Abducted: Part One (SPN | Dean x Reader | Slow Burn)

Chapter 01: You Don't Exist

December 2013

"Wait here. The feds will be with you soon," Officer Tubby snarled.

Tubby wasn't his name at all, but it suited him just fine in your eyes. His rotund shape reminded you of a Teletubby. It was just a shame he didn't have the personality to match. While giving him the title didn't make up for the rough treatment you'd endured by his hands, it gave you some satisfaction, even if you'd never say it out loud.

As he forced you down into the chair, your cuffed wrists followed you, thumping onto the scratched wooden surface of the Interrogation Room's centre table. "Maybe you'll give them a straight answer."

"The feds?" Who were you expected to answer to now?

"The Bureau," he replied.

The Bureau? Right... Because that explained everything. You stared at him confused and he stared right back.

You had come to the realisation that this wasn't a dream a couple of days ago, although waking up in a foreign country after a night out clubbing would suggest otherwise.

But dreams couldn't hurt you. Dreams didn't continue for as long as this situation had and there was no way your mind was capable of coming up with something so elaborate in the first place. At least you thought.

Your memories from that night were that you hadn't been drunk. Tipsy maybe, but not intoxicated as everyone you met here so far had been suggesting. On the other hand, the condition of your body agreed with them. How else would you have wound up with these strange clusters of cuts in stranger still places, had you not been so?

There was one on your chest, your back, both arms, both legs, your left shoulder, your right, and the list went on. For every body part you could name, guaranteed there was at least one grouping of cuts, healed, or trying to heal like your wrists were. You couldn't count how many times the handcuffs that covered them had reopened and aggravated them further.

The cuts were as individual in their placement as other imperfections that already plagued your skin from years of living. Just bigger, finer and made up of strokes as if they were letters from a foreign language you had no hope in hell of reading.

"The F. B. I..." Officer Tubby spoke again, more irritation in his voice. His hands moving in a motion that you recognised as an 'ain't it obvious' kind of way. It wasn't obvious to you.

You didn't speak back this time, rather you continued to stare at him, a pleading look in your eyes. Surely this was just a sick joke. Surely your family would burst through the door at any minute and shout "April Fools" or something of the like. However, it wasn't April. It was the middle of December and very, very cold.

Officer Tubby glared at you one last time, then left out the door, slamming it shut behind him. A thunderous bang pierced your ears, and the sound shook the tears you'd been holding. They'd been trying to escape the confines of your lashes for days.

You sat alone in that room for what felt like an hour, but it was really only a few minutes. The sound of the clock on the wall behind you, tick, tick, ticking away, and you, trying to hold back the sniffle that you had gained through your tears. That was until the door opened and closed again, and all upset switched off. There was no hiding your stained, sticky skin, but there was no way you'd let any of them see you cry.

The person who joined you was new, serious, and much younger than the other officers you'd met during your time at the police station. He was very tall and wore a black suit and tie. Hair, dark blonde. Eyes, piercing green, gazing at you, trying to read your expression as you did the same to him. In his hand was a clear zip-loc bag. The contents resembled the small purse you had been carrying that night.