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

Two Boys Stand Up

Dean never quite loses consciousness. Instead he drifts, caught somewhere between reality and an equally hellish nightmare as he's helpless to stop what's happening. He hears Sam's voice: moaning, sometimes, maybe screaming, and he doesn't know which of it is real and which is imagined.

His body is being dragged, maneuvered, colors swimming unfocused above him as he feels his arms being pinned above his head. Something tugs at his clothing, his shirt rips, and he feels a cold touch drag along his chest. His back hurts, an uncomfortable pressure settling at the base of his spine.

Then everything goes dark. He's left to ride out the pounding in his head until the drug wears off. His heart thumps hard, making him queasy as Sam's face flickers in and out of focus in his mind.

When lucidity finally sets in, it brings with it a whole new level of fear.

He's in hall seven. He can tell just from his position staring at the ceiling, the lights flickering on to allow him to make out the shoddy backdrop of an Aztec pyramid painted on the wall. A mannequin looms menacing above him, and Dean's mouth goes try as he sees the blood-like face paint, eyes scratched away to leave just white. The sacrificial knife he'd read about is clutched in its hand, arm extended so that the tip points down over his heart.

Shit.

He knows what's coming. Dean struggles, immediately finding his wrists and ankles are held down by metal cuffs binding him to the altar. Fear floods his veins, heart pounding as if it could escape its fate just by leaping from his chest. Is this what it's all been leading to from the start? What about...

"Dean!"

Sam's voice cuts through the panic. Dean cranes his neck, squinting to see his brother lying on the floor just a few yards from the doorway. There's a fuse box in the wall not far from his head. "Sammy!" No way did Sam have the strength to make it here by himself. He wouldn't be surprised if she dragged him here, wanting him to see what's about to happen. Sam tries to lift his head and his hands reach to try to crawl to his brother, but he's too weak to even shout again.

Dean yells. Incoherent fury and terror floods his voice as he lets out a scream. "You bitch! I won. I fucking won. You said I had to find Sam before he bled out, and I did. Now keep your end of the deal!"

He doesn't really know who he's addressing; if the mannequin above him has a mind of its own or if there's going to be any response, but a chill runs through him as the speakers come to life. A cold, mocking laugh rumbles through the chamber.

"I never made any deal concerning your fate, Dean."

Dean feels the cuffs bite into his wrists as he continues to struggle. "You said you'd let Sam go!"

"He's free to leave any time he likes. I never said I'd help him out the door."

Fuck. Dean's blood runs cold as he realises she's right. Sam's not walking out of here without Dean, but Dean... "And what about me?" He almost daren't ask.

Another cold laugh disturbs the air. "You played the game well. It was impressive, really: your heart put on such a great show for me. I think I'd like to keep it as a souvenir."

The bindings are steadfast. There's nothing he can do but scream. "Fuck you. Fuck you, Yolotli!"

He must have butchered the pronunciation, even if the intent was to offend, but it only seems to amuse her. "Don't strain yourself, Dean. Why not just call me Wanda? It's my park now."

Dean has a better idea. "Or how about I just call you what you are, you lying, cheating bitch!"

A sigh echoes throughout the hall, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "I can't say much for your manners, but still...you have a good heart." She seems to enjoy her own joke. "I'm going to give it pride of place. Keep it right here with me. After all, that's where I kept Sam all this time. I think the truth is, your heart's been here all along."