Life is a Highway 3/3
Title: Life is a Highway
Pairing: none
Rating: R
Warnings: Mention of non-con and child prostitution.
Spoilers: Set during season one. So, none, really.
He's a slender blond boy of around ten, and he's sitting in the back seat with Stevie, watching him curiously. There's nothing at all freaky about his appearance, beyond the fact that he just fucking appeared out of nowhere.
Dean notices the boy a few seconds after Stevie does, and he knocks his brother's arm almost hard enough to send the car careening off the road. Sam glances in the rear-view mirror, swears, and hurriedly pulls over, un-holstering his gun.
"Don't," Dean says sharply. "You'll wreck the upholstery."
It's such a bizarre thing to say that Stevie blinks at him, momentarily forgetting the boy--if it is a boy--sitting next to him. At least until he shifts closer, moving with freakish, impossible speed, and lifts a hand toward Stevie's face. Cold rolls off of him like a tsunami.
"Damn it," Dean says, and aims his own gun at the boy. "Look, kid, its not that I don't sympathize, but I have a strict no-ghost policy in my car. Sorry."
The boy's head whips around toward Dean, who looks irritated and maybe kind of sad but not nearly as freaked out as Stevie thinks the situation warrants. "I need a ride," the boy says, and his voice more than makes up for the normalcy of his appearance. It's thin and cold and echoing, and it makes the hair on the back of Stevie's neck stand up.
It's what Shawn Fenton said to Stevie in the bus station where he picked him up. And that's fucking impossible because he's dead. He's dead. Stevie remembers wrapping the tie around his neck, remembers the way the slender frame shuddered and went limp, remembers checking the warm slack throat for a pulse and coming up with nothing. Remembers burying him, for chrissake. You don't get much deader than that. And it was four years ago. Even if he wasn't dead--even if he did manage to claw himself out of the shallow grave where Stevie put him--he'd be older now. Kids grow up fast.
"I need a ride," the boy says again, only he's facing Stevie this time. "I need a ride. I'm real good with my mouth, mister. I need a ride."
"I can take you where you want to go," Stevie mumbles, not even realizing he's talking until he hears the words hanging in the heavy night air. His tongue feels limp and numb.
"Anything you want, mister," the boy says. He's smiling, shy and sweet, just like back under the fluorescent lights of that bus station. His eyes are like black pits. "Anything. I don't mind the kinky stuff."
"Christ," Dean mutters. "I do not need to hear this." His hand moves, below the seat where Stevie can't see it, and then he flings a handful of something at the boy. Who stutters, impossibly, and disappears.
"Thanks," Stevie whispers, staring wide-eyed at the spot where the boy was sitting. He shifts in his seat, and only then remembers that his hands are still bound behind his back.
The glare that Dean gives him is so furious that he can almost feel the flesh peeling back from his bones. "I didn't do it for you, you sick fucking creep."
Sam's looking back at him too, dark eyes unreadable. "Tell us where the grave is before he comes back. We can't hold him off forever."
"And we're not really sure we want to," Dean adds.
"Okay," Stevie says quickly. "Okay, I'll tell you."
***There's some kind of silent communication going on between the two of them when they pull over on the empty stretch of road that Stevie indicates. He can't decipher it but he can tell it's happening, a conversation of chin-jerks and shrugs and raised eyebrows and the funny thing (if anything at all in this goddamn situation can be considered funny) is that it's just how he remembers from the last time these two nut-jobs kidnapped him. It's not natural, brothers being as close as they are. Not right. And he doesn't much like being in the dark, either.
He gets the gist of it when Dean hauls him out of the backseat by the scruff of his neck and forces him to his knees in the dirt, gun pressed against the back of his head. For a moment, his whole world tastes of fear, because how stupid could he be, how fucking stupid--
But the shot he's bracing for never comes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam circling the car. The trunk creaks open and then slams shut, and Sam walks back into view carrying a long-handled shovel. "Where?"
It isn't until Dean gives him a bone-rattling shake that Stevie realizes the question is directed at him. He opens his mouth to answer, but his voice comes out a dry rasp, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Over there. Behind that big rock."
Out of the way, where no passing motorist would be able so see him, and he remembers the panic riding in the back of his throat, hands sweat-slick on the handle of the shovel he bought at a Wal-Mart while Shawn Fenton's body cooled in his trunk. Out of the way, where nobody will see what they do to him now.
"You're not going to do anything, uh, hasty, are you?" he asks Dean, twisting his head to look up. He manages to turn far enough to catch a glimpse of one long, denim-clad leg before the gun nudges harder at his skull and he turns back hastily. When he speaks again, his voice has gone up about an octave. "Because that would be a really bad idea. I'm friends with several members of the town board, including the sheriff, and my disappearance will be thoroughly investigated."
"Was there some part of 'shut the hell up' that wasn't clear to you?" Dean asks from above his head. His voice is rough and dangerous. "I'm not going to kill you, you stupid loser. Not unless you keep fucking getting on my nerves."
Stevie doesn't believe him, but he can't see any real reason to keep antagonizing him, either, so he shuts up and tries to think. For several long moments the only sound is Sam's shovel hitting the dirt, out of sight behind the rock.
Then a sudden gust of wind, and the boy is standing before them again. "I need a ride."
"What the fuck--" Stevie recoils against the solid heat of Dean's legs, and Dean shoves him away violently, sending him sprawling on his face in the cold, rocky soil. And then the boy is right there, right in Stevie's face, and he smells like cold and rotting flesh and he's still smiling that sweet, inhuman smile. Now Stevie can see the bruises that the necktie left on his throat, and now, suddenly, he can feel his own throat constricting, skin twisting and breaking under the pressure of an invisible noose and Dean hasn't--fucking--moved. Stevie rolls onto his back, hands scrabbling at his neck and the boy--ghost--flickering to his left, and Dean's just staring down at him, gun held loosely at his side. Just staring. From this angle, he looks as tall as a tree, outline fading into the dark sky.
"Dean, I found it--" Sam's voice seems to be coming from a long ways off, almost impossible to hear over the pounding in his ears. "Dean?" Again, closer. Then, "Shit. What are you--"
"Pretty," the boy croons in Stevie's face. "So pretty."
Blackness crowds the edges of his vision and his lungs feel like hot stones in his chest and
and suddenly, it's over. A prickling wave rushes over him like lightening, leaving his skin buzzing, hair standing on end, and the boy vanishes like a wisp of smoke. He can breathe again.
Sam climbs back over the rock, carrying the shovel in one hand and a bottle of lighter fluid in the other. "What the hell was that?"
"What the hell was what?" Dean says back, while Stevie gasps and retches at his feet.
A long silence, then Sam sighs. "Don't be a jerk."
"Whatever. Bitch." There's something that sounds almost like humor in Dean's voice.
"We done here?"
An ungentle nudge turns Stevie over onto his back, and he blinks up at them. They both look like giants in flannel and denim. "What about him?"
"Hey," Sam says. "This is your party." He walks away, and after a minute, Stevie hears the trunk slam shut. Then the passenger side door, and then he's alone in the dark with a guy he's pretty sure wants to kill him.
Dean is still for several long moments before dropping down beside him, face as cool and impassive as a marble saint's.
"Please," Stevie whispers, then shuts up when Dean's expression gets even colder. He's got a knife in his hand, and Stevie watches, hypnotized, as he lifts it.
Then reaches down and slices through the rope binding Stevie's wrists. His hands flop stupidly on the cold ground, half-numb and all useless.
"The cops are at your apartment," Dean says conversationally. Stevie blinks, because the words don't make any sense. He was expecting a bullet. Or threats, at least. "I don't know if they'll be able to pin Shawn Fenton on you, since we had to torch him. But those photos on your computer will be enough to put you away for a long time, and let me tell you, Stevie, prison is not a nice place for child molesters."
Now it's horrified comprehension rising up to choke Stevie. He can taste bile in the back of his mouth. "I'm not--" he whispers. "I'll tell them about you. I'll tell them--"
Dean snorts. "Tell them what? The truth?" He rises gracefully to his feet, pocketing the knife. "Feel free. If you're lucky, maybe they'll shove you in a psych ward instead."
Gravel crunches under his heels as he walks away, and then there's the low roar of the car's engine as it rumbles to life. A warm puff of exhaust, a kick of dust, and then they're gone.
***
It takes half an hour for the police to show up, and when they do they're not real interested in anything Stevie has to say. He talks anyway, words tripping and tumbling out of him while they cuff his hands and read him his rights, confessions forcing their way past his lips while they look away, look away, pleas and whimpers and more truth than he's ever told in his life echoing through the empty space in the back of the squad car.
Part 2
Pairing: none
Rating: R
Warnings: Mention of non-con and child prostitution.
Spoilers: Set during season one. So, none, really.
He's a slender blond boy of around ten, and he's sitting in the back seat with Stevie, watching him curiously. There's nothing at all freaky about his appearance, beyond the fact that he just fucking appeared out of nowhere.
Dean notices the boy a few seconds after Stevie does, and he knocks his brother's arm almost hard enough to send the car careening off the road. Sam glances in the rear-view mirror, swears, and hurriedly pulls over, un-holstering his gun.
"Don't," Dean says sharply. "You'll wreck the upholstery."
It's such a bizarre thing to say that Stevie blinks at him, momentarily forgetting the boy--if it is a boy--sitting next to him. At least until he shifts closer, moving with freakish, impossible speed, and lifts a hand toward Stevie's face. Cold rolls off of him like a tsunami.
"Damn it," Dean says, and aims his own gun at the boy. "Look, kid, its not that I don't sympathize, but I have a strict no-ghost policy in my car. Sorry."
The boy's head whips around toward Dean, who looks irritated and maybe kind of sad but not nearly as freaked out as Stevie thinks the situation warrants. "I need a ride," the boy says, and his voice more than makes up for the normalcy of his appearance. It's thin and cold and echoing, and it makes the hair on the back of Stevie's neck stand up.
It's what Shawn Fenton said to Stevie in the bus station where he picked him up. And that's fucking impossible because he's dead. He's dead. Stevie remembers wrapping the tie around his neck, remembers the way the slender frame shuddered and went limp, remembers checking the warm slack throat for a pulse and coming up with nothing. Remembers burying him, for chrissake. You don't get much deader than that. And it was four years ago. Even if he wasn't dead--even if he did manage to claw himself out of the shallow grave where Stevie put him--he'd be older now. Kids grow up fast.
"I need a ride," the boy says again, only he's facing Stevie this time. "I need a ride. I'm real good with my mouth, mister. I need a ride."
"I can take you where you want to go," Stevie mumbles, not even realizing he's talking until he hears the words hanging in the heavy night air. His tongue feels limp and numb.
"Anything you want, mister," the boy says. He's smiling, shy and sweet, just like back under the fluorescent lights of that bus station. His eyes are like black pits. "Anything. I don't mind the kinky stuff."
"Christ," Dean mutters. "I do not need to hear this." His hand moves, below the seat where Stevie can't see it, and then he flings a handful of something at the boy. Who stutters, impossibly, and disappears.
"Thanks," Stevie whispers, staring wide-eyed at the spot where the boy was sitting. He shifts in his seat, and only then remembers that his hands are still bound behind his back.
The glare that Dean gives him is so furious that he can almost feel the flesh peeling back from his bones. "I didn't do it for you, you sick fucking creep."
Sam's looking back at him too, dark eyes unreadable. "Tell us where the grave is before he comes back. We can't hold him off forever."
"And we're not really sure we want to," Dean adds.
"Okay," Stevie says quickly. "Okay, I'll tell you."
***There's some kind of silent communication going on between the two of them when they pull over on the empty stretch of road that Stevie indicates. He can't decipher it but he can tell it's happening, a conversation of chin-jerks and shrugs and raised eyebrows and the funny thing (if anything at all in this goddamn situation can be considered funny) is that it's just how he remembers from the last time these two nut-jobs kidnapped him. It's not natural, brothers being as close as they are. Not right. And he doesn't much like being in the dark, either.
He gets the gist of it when Dean hauls him out of the backseat by the scruff of his neck and forces him to his knees in the dirt, gun pressed against the back of his head. For a moment, his whole world tastes of fear, because how stupid could he be, how fucking stupid--
But the shot he's bracing for never comes. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam circling the car. The trunk creaks open and then slams shut, and Sam walks back into view carrying a long-handled shovel. "Where?"
It isn't until Dean gives him a bone-rattling shake that Stevie realizes the question is directed at him. He opens his mouth to answer, but his voice comes out a dry rasp, so he clears his throat and tries again. "Over there. Behind that big rock."
Out of the way, where no passing motorist would be able so see him, and he remembers the panic riding in the back of his throat, hands sweat-slick on the handle of the shovel he bought at a Wal-Mart while Shawn Fenton's body cooled in his trunk. Out of the way, where nobody will see what they do to him now.
"You're not going to do anything, uh, hasty, are you?" he asks Dean, twisting his head to look up. He manages to turn far enough to catch a glimpse of one long, denim-clad leg before the gun nudges harder at his skull and he turns back hastily. When he speaks again, his voice has gone up about an octave. "Because that would be a really bad idea. I'm friends with several members of the town board, including the sheriff, and my disappearance will be thoroughly investigated."
"Was there some part of 'shut the hell up' that wasn't clear to you?" Dean asks from above his head. His voice is rough and dangerous. "I'm not going to kill you, you stupid loser. Not unless you keep fucking getting on my nerves."
Stevie doesn't believe him, but he can't see any real reason to keep antagonizing him, either, so he shuts up and tries to think. For several long moments the only sound is Sam's shovel hitting the dirt, out of sight behind the rock.
Then a sudden gust of wind, and the boy is standing before them again. "I need a ride."
"What the fuck--" Stevie recoils against the solid heat of Dean's legs, and Dean shoves him away violently, sending him sprawling on his face in the cold, rocky soil. And then the boy is right there, right in Stevie's face, and he smells like cold and rotting flesh and he's still smiling that sweet, inhuman smile. Now Stevie can see the bruises that the necktie left on his throat, and now, suddenly, he can feel his own throat constricting, skin twisting and breaking under the pressure of an invisible noose and Dean hasn't--fucking--moved. Stevie rolls onto his back, hands scrabbling at his neck and the boy--ghost--flickering to his left, and Dean's just staring down at him, gun held loosely at his side. Just staring. From this angle, he looks as tall as a tree, outline fading into the dark sky.
"Dean, I found it--" Sam's voice seems to be coming from a long ways off, almost impossible to hear over the pounding in his ears. "Dean?" Again, closer. Then, "Shit. What are you--"
"Pretty," the boy croons in Stevie's face. "So pretty."
Blackness crowds the edges of his vision and his lungs feel like hot stones in his chest and
and suddenly, it's over. A prickling wave rushes over him like lightening, leaving his skin buzzing, hair standing on end, and the boy vanishes like a wisp of smoke. He can breathe again.
Sam climbs back over the rock, carrying the shovel in one hand and a bottle of lighter fluid in the other. "What the hell was that?"
"What the hell was what?" Dean says back, while Stevie gasps and retches at his feet.
A long silence, then Sam sighs. "Don't be a jerk."
"Whatever. Bitch." There's something that sounds almost like humor in Dean's voice.
"We done here?"
An ungentle nudge turns Stevie over onto his back, and he blinks up at them. They both look like giants in flannel and denim. "What about him?"
"Hey," Sam says. "This is your party." He walks away, and after a minute, Stevie hears the trunk slam shut. Then the passenger side door, and then he's alone in the dark with a guy he's pretty sure wants to kill him.
Dean is still for several long moments before dropping down beside him, face as cool and impassive as a marble saint's.
"Please," Stevie whispers, then shuts up when Dean's expression gets even colder. He's got a knife in his hand, and Stevie watches, hypnotized, as he lifts it.
Then reaches down and slices through the rope binding Stevie's wrists. His hands flop stupidly on the cold ground, half-numb and all useless.
"The cops are at your apartment," Dean says conversationally. Stevie blinks, because the words don't make any sense. He was expecting a bullet. Or threats, at least. "I don't know if they'll be able to pin Shawn Fenton on you, since we had to torch him. But those photos on your computer will be enough to put you away for a long time, and let me tell you, Stevie, prison is not a nice place for child molesters."
Now it's horrified comprehension rising up to choke Stevie. He can taste bile in the back of his mouth. "I'm not--" he whispers. "I'll tell them about you. I'll tell them--"
Dean snorts. "Tell them what? The truth?" He rises gracefully to his feet, pocketing the knife. "Feel free. If you're lucky, maybe they'll shove you in a psych ward instead."
Gravel crunches under his heels as he walks away, and then there's the low roar of the car's engine as it rumbles to life. A warm puff of exhaust, a kick of dust, and then they're gone.
***
It takes half an hour for the police to show up, and when they do they're not real interested in anything Stevie has to say. He talks anyway, words tripping and tumbling out of him while they cuff his hands and read him his rights, confessions forcing their way past his lips while they look away, look away, pleas and whimpers and more truth than he's ever told in his life echoing through the empty space in the back of the squad car.
Part 2