A Kick to the Head

Warnings: Kidnapping, flogging, foot flogging, non-consensual drug use, violence. That said, the best I can describe this is a gen casefic, hurt/comfort without the comfort. It's not super gory.

Sam woke slowly, into the grip of a pounding headache. He blinked, trying to focus. Something was wrong, he could feel it in his head and chest. Something had happened, an explosion maybe, and now something was very, very wrong. He was sitting in a chair and couldn't figure out how he got there.

He stood up, only to jerk to a stop halfway when his arms pulled at his shoulders. He sat again abruptly to peer at them. He was tied to a chair, he realized. His wrists and ankles were wrapped tightly with rough rope. He pulled at them irritably. The rope cut into his wrists. He would be bloody soon if he didn't stop.

He stilled and breathed slowly, reaching for the quiet that would allow him to concentrate. Sam pushed the headache backward into a steady throb, steadfastly refused to vomit at the sudden nausea and brought the world into focus.

He was in a cement room, dim and grimy, though a high window let in the weak winter light. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor. He had lost his gear and was down to his t-shirt— not enough to keep him warm in the cold, cement room. A table stood on the far side of the room next to the door and on his right, Spike was tied to a second chair.

Sam's eyes fell on Spike with a jolt. Spike's wrists were tied in a similar manner to Sam's, but his feet were bare, propped on a metal box in front of him. At his ankles, Sam saw the glitter of metal cuffs. He had been stripped of his jacket and shirt and his pale chest seemed to gleam in the dim light. A thin plastic tube wound from the crook of one elbow up to an IV bag that hung above his head on a metal stand. He sat with his head tipped back, limp in the chair. A chill crept through Sam at the sight.

"Spike!" he called as quietly but as urgently as he could. Spike stirred sluggishly at the sound. He managed to raise his head and look in Sam's direction, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

"Lou?" Spike whispered. He sounded low and harsh, like he could barely coordinate his tongue with his lips.

"No, it's me. It's Sam." Sam pulled at the restraints again and the rope dug a little deeper into his wrists.

"Oh." Then Spike opened his eyes fully, sat a little straighter and seemed to come back to himself. "What happened? Where's Jules?"

"I don't know. Not here at least. I think there was an explosion. A bomb." He had a vague memory of being the first one through the door, then of Spike tackling him. He shook his head to try and concentrate, but stopped when it brought the headache back. He looked at Spike again. In the short time it took him to answer, Spike was already slipping away, head tipping back, eyes closing.

"Spike!" Sam called again. Spike jerked upright. "What do they have you hooked up to?"

Spike peered up at the IV bag, brow furrowed as he tried to focus.

"Dunno," he said at last. "Can't read."

Sam's stomach seemed to be made of lead and ice. Spike could always read. He read like it was an Olympic sport, fast and accurate. Sam breathed evenly, pushing the panic down.

Spike suddenly seemed to realize he was tied to the chair. He tried to pull his wrists away with a confused, inarticulate noise. When he couldn't pull away, he yanked harder and Sam began to worry that he would seriously injure himself.

"Don't pull, Spike. It's okay, just calm down."

"No," Spike said. "No, no, no, no!" With each negative, he got louder and more insistent, until he was shouting and throwing himself back into the chair and Sam was shouting too, to sit still or he would break his wrists.

The door banged open. A large man with wild, black hair stepped into the room. He was tall, taller even than Ed, Sam thought, and bound in muscle. He had a whip in one hand and a gun tucked into his waistband. Sam stilled and sat silent, but Spike didn't notice. He was still tugging and yelling.

The man strode to Spike and fiddled with the IV, speeding up the drip.

"Enough of that," the man said calmly. Slowly, Spike subsided and slumped, head lolling to one side. Sam gripped the arms of the chair until his knuckles turned white, trying to steady himself. He needed to talk now, he knew. This was his moment to try and connect. But what did he say? How did the boss talk down all those guys with guns?

"I'm Sam," he said. "Can you tell me why we're here?"

The man looked at him. There was something unnerving in his eyes, a cold, steady blankness that made Sam shiver.

"You are here because I need you," the man said. "And you friend is here as a…bonus."

Spike was in greater danger than Sam originally thought. The man said bonus, but Sam knew what he really meant was expendable.

"What do you need from me?" Sam asked. "Maybe I can help you."

"I need you to be quiet," the man said. He turned away and began to leave. Sam couldn't let him go. If he couldn't get the man talking now, he didn't think he would have another chance.

"I want to help," Sam said. "I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."

The man turned, his face a mask of fury, and let the whip uncoil at his side. There was a crack and an angry red weal appeared on the soles of Spike's bare feet. Spike jerked with a cry, wrenched back into his body by the pain. Another crack and a second mark bloomed across his bare chest. Spike choked, writhing and thrashing in the chair. A third crack rang out and another mark appeared on Spike's feet. Spike screamed and threw himself forward, trying to curl into himself as much as he could, caught between the pain pulling him upwards and the drugs pulling him down. He stayed there, whimpering and incoherent, while the man recoiled his whip.

"Quiet," the man said. He was calm again.

The man walked away and Sam sat rigid in the chair, thin-lipped and silent.

The farmhouse was quaint and picturesque in the half melted snow. Greg stood by the cluster of SUV's as Ed split the team: Ed and Wordy to inspect the barn, Spike, Jules and Sam to knock on the door. Greg hung back to monitor and study the map. He was just thinking that this call—a possible domestic with gunshots reported— might wrap up early when something exploded. He winced as the blast squealed through his earpiece.

"Everyone, report!" he called. He peered toward the sound. The front door to the house billowed with dust. Jules lay on the ground, thrown by the explosion. She stirred as he watched. Wordy and Ed called in almost on top of each other, sounding confused but steady, followed by Jules a second later with a breathless "no harm." Another moment passed before they all realized Spike and Sam hadn't called in.

"Jules, do you have eyes on Spike and Sam?" he asked. Jules picked herself up from the ground and tried to dust herself off. Behind her, the front door to the farmhouse was a mess of wood and splinters. The bomb must have been planted almost on the threshold. Did Sam trip it, he wondered, or had someone set it off by hand?

Jules stepped cautiously to the door, then shook her head.

"No, but there's a lot of debris. They might be buried."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ed and Wordy come out of the barn and start jogging over to join him.

Suddenly, he heard the crunch of wheels skidding on gravel from behind the farmhouse. Ed cursed and bolted for the back of the house. By the time he got there though, the noise of tires was already fading.

"White van," he reported. "Parked in the back and took off through the field." Greg checked his map. There was another road on the other side of the field.

"Plates?" Greg asked. Ed cursed again.

"Couldn't see them. I'll check out the field."

"Copy." Greg gestured for Wordy to join him. Wordy nodded and set off at a sprint.

"Winnie, we need video for the nearest traffic cameras. White van. And put Team Three on standby." He had this creeping feeling like the situation was worse than he realized, like things were about to go sideways, more than it already had.

Winnie acknowledged and Greg eyed the map again. They were far enough into the country that there weren't any traffic cameras nearby. They wouldn't be caught on camera unless they headed directly for the city, and Greg doubted that would happen.

"Jules, I'm coming to you," he said.

"No!" She turned, hand outstretched to stop him, even though he was 20 feet away. "There might be another explosive. Let me check first." Greg met her eyes for a moment. He wondered if she had the same memory he did, of Spike, calm and amused, saying never more than one man down range, you know that.

"Careful, Jules," he said at last. "And report as soon as you see Sam or Spike." She nodded and started picking through the debris in the door way.

"Boss." Ed's voice came over the earpiece. His voice sounded strained. "Boss, we found something." A moment later both Ed and Wordy appeared around the side of the house, heading for him at a sprint. They slowed as they got nearer and stopped in front of him.

They didn't say anything. Ed held out one hand, where he held two sets of ear pieces. They were broken and crumpled, like they'd been thrown out of a window and driven over. Wordy had two phones, surprisingly pristine except for the dirt that clung to them. Greg stared. That creeping feeling returned full grown, except things hadn't gone sideways, they had gone sideways, backwards and upside down all at once.

Greg felt like he was floating on a strange calmness, as he realized Jules might be searching for their teammates, but she wouldn't find them.

"Winnie, I need Team Three out here as soon as possible. And put out an APB for Spike and Sam," he said. He didn't listen for her answer. He needed a moment to breathe. Ed and Wordy were watching him. Ed's jaw was clenched and Wordy looked stricken. Behind them, Jules sat down on the steps of the house with a thump and put her head in her hands.

"Alright team," Greg ground out. "New deal."