A/N: So, Merisha, I typed innocently, what would you like for your birthday fic? She grinned evilly (at least I imagined she did) and typed back: Hurt!Dean. All righty then. Your wish is my command. If you came here looking for plot and characterization, then my dears, I'm sorry, but you came to the wrong place. You might get some pop culture references or some halfway decent descriptions of something weird and eerie going on, but make no mistake about it, over half of this fic is one long Dean whump. Violence towards teh pretty abounds, and also much cussing. Avert your sensitive eyes and ears, young 'uns. I am coordinating this evil birthday plot with PADavis and Muffy Morrigan, so we will be posting every Tuesday. Mish, you are right. We are evil.
Summary: Merisha has requested Dean whumpage to celebrate her birthday. Three part multi-chap: the hurt, the rescue (and some left-over Dean whump) and the comfort. I will be posting one chapter every Tuesday. No redeeming qualities to this one, not much plot, just Dean Winchester as a chew toy for a pack of unusual fuglies.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not profit.
Part 1 – so much fun to play with
Dean could still see the Impala down the hillside, parked on the shoulder of the highway, her sleek black frame nearly glowing underneath the moonlight and the overhead lights. That was normal down there. Up here on the hillside was anything but.
The young girl screamed again, high and piercing, warbling at the end notes as her voice cracked. It was just for show, icing on the cake. They had him where they wanted him.
The five shadows in the brush all around him started to move.
The shadow in the lead was one huge bastard, all orange eyes and bright white teeth. It was four-legged, broad and muscular. That was all Dean could see, even in the bright moonlight and shifting shadows.
Dean didn't think. If he took the time to think he'd die, and that was something he'd just as soon avoid. His first shot hit the thing in the chest, knocked it back snarling and snapping at empty air.
It was pissed.
That makes two of us, you stupid sonofabitch, Dean thought. He should have been back at the motel by now, eating take-out, the same fucking Chinese take-out that was cooling in the front seat of the Impala right fucking now, God dammit. Should have been relaxing instead, watching a hockey game, or maybe some chick flick Sam wanted to watch and Dean secretly wanted to.
After the month he and Sam had, one screwed up hunt after another, they both deserved some rest, deserved a freaking break, for cripes' sake. Dean had gone out for a food run, and on the way back ran right into this. It was a kid up there on the hillside, a little girl, and she was screaming. She was screaming, and he couldn't just keep on driving by, he couldn't…
The others fell back as Dean started to move. He tracked them with his pistol, placed his shots, good ones, each and every one. He still had the special loads, the silver ammo, loaded in his Colt 1911 from the previous hunt. Hunter's luck, which Dad was fond of saying, really wasn't worth a damn, but maybe this time, maybe…
These shadow bastards were black as night. They swallowed up all the air and light around them, like a freaking back hole or something, but the silver was having some kind of effect. Maybe it tickled them, maybe it stung their sorry asses. There was a moment when he'd punched a hole straight through, a moment in which he had a clear path back down to the Impala.
And like all good things, that didn't last.
Another one came in close. Dean moved fast, but it was faster. It latched on his left wrist and clamped down, shook its head from side to side, and Dean didn't feel a thing at first. He heard this bright sharp sound, like a thick branch breaking, as he jammed the gun muzzle up against the broad side of this fugly's head, pulled the trigger smooth and easy. The thing unclenched its jaws and jerked back.
Dean looked down and saw torn, ragged flesh. In the next second something dark and incredibly solid slammed into him from the left side. Dean went up into the air at an awkward, sideways angle as he struck that oak tree behind him. A bolt of pure white pain shot through his right side, down his spine, overwhelming the pain from his mangled left arm.
The ground felt soft when he hit. Dean laid there on his side and stared dully at the white bone sticking out of his skin. He thought about Sam.
Wondered how long it would take Sam to realize that things that gotten well and truly fucked up.
Then darkness descended and even that thought was gone.
He was dragged down into the black, and now the darkness let him go.
He couldn't feel his legs.
Dean blinked. His eyes were open, he could feel the grit and dirt caked around his lashes, but he couldn't see a damned thing. Everything was a grey, blurry smear around him that swayed back and forth. The top of his head felt like it was gonna come flying off. His guts did a slow, greasy flip flop, and he closed his eyes again. Better. Not hurling was good. Damn good.
His head hurt, a dull throbbing that went from ear to ear, pushed up against the back of his eyes and the top of his head, heavy and relentless. Dean breathed in ragged gulps of air and his body answered each heart beat with a new throb of pain in some other place.
Too many other places.
The right side of his face, scraped raw and bleeding. There were slivers of something stuck underneath his skin, in his right checkbone. Glass maybe? He couldn't remember.
He did remember how his left arm looked, all chewed flesh and jagged bone. There was no sense in fixating on that. He was freaked out enough as it was.
They'd stripped him down. He could tell that much. His black fatigue jacket was gone. So was his grey tee shirt. He was bare-chested now, and the air around him was dead, smelled stale, but it was warm, at least.
Dean flexed his right shoulder. At least he tried to, and white hot pain exploded deep inside his shoulder joint and muscles, traveled up his spine, one vertebrate after another. He made a noise that was halfway between a scream and a groan, bit his lips bloody trying to stifle it, but it came out anyway, hoarse and rough, full of pain and fear and rage.
Pain will clear your mind. That was part of the Gospel According to John Winchester, and it must have been true. Something bumped against the tips of his ears, on both sides of his head. His shoulder blades were all stretched out, but the pull was in the wrong direction. He wasn't strung up by his wrists.
He was hanging upside down, by his ankles, his fingertips about a foot from the floor.
Dean cracked his eyes open, and the room swayed, back and forth. Then, miracles of miracles, his stomach settled, got still and as heavy as a stone, as if his body was on overload and couldn't handle all the malfunctions at once. If anything had to go he was glad it was the urge to blow chunks.
Dean blinked again, and his sight came back, crystal clear, in sharp and merciless focus.
Son of a bitch…
He was nose to nose with one of the biggest damn dogs he'd ever seen.
Fido looked happy. A little too friggin' happy. Its eyes were liquid brown, deep set, almond shaped. It was the way the mutt looked at him that set Dean's teeth on edge, that knowing look as it stared him up and down, from his ankles down to his face. It was checking him out, giving him the once over.
"Christo," Dean whispered hoarsely, and the mutt grinned from ear to ear as its eyes flared orange.
It was hard enough getting all the details hung upside down like that. Dean's eyes hurt from the dim overhead lights, but he could see that this was one huge mother humping dog. One hundred sixty pounds easy, a massive broad head, huge square jaws, covered in thick black fur. Its tail curled up and over its broad muscular back.
Bobby had an English Mastiff once, a male. He named the dog Kissinger. Kissinger weighed in about two twenty, but he was a big baby, a cream puff. Bobby gave him away after a month or so. This dog might have been slightly smaller, but even in his condition Dean recognized that it was built for power, speed, and strength. If it were just a normal dog, that would have been bad enough, but this?
This mutt could have easily whipped Kissinger's ass. It made Cujo, that rabid St. Bernard in that Stephen King movie, look like a bunny rabbit. Hell, this thing could probably whip Superman's ass, and that skinny little white dog of his.
That wasn't the worst of it. There were four other dogs, just as big and just as black, with wide happy grins and dayglo orange eyes, sitting in a semi-circle behind the first one.
There were five shadows up on the hill. Didn't take a rocket scientist to figure this one out.
Fun, the dog rumbled inside Dean's head. He jerked at the sound. Jesus. It was inside him. went all through him. A trickle of blood ran down from Dean's left ear. That sound made his brain bleed.
The dog leaned forward, put one massive paw against Dean's shoulder. The right shoulder, naturally, the injured one.
"…gnuh…you son of a bitch," Dean grated out, "fuck you...get the hell off me."
The dog smiled even wider as it raked at Dean's shoulder with its nails. The knob of his dislocated shoulder moved and shifted underneath his skin. The pain engulfed him, made his muscles shiver and jerk helplessly as his nerve endings short-circuited. His teeth chattered as he shook.
It was a combination of everything: broken bones, torn ligaments, and God only knew what was in the saliva of the damned things. Large grey spots rose on the edge of his vision as Dean was swept up and away on thermals of pain that flowed through him, light as a feather, heavier than air.
Fun, the dog thought again, and it was the little girl's voice, light and cheerful. We hunt. We play. You stay here and play with us.
It looked up, and the ropes around Dean's ankles loosened. Dean shuddered as he felt an invisible wave of force grip his body. He was on the floor somehow in the next instant, curled up on his side, as waves of ice cold pain and red hot agony coursed through him, as though his body was trying to decide which sensation was better. The muscles in his legs jittered and jerked as his abused nerve endings came awake again, needles of sharp pain that lanced through his muscles.
The dogs padded around Dean, sniffed at his skin and clothing, licked at his face and hands.
"Son of a bitch…get off me…" Dean snarled. Several of them drew back. That was not the reaction they were expecting from their newest plaything.
The lead dog came over and stared at Dean almost fondly. Play time, or not. Thirty minutes. Your choice.
Dean growled at him, and for a moment confusion flickered in the animal's dark eyes. Then it turned around and padded out of the room, and the other four followed.
The muscles in Dean's back bitched at the change in position as he tried to sit up. He lay there panting, heavily, and then tried again, pushing up on his elbows. He could barely feel the fingers of his left hand, and his right. He nearly face-planted into the dirty concrete floor, then he steeled himself and pushed up again, using the heels of his palms, both hands, and his knees. Pain roared down both arms, but it was only the beginning,
This could only get worse.
Twenty eight minutes left.
What do you know, son? Dad said inside Dean's head. What have you learned about these sonsofbitches?
It helped to distract him. Took his mind off the pain as he tried, again and again to get up.
Dean? Dad barked as Dean slipped back down to the floor.
All right, Ace. Let me hear it.
This place, it's abandoned. Factory, probably. I think it's not far from the highway.
You think? Dad sounded amused.
Educated guess. At least I'm not assuming.
Good. Neither one of us need to be asses at this point. Okay. What else?
They've done this before. Where ever this is, it's far enough away from everything. No one can hear the victims scream. I've seen the way they move. Silver bothers them. Might be able to use that against 'em somehow. This place...might not have been cleaned out all the way. I see office furniture. Might be some salt around here. Something I can use.
Dean was on his feet minutes later, shaky as a newborn foal.
He needed his right arm back. He was dead without it.
Dean stumbled towards that heavy old filing cabinet in the corner. He didn't give himself time to think. He slammed his right shoulder hard into the side of the file cabinet.
The pain dropped him on the spot, right on his knees.
Dean screamed out, loud and long.
The next installment will be next Tuesday. More Dean whump, and Sam and Bobby to the rescue.