To The Beat Of The Devil's Drums [Supernatural]

First Aid

Harsh air rasps down Dean's throat as consciousness hits him again like a hammer blow. He gasps, coughing and spluttering as a sharp ache pangs behind his ribs, one hand flying up to clutch at his chest. Shadows and blurred spots dance across his vision, but as he blinks them away, he's aware enough to tell that he's still in the Fun House control booth. And, miraculously, still alive.

Dean groans, trying to sit up and rest against the wall as he attempts to figure out what happened. The creature from earlier has vanished, having apparently left him lying on the floor after he lost consciousness, but as far as Dean can tell, he isn't harmed. A sharp spike of fear pricks at his spine as he wonders why.

The thought of Sam flashes across his mind, triggering a wave of panic that makes him suck in a sharp breath. As his chest expands, he feels a sudden stabbing pain somewhere behind his sternum and his breath instantly catches, the hand grasping at his heart clutching tighter. He hasn't forgotten what happened before he blacked out, and fear is very quickly threatening to overwhelm him again. His head drops, leaving him staring down at his own chest as he gingerly eases his hand away. He can see there's just the tiniest of holes in his t-shirt, a slight disturbance to the weave of the fabric. With his confusion quickly turning to dread, Dean reaches down to lift the hem of his shirt and examine the bare skin below.

With the material hitched up to his chin, he has a clear view of the upper portion of his chest. Between his ribs, just to the left of his sternum, he can see a small purplish bruise is forming. Right in the centre of it is the swollen red point of a puncture mark.

Nausea sweeps over him as he realises what happened, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the wall as he brings his hand to rest flat over the wound. Needle straight to the heart. God knows what other damage it's done, but she flooded his heart directly with chemicals to stop it pounding so hard. That really must mean she wants him to live, if only to prolong his torment, and he's praying that means she's done the same for Sam too. If his brother's still alive, Dean still has a chance to get him out.

For the next few moments he focuses on taking deep, calming breaths, hoping that the uncomfortable ache in his chest will start to ease. He can feel his heart knocking against his hand, and although the pace is slow enough to be safe, the force of each beat is like a hard kick into his ribs. The pain doesn't seem to be easing.

He's barely had chance to grow accustomed to it and figure out what to do next when the speaker sitting on the counter top crackles to life again. "Good morning, Dean. Glad to see you're awake."

He shoots it a glare, even though the noise has started to make his heart beat harder and he fights to get that under control. Is it really morning? The last he remembers is the daylight slowly fading as he escaped the Fun House, but the current darkness outside looks like it belongs to the dead of night. He supposes midnight must have long since passed. "How's Sam? He alive?" he growls at the speaker, his voice gruff and exhausted.

She responds with a tut. "Really, now. Not even a greeting..."

"Is he?"

He hears a sigh on the other end before she answers his demand. "Yes, Dean. Don't you worry about little Sammy. I was very kind sending my pet to help you when you couldn't get your heart to slow down, and like I promised, if you get it under seventy beats per minute, I'll give your brother some of his blood back. Just don't expect me to be so nice again. Next time, that rule won't apply if you're unconscious."

Dean swallows, and he hates himself for actually feeling grateful that she didn't just kill them both. "Well, don't be worrying about that, because I won't be sleeping again until I've found Sam and put a bullet between your eyes," he snarls, at last having the strength to get unsteadily to his feet. He's regained his focus and knows he has to keep searching.