In the Dark Recesses

She was going to die, as sure as her bones ached.


Disclaimer: The Winchester boys aren't mine but I'd make Dean wear his boots all the time if they were.

Overall Rating: T (Language, Angst)

Characters: Winchester, OFC (Gen)

Miscellaneous: The was written for the First Impressions challenge at spnhetlove. I am more surprised than anyone that it is gen.

Betas: embroiderama, without whom. The good parts are all her. The mistakes? Those are all me.


It was dark outside when they threw him into the cellar, stars flickering through the slats along with the rain.

She watched him lay there, knees pulled up to her chest and an old wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she tried to stay warm. She didn't have much to do but wait for him to wake up from whatever cocktail they had given him. The rain was slick on his leather jacket, just enough light from the stars to shimmer through the drops caught in his spiky hair, and she figured he was lucky to have shoes.

She was still shivering when he moaned, crawling to his knees. She rubbed his back underneath the jacket while he threw up, whispering 'it's going to be okay' in a husky voice that she hadn't used for days since she had stopped screaming. She didn't believe the lie, either, but she let him wipe his mouth on one corner of the blanket while he came to his senses.

"Drink this," she said, tilting the edge of her metal cup against his lips. "But go slow."

"Fuck that," he snapped, knocking the cup away. The sun was coming up over the horizon because the slats were breaking up stray rays and she was close enough to see his hazel eyes darken. "You people are idiots if you think I'm falling for that trick again, sweetheart."

She shrugged her shoulders, picking up her cup and filling it from the plastic gallon jug on the ground. "They'll be bringing us oatmeal soon," she said, taking a swallow. It was cold against her throat but at least it didn't scratch like talking. "For breakfast."

He took the cup the second time she offered it, his glare piercing right through her.

"How long have you been down here?"

She closed her eyes, seeing the slashes she had carved into the mud against the back of her eyelids. "Five days."

"Son of a bitch!" He snorted. "You're the goddamn virgin!"

Her eyes snapped open because there was no way in hell he should have known that unless he was working with them. She didn't have enough strength left to start screaming, too exhausted to do more than wonder what the bastard had done to get drugged and thrown into a cold cellar with her. It didn't matter why he was there.

She was going to die, as sure as her bones ached.

"Jesus," he said, staring hard like he could finally see her. She wished she could shrink inside the blanket and disappear – even on the best of days, she wasn't much of a prize. "Your hands…" She pulled them underneath the blanket, hiding her jagged nails and bloodstained fingertips from his sharp-eyed gaze right along with her bare feet and mud-stained dress.

"I'm getting you out of here."

His voice held the strength of an oath – but she had stopped believing in help that would never come, no matter how sincere the promise.