Oh Suzannah, Don't You Cry For Me

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Great Escapist

The chapter title is from Supernatural 8x21. Warning for blood and death.

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Great Escapist

Everything hurt.

From the depths of his mind to the tips of his toes, every single nerve burned as if on fire. He tried moving, to shy away from it and curl inward, but his muscles refused to work. Even opening his eyes took more effort than expected, his eyelids cemented shut under the pressure of an invisible weight.

He should be dead. Was he dead?

Flashes of incomprehensible memories slid through his mind. Falling. Sheering pain. Snow. Cold. Numbness. Blood. Too much blood. Pain. Faces. Pain. Trees? The inside of a truck. Pain. A building? More pain.

None of it made any sense. Thinking hurt, breathing hurt, living hurt.

A weak groan escaped his lips, the noise scraping the inside of his dry throat. His eyelids fluttered and he moved his head to the side when a hand pressed against his forehead.

The hand stung. His skin burned at the unexpected touch and he flinched. Too cold. Too hot. Too much. Stop, stop, stop!

Muffled voices conversed above him, echoing around in a language he didn't understand even if he could make out the words. Something hard pressed against his lips as another hand slid under his head and cupped it upward. Unseeing and completely at the whims of others, he drank the liquid. Water. Most of it dribbled down his chin and spilled onto his bare chest. It eased some of the pain in his throat.

The hand and the water disappeared. His head hit the metal table with a dull thud, and he winced in pain. No pillows, sheets, or blankets offered any comfort on the table. At least nothing strapped him down.

A memory of leather straps digging into his skin, binding him to a table trickled into his sluggish mind. Settling on the image, his hand closed into a fist, the first full range of motion he could display since waking up.

The voices returned, muttering like a frantic swarm of bees. Another hand brushed over the right side of his abdomen. Something wrapped around his stomach tugged against his skin from every shallow breath. Bandages?

Again, he tried to pry his eyes open. They wouldn't budge. His entire body felt lethargic and heavy, too solid for him to move. He could feel it struggle to follow his commands, the weakness becoming too much to handle. Only his right hand responded, and he curled and uncurled his fist to encourage the rest of his body to wake up.

Strangely, he couldn't feel part of his left arm. Nothing to worry about. His body did not respond as it should have, so the blankness in his left arm did not concern him.

He tried to open his eyes again and instantly regretted his success. A bright light shone down at him, the yellowing whiteness searing like lasers into his head.

Rolling his head to the side to stop the light from blinding him further, everything blurred and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before blinking them open.

To his right, a figure in a white robe stood near a desk. Or perhaps a table? Some metal structure with legs and a flat surface. Unimportant.

He squinted to force the black dots dancing in his vision to the edge. A distant voice in his head reminded him to do recon—to find out his location and access the threat level.

He focused first on what he could see. The person in white stood out of reach, his back turned to the metal operating table. Concrete walls lacked adornment. No windows. He couldn't see what lay on the desk aside from a thin stack of papers and a few bottles with labels he couldn't read from this distance.