. He was confused; his mind was racing trying to remember why he was here, and who this man and Laura Stevens were.

The accountant let go of Dean's hair and took a step back. Dean managed to keep his head upright and kept the accountant in focus. His moss green eyes glared and a smirk flitted across his lips in defiance of the man in front of him. The man, white face contorted with rage, took several steps back from Dean and returned his glare. Dean didn't see the accountant's left hand as it shot forward and punched him hard across the left cheek and temple.

Son of a bitch, thought Dean as his head snapped to the right. Waves of nausea swept over him and the black dots returned to obscure his vision.

"Enough," a new voice ordered. The accountant clutched his reddening knuckles in his right hand and turned toward the voice, his face still white but no longer contorted. The gorilla's grip on Dean's arms loosened and Dean rolled forward in the chair, his head almost touching his knees. The owner of the other voice moved closer, although still behind Dean and the gorilla.

"What have you found out? Anything?" asked the other voice.

"N-n-nothing yet, sir," stammered the accountant, suddenly feeling cold and clammy.

"What exactly do I pay you for, Dunhill?" his employer demanded. Dunhill said nothing. His employer actually hadn't paid him for anything yet, as his contract clearly stated find Laura, get paid. Dunhill didn't want to irritate his golden goose by pointing out that fact.

"Get the information," ordered his employer. "Get it today or your contract will be terminated."

Dunhill watched as his employer stalked out of the room. He detested the old man, but this job was his ticket out of the back-street office where his private investigation office was based. It was his ticket away from alimony payments to his ex-wife, from the demanding eighteen-year-old son who used him as a private bank, from his landlord who was threatening to evict him next week, and from the endless dead end work of serving legal documents. All Dunhill had to do was find Laura Stevens and pick up a fat paycheck. All he needed was for the idiot in the chair in front of him to tell him where Laura was. Dunhill glanced up at the gorilla, his cousin Seth Black, who was grinning at him like the cat that got the cream. At that moment he would have liked to cause Black a great deal of pain.

Dunhill stared without compassion the semi-conscious man who was still slumped forward in his seat. He had decided this man was going to cooperate, whatever the cost. Dunhill motioned Black to pull Dean back up into an upright position.

Dean had been listening to the conversation between the men. Dunhill, he thought, that name was familiar. Dean struggled trying to remember something, something important, a matter of life and death concerning Dunhill. His brain struggled to put his memories into order; his thoughts were so sluggish it was like wading through treacle.

Dean felt Black's hands grip his arms and knew that he was about to be moved. If he could only get gorilla man off balance he might stand a chance. Dean knew that he could move faster than the gorilla and Dunhill; he was at least fifteen years younger. All he needed was a chance, a turn of events to his advantage. Dean felt himself being pulled back into an upright position, and as he reached the back of the chair, he summoned up all his strength and kicked hard at the floor, sending himself, the chair and the gorilla tumbling backward. Dean landed squarely on top of Black, and made sure that his elbows dug deep into Black's midriff, leaving him temporarily winded. Dean rolled to his knees, ready to sprint out of the kitchen, but felt the unmistakable coldness of a steel barrel pressed into the back of his neck.

"If you're quite finished, Dean, we really do have matters to discuss," said Dunhill. He sounded unfazed by the event, but the hand holding the gun on Dean's neck shook and his knuckles were turning white. Black grunted and rubbed his stomach where Dean's elbows had sunk into his gut, then rolled onto his hands and knees to grab the table in order to pull himself up from the floor.

"Get off the floor, you damn idiot," said Dunhill, glaring in Black's direction. "And get him back on the chair." Dunhill's voice began to rise in pitch.

Black heaved himself to his feet, breathing heavily. With one hand he turned the chair upright and with the other he pulled Dean by the collar of his jacket and slammed him back into his former sitting position far harder than was necessary. Dean sat as still as he could. His move had been too soon and he had inadvertently shown his adversaries that he was in a weakened state. As soon as he had hit the floor, he'd known that his legs wouldn't carry him, known he didn't have the strength to escape. Dean tried to slow his breathing. He hoped that the nausea would subside, hoped that the pain in his head would decrease, and most of all hoped that his brother would show up.