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

Hurt Locker

Wordlessly, Dean clenches his jaw and goes to retrieve the stethoscope. He doesn't want to do this. It makes his stomach churn to know she seems to be getting a kick out of it, but if he doesn't...

He tells himself this is for Sam and looks back to the screen.

Good. Now put it on.

Dean does. The instrument isn't anything flashy: plain black tubing and a chestpiece comprising a flat silver disc. Basic and cheap. He's seen fancier on Dr Sexy, MD, but it's still enough to be functional. His mouth starts to dry out again as he brings the diaphragm towards his chest.

No. Not over your shirt. Directly on skin.

His hand freezes halfway as he gives the computer a dirty look. The knuckles on his free hand are turning white. "Fuck you," he snarls under his breath. Fuck you for making me play along. Fuck you for all of this you sick, twisted bitch...

The thoughts don't stop him from hitching up his shirt and pressing the diaphragm to his bare chest.

Well done. Now show me.

That confuses him briefly. "Show you what? I thought you could already see?"

In a manner. I'd like a nice clean visual for my records. Turn to the security camera up to your right.

Stomach churning, Dean looks up to see the camera and obediently turns. He bites his lip as he glances left again toward the screen.

Excellent. It looks good on your chest, she types, and he feels a surge of anger and humiliation.

"You having fun? Must be tough waiting for strangers to come along so you can play your fucked up game and get yourself off."

The response isn't what he'd expected, but it still chills him.

The last one wasn't quite as co-operative as you.

He doesn't have time to wonder at there being others before him before she puts him in his place.

But mind your manners, Dean. I won't tolerate that attitude. Now watch the screen again.

He resists the urge to turn his back completely as he looks away. She's toying with him, but right now she isn't hurting him. Or Sam. He can find some small solace in that.

How is it sounding?

"Too fast," he snarls. "And you know it."

Perhaps you best calm down, then.

He's trying. Really, he's trying, forcing each breath to be slow and even, but fuck this is hard.

That's better, he reads after a few seconds, but he can't say he's felt much difference. Now how about that valve? Take a listen in the center.

With his skin crawling in protest, Dean slides the stethoscope closer to his sternum. Pain twinges as he presses on the puncture mark, drawing his face into a grimace. He listens.

How is it?

"There's a, um...grating sound."

Oh dear. That's not good.

That's more than Dean can take. He wrenches the instrument out of his ears and flings it down on the desk. "Alright, I did what you asked. Now you said there'd be pills. Something to get my heart rate under control."

Well, there's nothing in here.

He's half tempted to pick up the office chair and put it through the fucking screen. "Where, then?"