Fic: Shadows and Dust (SPN, Gen, R) -- Chapter One
“Sam! Sammy!”
Sam prised his eyelids open and looked up at scared green eyes, freckles and stubble. Dean’s face was very close to his.
He licked at his dry lips. His right shoulder hurt like a bitch and he was cold. The ground he was lying on was damp.
“Whu?” he said, as he tried to push himself upright.
Dean’s arms were around him instantly, helping him to sit.
“You passed out,” Dean said. “One minute you were shooting Charles Winston Maynard The Third in the face with rock salt, the next you were lying on your back twitching.”
Sam licked at his lips again. “How long was I…?”
Dean’s brow furrowed. “About five minutes this time. What did it feel like to you?”
Sam drew a deep shuddering breath. “Too long. Weeks.”
Dean nodded, his face closed off. “Okay. Let’s get you up.”
“The ghost?” Sam asked as Dean helped him stagger to his feet.
“I got it lit up. I’ll come back and cover up the grave once you’re lying down in the car.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, because this time he could’ve messed up a hunt. At least last time he’d passed out like this it had been during their down time.
“Did you go deliberately picking at the wall again?”
Sam pulled up short. “What? No. I…Dean. I said I wouldn’t and--”
“Okay,” Dean nodded. “Then you got nothing to be sorry for. Let’s just get this done and get back to the motel.”
--
No doubt about it, if there was a prize for Ugliest Motel Room Ever their room would win, hands down. The quilt covers looked like someone had vomited pansies and tulips all over them and the wallpaper was downright creepy; row after row of solemn-faced little blonde girls, all holding a red balloon. Sam shuddered. He heard the toilet flush and shortly after Dean came out of the bathroom carrying a glass of water and a small plastic pill bottle.
“Here,” he said, handing Sam the water and trying to press the pills into his hand.
“Dean--” Sam began, because he didn’t want to start self-medicating, no matter how ‘effective’ the pills were.
“Just listen,” Dean interrupted, rattling the pill bottle. “You look like shit, man. And not wanting the drugs, I get it, I do. But when it comes to Hell,” he trailed off and then sat down on Sam’s bed with a grimace. “Hell ain’t designed to keep you sane and you sure as shit aren’t supposed to live through the experience. The only way to hang onto your mind is to push that shit way down, and these are gonna help with that,” he rattled the pill bottle again. “Maybe help you get a little sleep too.”
Sam had to admit that his brother had a point. The memories of his flesh burning--the agony as his skin curled and blistered and peeled--were still fresh. Every time Sam closed his eyes he saw flames flickering beneath his eyelids. He swallowed and held his hand out for the pill bottle and his brother’s eyes flashed with relief.
Once Sam had dutifully downed a tablet, Dean sauntered over to the other bed and grabbed the TV remote, turning the volume right down and channel surfing until he found a Bruce Willis movie to watch. It was the one with that guy from Friends and Bruce Willis as an assassin. Dean plumped up his pillows and set them against the headboard, leaning back against them and stretching out his legs.
Sam blinked. His eyelids felt heavy. Dean kept up a low running commentary, criticizing the gun-handling in the movie and whistling low when the main character got into bed with the hitman’s wife. Sam was warm and comfortable and whatever Dean had given him, was keeping his brain pleasantly floaty. He blinked again and this time his eyes took much longer to open. Sam fell asleep to the soothing rhythm of his brother’s voice, the television burbling in the background, and the room mostly dark.
When Sam woke up, sunlight was streaming through the closed threadbare yellow curtains and he was alone. He lay still, still feeling lazy and languid from the pill Dean had given him, and wondered idly if Dean would be back soon with coffee and breakfast.
Twenty minutes later he was still alone in the room.
Sam got up slowly and headed to the bathroom. He stripped mechanically and then turned the shower on. He answered a call of nature while he waited for the water to heat up. When the shower was steamy he stepped inside. Sam was pretty sure the stench of sulphur and brimstone was only in his head, but he set about washing it away with the motel’s soap anyway. He lathered up and had a sudden flash of orange jumpsuits, waist high stalls and lecherous eyes. Sam’s nostrils flared. Goddamn cheap soap. It smelled like Green River Detention Center and every truck stop rest room he’d ever been in. The shampoo was better. A little fruity, which Dean was probably going to give him shit for, but at least he’d washed away the remnants of the Cage, imagined or otherwise.
When Sam re-entered the bedroom Dean still wasn’t back. He frowned and went and checked his cell phone.
Nothing.
He looked around the room and spotted a piece of the motel’s stationery, torn off the notepad, sitting askew in the middle of the table by the window.
Gone to Laurel Ridge Motel to help patch up Grady. He got hurt on a hunt and texted me, said he’d heard we were close. Probably be back before you wake up, Princess.
Sam frowned again. And then he called Dean. The call went straight through to voicemail. Sam thumbed through his contacts until he found Grady’s number. He got the same result; straight through to voicemail.
Maybe Grady’s injuries had been worse than he’d led Dean to believe. Sam snorted. Wouldn’t be the first time a hunter had tried to pass off several severed limbs as ‘just a scratch’.
Sam tried Dean’s number again and when he still got no response he left a message: “Hey, Dean. I’m guessing Grady was worse than you thought. I’m gonna go and book our room for another night. Call me if you need anything.”
--
At 10.00am on a Tuesday morning The Clock Tower Kitchen and Bakery was quiet. Sam got a cinnamon, apple and raisin bagel with whipped butter and a coffee to go and then he went and borrowed a pale blue Dodge Aries that looked almost as old as him.
It was twenty minutes straight down the I-90 to the Laurel Ridge Motel. Sam spotted the Impala immediately, parked in front of one of the motel’s sixteen rooms. He pulled over next to it and peered inside before going and knocking on the door of the room behind the car; big black number 12 on an ugly turquoise door. Silence. Sam tried to look in the window, but the blinds were closed. He knocked again. And again. And then he picked the lock.
Not only was the room currently empty, it didn’t look as if anyone had been in it lately. Certainly, no one was staying here now.
A heavy lump settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach and his pulse began to beat in a fast and agitated rhythm beneath his skin.
Sam had brought the spare key to the Impala with him, just in case, and he used it now to open the car and search through the box of IDs in the glovebox.
He went into the Reception and rang the bell.
The man who appeared from out the back was grey-haired and ruddy-skinned. The buttons of his stained shirt looked like they were about to pop and his stomach hung well over his belt.
“Yes?” he said, his tone suggesting that Sam had ruined his day by turning up.
Sam slapped his FBI ID down on the counter. “When did you last rent out Room 12?”
The man glared down at the ID and then peered up suspiciously at Sam. After a moment he reached under the counter with a put-upon sigh and hauled up a large green vinyl book. He flicked through it and then spun it around to face Sam.
“There,” he pointed with a nicotine-yellow finger. “Two weeks ago. Tuesday night.”
So maybe Dean was in a different room. Maybe Grady’s car had been parked in front of his room and Dean had simply parked in front of one of the vacant rooms. Sam wished he knew Grady’s aliases; that would make this so much easier. As it was, he was going to have to go door to door.
He picked up his fake ID and pocketed it. “Thanks for your time,” he headed for the door. “I’m going to have to talk to some of your other guests.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
Sam turned to face him. “Of course I can” he said. “In fact, you’re lucky I’m taking the softly, softly approach and not shutting you down and bringing in a forensics team.”
The man’s face paled and tightened.
“You have a nice day now,” Sam said.
Sam checked out every room at the motel. Only five were occupied and none of them were occupied by either Dean or Grady. He asked everyone if they’d seen the man who arrived in the Impala and got a whole lot of shoulder shrugging and indifference until he spoke with the young guy in room 13.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m a classic car enthusiast and when I heard that baby rumble into the lot I had to check her out.”
Sam’s heart began to race.
“You spoke to the driver?”
The young guy shook his head and Sam’s heart sank again.
“I just looked through the window. I mean, I wanted to go across, but it was pretty late, like after 2.00am, and, well, I guess the guy came to the motel for a booty call or something, because he didn’t check in, just parked and went straight over to the room opposite. I didn’t wanna, you know, get in the way of that.”
“Did you see him go inside?’ Sam asked.
“Yeah,” the guy nodded, and then frowned. “Well no, not actually. He was in front of the door and then a white van turned up and stopped for a moment and it blocked my view. By the time the van went, the guy was already inside the room.”
Sam’s heart sank even further. “Have you seen the guy since?” he asked. “Maybe moving around inside the room opposite or coming out to his car?”
The young guy shook his head. “No. Sorry.”
Sam licked at his lips. “Did you happen to get the van’s license plate?”
The young guy shook his head and apologized again.
Sam thanked him for his time and then went and had a good look around the motel’s grounds and surrounds. The motel didn’t have security cameras and there were no security or traffic cameras anywhere nearby that might have picked up the white van in or around the motel’s lot.
Sam went across to the Impala and climbed into the driver’s seat. He tried Dean’s phone one last time and when it went straight through to voicemail yet again he started the car’s engine and headed back to their motel.
He spent the next couple of hours hacking the local police database looking for anything that mentioned kidnapping or white vans and got absolutely zip. He also noted that the only suspicious activity in the area that looked even remotely like a hunt was the poltergeist case that he and Dean had been working; which made him wonder what Grady had been doing in the area.
If Sam’s suspicions were correct and Dean had gone into the white van, not the motel room, then his brother had been missing for nearly twelve hours already and that really couldn’t be a good thing.
Sam needed help. He needed to escalate this to a full scale emergency.
He called Bobby.
Bobby listened carefully to Sam’s frantic recitation of the facts and then said, “Dean’s note said that Grady called him?”
“Yeah,” Sam frowned. “No. It said that Grady texted him.”
“Huh,” Bobby said, his tone ponderous. “Son, I think you better get your ass to Sioux Falls. Seems we might have a situation.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, dropping his head into his hand as the reality of the situation overcame him. “Dean is…shit…he’s really missing, Bobby.”
“He ain’t the only one,” Bobby said. “Grady went missing five weeks ago.”
--
Dean returned to consciousness slowly. He became aware that he was awake at the same time he became aware that his head felt like he’d been on a three day bender. He ran his tongue around his dry lips and, ow, that hurt. His lip was split and his tongue felt like he’d bitten right through it. He was thirsty and he could taste the copper tang of blood in his mouth. The last thing he remembered was arriving at Grady’s motel room. He’d been about to knock when he’d heard a noise behind him and…after that he had nothing.
“Fuck,” he groaned and tried to lift a hand to his aching forehead.
His arm wouldn’t move. Neither of his arms would move. And neither would his legs. Dean experienced a moment of sheer terror, before he realized that he wasn’t paralyzed, just tied down.
Also, naked. Although, thankfully, covered by a blanket.
Dean opened his eyes. He was in a small cell that looked like something out of a medieval castle; cold grey stone walls, and a door made of thick black iron with a small window made of iron bars.
There were only two things in the cell: the narrow iron cot that he was lying on, complete with lumpy mattress and thin grey blanket, and a plastic bucket.
“Oh you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” Dean muttered.
Movement and a rattling sound caught his attention and he looked up to see a man in a white lab coat unlocking and opening his cell door with a big bunch of ye olde timey looking keys.
Behind him were two black-Kevlar-and-helmet-clad dudes carrying AK47s.
“Good morning, Mr Winchester,” said the man as he entered the cell. He was carrying a black bag. The armed dudes stayed outside, guns trained on Dean. He figured he should probably be flattered.
“I’m Dr Jones,” the man in the white coat continued. “I gave you a thorough examination when you were brought in, but of course, there’s only so thorough I can be without your feedback. How are you feeling?”
“I’m pissed,” Dean said, trying not to imagine the doctor poking and prodding at his unconscious naked body. He pulled on his bindings. “What’s with the bondage-and -torture dungeon?”
The doctor laughed, a sibilant sound devoid of humor. “The ‘bondage’ is a standard precaution with all new arrivals. Whether or not there’s ‘torture’ is entirely up to you.”
Dean stared at him. “Speaking of new, I seem to have missed the introductory tour and welcome breakfast.”
Dr Jones grinned. “Oh, the audiences are going to love you.”
Dean frowned. “Audiences? What-” he broke off as the doctor came toward the cot and reached out for the blanket. Dean tried to grab onto it, to hold it down and keep it covering him, but of course he couldn’t move. He felt himself blushing as the doctor pulled the blanket off him, exposing him to the room, and he made another little abortive move, instinctively wanting to cover his junk. Tied down as he was, he had no choice but to endure the doctor standing over him and staring down at his nakedness.
“See something you like?” Dean quipped, falling back on his old standby of hiding embarrassment and humiliation behind a cocky, smartass façade.
“Oh yes,” Dr Jones said. “You’re an excellent specimen. I imagine we’ll get a lot of After Hours requests for you.”
Dean felt his heartbeat and breathing speed up. He wasn’t sure exactly what kind of mess he’d gotten himself into here, but it was sounding progressively worse by the minute.
“Okay, listen up Indy,” he said. “I got no clue what’s going on here, so how about you just give it to me straight?”
The doctor’s eyes were bright and his lips twitched with amusement. “I’m just here to assess your health. The Lanista will be along shortly to explain how things work here. Now, aside from pissed,” the doctor’s lips quirked again, “how are you feeling?”
“Well,” Dean said, “I’m feeling a little go fuck yourself.”
The doctor sighed. “Believe it or not, my role here is to look after your health and well-being. You have nothing to gain by being uncooperative with me and everything to lose. If you don’t cooperate, I’ll be obliged to tell the Lanista and you’ll be punished,” he pursed his lips. “That’s where the ‘torture’ you mentioned earlier comes in. Now, how are you feeling? I understand that your recruiters were somewhat overly enthusiastic in the use of their tasers and you may be experiencing some after-effects; headaches, aching muscles, memory lapses. That sort of thing.”
Truthfully, Dean wasn’t all that concerned by the prospect of ‘torture’. After forty years in Hell, he figured there was nothing anyone could do to him that Alastair hadn’t done a thousand times worse. But maybe the smarter move here would be to play along a little. Just until he got some more intel on where he was and why he’d been taken.
“I don’t remember getting tasered,” he said. “I’ve got a killer headache. And I’m thirsty.”
The doctor pulled a syringe and a small bottle out of his black bag and gave Dean a shot.
“The memory may or may not come back,” he said. “But I don’t suppose you’ll be too upset if you don’t regain it. You’ll get something to eat and drink once the Lanista has spoken with you.”
The doctor backed out of the cell and Dean was left alone, naked and bound. The bastard didn’t even put the blanket back over him.
Now that he wasn’t covered by the blanket, Dean could see that his wrists and ankles were enclosed in some kind of smooth metal cuffs that were securing him to the cot. Straining against them did nothing except hurt his wrists and ankles and Dean couldn’t see an obvious locking mechanism. Not that he had anything to pick a lock with at the moment anyway.
Dean stared up at the ceiling and tried not to shiver. Stone floors and walls didn’t exactly make for a warm environment and being buck naked didn’t help either.
He wondered who this Lannister guy was, wondered idly if he was screwing his sister like Jaime Lannister in that new show, Game of Thrones.
The stomp of boots on stone brought him out of his musings and he looked over at the door in anticipation. There were armed guards again and two men, a medium height, non-descript blond guy dressed in a rumpled grey suit (no tie) and another dude who was dressed as a gladiator and seemed to be holding a whole bunch of leather strips.
Ah, fuck. It was all starting to make a sick kind of sense now.
Suit dude and the gladiator entered his cell.
“Dean Winchester,” said the suit, his voice oil-slick and eager. “I can’t begin to tell you what an honor it is to have recruited you to the Ludus Caledonia.”
Dean snorted at the term ‘recruited’. “Yeah, well,” he said. “It’s always good to meet a fan. I’d shake your hand, but I’m a little tied up right now.”
The suit beamed. “That’s the spirit, Dean. You keep up with that attitude; those quips of yours. The audience is gonna eat it right up.”
“Audience. Right,” Dean let his gaze roam over the gladiator. The man’s head was down, but even so he looked…fuck.
The gladiator was Grady.
“Man,” Dean looked back at the beaming suit. “You are one sorry sack of stupid. You really think you can kidnap a bunch of hunters and no one’s gonna come after you?”
The suit’s face darkened and then his lips curled up in a cruel smile. “Let them try,” he said. “This place is heavily warded. No one finds it without a blood-engraved invitation. Septimus,” he snapped his fingers and Grady stepped forward. “The bracelet.”
Grady put the pile of leather he was carrying down on the ground and then stepped toward Dean carrying what looked like a thick metal wrist cuff.
The suit nodded at the guards and one of them moved forward and pointed his gun at Dean’s chest through the bars in the cell door.
The suit pushed back his shirtsleeve, which revealed his own wrist cuff. He pushed a button on it and one of Dean’s handcuffs sprang open.
“Lift your hand,” Grady said gruffly.
Dean stared at the older hunter, but Grady wouldn’t make eye contact. “Why are you helping them?” Dean said.
“Shall I show him, Septimus?” the suit’s voice was laced with cruel glee.
“Please, Dean,” Grady said, finally meeting Dean’s eyes.
Dean pressed his lips together, but before he could respond Grady suddenly cried out and fell to the floor, where he writhed in clear agony.
“Your wrist cuffs,” the suit said, “have two settings: Agony and Death. All of the guards can give you Agony. Only management can give you Death. You will also notice, when you get an opportunity to move about the compound, that there are a number of thick lines marked on the floors. Some of the lines are red, some are yellow. Cross a yellow line and the Agony function on your wrist cuff is automatically triggered. Cross a red line and Death is automatically triggered.”
When the time came, Dean was going to enjoy ripping the suit’s lungs out. He let the man see the disdain in his eyes and then looked down at Grady. He was on his back now, panting. His face was etched with pain and his eyes were streaming with tears.
The suit nudged Grady with the tip of his shiny black shoe. “Get up,” he said.
Dean watched while Grady struggled to comply.
“Put the bracelet on him,” the suit told Grady.
“Hold up your hand, please,” Grady said to Dean, his voice rough and shaky.
Dean held up his hand. There had to be a way out of the cuffs and he would find it. But he didn’t want to be responsible for Grady getting the Agony button again.
The cuff clicked into place and two lights, one yellow, one red, immediately lit up.
“Excellent,” the suit said. He pressed a button on his wrist controller and Dean winced, preparing himself for pain that didn’t come. Instead, the rest of the smooth cuffs that had been manacling him to the bed slid open and off.
“Stand up,” the suit said.
Dean climbed up off the bed, massaging his wrists. He felt awkward as fuck, but he kept his head held high and refused to cover his groin or grab the blanket to wrap around himself. It wasn’t like he had anything to be ashamed of and with any luck he was making the suit feel inadequate.
“Welcome to the Ludus Caledonia,” the suit said. “You will refer to me as Lanista or Sir. While you are here I will be responsible for your training and your performance,” Dean tried not to scoff in disbelief and wasn’t entirely successful. The Lanista smiled thinly. “Your role here is to perform in gladiatorial combat in the Arena six nights a week against one or more supernatural creatures. Not all fights will be to the death. You are currently on probation. After ten fights and five kills you will be honored with the House brand,” beside him Dean felt Grady tense, “and you will be permitted a greater amount of freedom. After one hundred eligible fights you will be set free.”
Dean raised an eyebrow. Somehow he really doubted that.
Eligible fights, he learned, didn’t include punishment fights, or display fights, or fights that the Lanista felt he’d thrown, or fights where he was ordered to kill his opponent, but didn’t, or fights were he was ordered to spare his opponent, but didn’t. He also learned that he could earn extra kill credits by whoring himself out. Apparently watching death fights turned a lot of people on and they would bid ferociously for the chance to fuck or be fucked by the winner.
“So,” the Lanista said slyly. “Shall I put you down as available for After Hours work? A good looking young man like you,” his assessing gaze made Dean want to cover himself again, “is bound to be requested.”
Dean experienced a surreal, out of body feeling as the absurdity of the situation hit him. Was he seriously standing naked in a dungeon being asked if in addition to being a dancin’ fuckin’ monkey for a bunch of Suits, he wanted to let the most perverted of them have their way with him afterwards? Dean couldn’t believe the audacity.
“Think I’ll give that a miss,” he said curtly.
“I’m surprised. I hear you’re usually quite a hit with the ladies. And I’m sure that plenty of men of a certain persuasion would pay a lot of money to have you as their toy for the night.”
Dean met the Lanista’s eyes. “I said, I’ll pass. Anyone tries to get up close and personal with me, I guarantee you they won’t like my version of foreplay.”
The Lanista chuckled. “Everything you do here is strictly voluntary.”
Dean snorted. “Right, so I don’t have to fight monsters in the arena?”
The Lansita grinned. “Of course not. If you want to kneel down in the arena like some kind of modern day Christina martyr and stay all pacifist and peaceful while a vampire or a werewolf or a wendigo tears your throat out, that’s entirely up to you.”
Dean glared.
“I’m going to leave Septimus here to help you get changed,” the Lanista pointed to the pile of leather on the floor.
“Septimus?” Dean frowned.
“Oh. Yes,” the Lanista clapped his hands. “I almost forgot. Your new name is Decimus. Your friend there was our seventh Hunter recruit. You are our tenth,” the Lanista turned toward the cell door and then paused. “Oh and Decimus?”
Every muscle in Dean’s body locked tight and then convulsed and his nerve endings all burned with agony as he fell to the floor with a cry of pain.
“That’s for calling me stupid.”
The pain stopped and Dean cautiously unclenched his jaw. The Lanista had gone but Grady was still there, sitting on the bed, the pile of leather beside him.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” Dean sat up. He felt a little shaky, but there was no residual pain.
“Here,” Grady handed Dean a soft black leather…Dean supposed he’d have to call it a loin cloth.
“What the fuck?” he said.
“That’s the front,” Grady pointed. “Goes between your legs, buckles up at your hips.”
Dean turned away from Grady and put the stupid thing on. At least now his junk wasn’t hanging out.
“So how’d you get dragged into all this?” he asked as he fastened the buckles.
“Same way you did. Got a text from Reggie saying he needed help with a vamp hunt. Arranged to meet him at a motel just outside of Omaha and got tasered when I turned up. Here. Put this on.”
Grady helped him change into the outfit he would be expected to fight and train in, a skirt of leather strips with a wide leather belt to protect his waistline from being injured, and something Grady called manicae, which were wraps of leather used for shoulder, arm and wrist padding. There were sandals too, made of tough but flexible strips of leather which wrapped around his calf and were tied just below his knee.
Dean wasn’t going to lie; he kind of wished he had a full-length mirror. He was pretty sure he made a smoking hot gladiator.
“How many hunters do they have?” Dean asked.
“Like the Lanista said, you’re the tenth.”
“You seen anyone earn the right to leave?”
Grady said that he hadn’t, but that Tamara, or Una, as her gladiator name was, had 68 kills under her belt, so she should be the first, in a few months.
Dean nodded. “I know Tamara. She’s one Hell of a hunter. Who else is here?”
Dean learned that Roy and Walt had been captured, as well as Reggie, Tim and Annie.
“That only makes eight of us,” he said with a frown. “I thought I was number ten?”
“You are,” Grady wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “We’ve lost a couple. Lula Black and Michael Ryan. You know them?”
Dean shook his head.
“A wendigo brought Lula down in the arena and Michael,” Grady scratched at his chin. “Michael crossed a red line.”
“Shit. So the guy in the suit wasn’t exaggerating,” Dean looked carefully at the cuff on his wrist. “What do you know about these?”
“I know they don’t come off unless management take them off. They’re completely tamper proof. The only way for us to free ourselves would be to knock out all the guards simultaneously as well as take control of the entire management team at once and force them to release us.”
Dean nodded. “How many people in ‘management’?”
Grady shrugged. “There’s the Lanista, the Arena Master and the Big Boss that I know of. Could be others.”
Dean turned away in frustration. Grady didn’t seem to know much. “Okay, I guess we’ll just have to focus on collecting intel. Sam’s probably cooking up a rescue plan as we speak, but the more we know--the more we can help ourselves--the better.” He ignored Grady’s skeptical expression. “So. They’ve got wendigos, vamps and werewolves. What else? What have you fought?”
Grady told Dean that he’d fought a dozen vamps, half a dozen werewolves, a rugaru, a wendigo and too many ghouls, revenants and zombies to mention. The undead were definitely the creature the hunters had to do battle with most often. Walt got put in the arena with a pair of chupacabras once. And Roy had fought with a couple of skin walkers and a rawhead.
“I’ve heard a rumor they’ve got a rakshasa too,” Grady said, “but no one’s seen it.”
Dean snorted at that.
Grady handed him the final item he’d been carrying, a brown knee-length baggy dress.
Dean frowned at him questioningly.
“Tunic,” Grady said. “For every day wear. The leather gets uncomfortable after a while.”
“We ever get to fight the other hunters?” Dean asked, setting the dress down on the bed.
Grady shook his head. “Sparring, sure, every day. But actual fighting between ourselves gets you punished real quick.” He ran a hand through his short cropped hair. “Look…I heard about what went down between you and Sam and Roy and Walt, back when we were all trying to stop the apocalypse, but if you try to start anything with them now, it’ll just get you in trouble.”
Dean grinned. “Come on, Grady, you know that trouble is my middle name.”
Grady sighed and looked at Dean grimly. “You start a real fight with anyone outside of the arena and you’ll get tied to a cross and whipped. Don’t do it.”
Dean figured it would almost be worth it, just to beat the ever-loving snot out of Walt. He’d been through far worse than a mere whipping in Hell. Then again, he hadn’t actually had a body in Hell. Whatever had happened to him, Dean could comfort himself that it hadn’t been real; that it had only happened in his mind. It was something he’d told himself repeatedly when he’d first got back topside and it was probably the only thing that kept him sane. That and large quantities of Hunter’s Helper.
Speaking of.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting a drink in here, is there?”
Grady stood up. “They’ll send in a meal and a drink as soon as I leave. You-”
“I mean a drink drink,” Dean interrupted.
Grady wrinkled his nose. “Yeah,” he said. “If you ask for a beer with your evening meal, they’ll bring you one.”
Dean raised an eyebrow, not sure whether Grady was just messing with him. “Really?” he said, half expecting Grady to smack him upside the head and call him an idiot.
“Really,” Grady said, his lips drawn thin. “They figured out pretty quickly that if you want to keep functioning alcoholics functioning, then you need to supply them with alcohol. And let’s face it; most of us hunters are barely functioning alcoholics.”
Dean wasn’t going to argue. “All right. So I get three hots and a cot and a drink when I nee- want one and all I gotta do is the job I normally do anyway. That about sum it up?”
Grady fixed Dean with a cold stare. “You think this is gonna be easy? Lula died in the arena, Dean. A good hunter whose throat got ripped out for the entertainment of those sick fucks out there in the audience.”
Dean hadn’t meant to sound dismissive, he was just trying to make the best of it.
“What are they, anyway?” he asked. “Whatever’s running this? Demons?”
Grady laughed. “Humans. With some pretty powerful witches on staff. To them, you’re nothing but a slave. A valuable one, but a slave none-the-less,” Grady leaned in close to Dean and pointed a finger at him. “And you better remember that.”
After Grady left, a young guy in a white tunic brought Dean a burger and a bottle of water, which he passed to him between the bars of the cell window.
“Thanks, buddy,” Dean said with a smile. “Any chance of a beer?”
The eyes guys flicked up briefly and he shook his head. “Only with supper,” he said.
Dean inclined his head in acceptance and sat down on the bed. By the time he’d finished the meal he had to admit that Grady was right; the leather got uncomfortable real quick.
Dean changed into the stupid dress, dumped all the gladiator stuff on the ground and then lay back on his cot with his arms folded behind his head.
Sam would already be looking for him, without a doubt, and nothing as insignificant as powerful warding would stop him from finding this place and figuring out how to get his brother out. Sam would come for him; Dean knew he would. It was just a matter of time.
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