Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 8

[jackfan2]

Despite the cold, despite the dark, damp prison, which he had come to consider as penance for all the dumb things he’d done in his short life, Jeremy had managed to drift off into an exhausted, fitful sleep. With little room to maneuver from the wall to which he was chained, he’d backed into the nearest corner, curled into a tight ball to claim whatever warmth he could garner and nodded off.

Somewhere in the distant corners of his slumbering mind, he was aware of the constant chatter of his own teeth, echoing in the frigid concrete room. His body, too, never ceased its constant trembling.

Nightmares plagued his fear-filled mind. Images of his parents, his dad leaving him because he wasn’t worth sticking around for, his mother’s apathetic remarks. But the visions that left him tossing were those of the bodies: kids, dead, mutilated, limbs scattered all over. Blood coating every surface nearby and pooling around Jeremy’s ankles.

None of the faces were recognizable to him, just boys, mostly about his age. They screamed and begged for mercy from a man whose back remained turned. Each time they were denied. In the end, all that remained was their broken, mutilated bodies.

It seemed to go on forever, until finally, their faces and screams faded….

Then, a hand took hold of his upper arm and a man looming in front of him turned; it was Billy. Smiling. Offering him money for lunch, because Jeremy hadn’t managed to get food before running out the door to escape another round with his angry, unreasonable mother.

Just as Jeremy relaxed and returned the smile, Billy’s kind, friendly face, shifted. It turned dark, ugly, the hand on his upper arm dug in viciously, brutal and bruising. A knife appeared in his other hand, raised high and prepared to strike.

Instinct made Jeremy raise one arm for protection but he screamed as the knife came down. Loud, deafening. It echoed and then faded, replaced with images of himself, broken, cut up and screaming. Pictures of Bill, a man he’d considered a friend, laughing as he cut him again and again.

The screams seemed to change, from his higher, younger voice to something more primal, deeper. Older. The man in the barn. The man with the green eyes, the one from the street, who was now standing between Jeremy and Bill’s knife.

The knife plunged deep into the man’s chest. Blood, fountains of it poured out.

“NOOOOOOO…!” Jeremy called out. He didn't know why, but he did.

Jeremy had never met the man before and yet, he meant something to him. Safety. Protection. And he was dying. Right in front of his eyes. Bill had seen to that.

Too late Jeremy realized Bill was stalking back toward him. Things got more confusing.

Jeremy was on the ground, arms overhead, chained. The cold air licked at his bare, exposed skin; his clothes were gone. Bill’s clothes were gone-

Jeremy jerked awake. Heart racing, breaths puffing thick clouds.

Jeremy’s hands patted over his body; he was wearing clothes. He wasn’t-

“And he’ll do the same to you too,” a familiar male voice rasped from near Jeremy’s left side.

Surprised, Jeremy jumped. In a mad scramble of arms and limbs, numb from the cold, he tried shifting away. But in the corner where he’d drifted off, the cold cement wall to his left blocked any retreat.

“Then,” the man spoke softly, staring at Jeremy, “he’ll kill you, like he did with all the others.”

The words, the man's presence, they combined to send Jeremy into a panic. He opened his mouth to scream but the sound caught in his throat. In a move unnaturally fast, Billy's father was at his side, face close to his ear.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, then canted his head to the side, looking upward, listening for something.

Jeremy stiffened, mouth shutting with an audible snap.

It seemed an age before Billy's dad seemed to relax and start again. “Trust me; you don't want her down here. Bad as Billy is, she made him that way. He may be a monster, but she's evil.”

“Wh-who?” Jeremy finally found his voice.

“Margret,” Billy's dad said as he paced over to the steps, shoes oddly quiet in the cavernous room. “She's sulking in her room now, staring out the window, waiting for her Billy-boy to come back.” He looked back at Jeremy. “She hears me down here talking to you, then...”

Jeremy remembered their earlier conversation; Margret. Billy's mom.

“So no screaming or yelling, right? 'Cause, then maybe I can get you out of here. Free.”

Jeremy honed in on the word ‘free’ and nodded, eyes wide.

“Good.” Bill's dad nodded and backed away. He cast and anxious glace up the stairs, hands wringing nervously in front of him. “‘Cause I'm tired of all the screaming, all the dying-don’t wanna hear anymore.” He stopped and stared at Jeremy. “That boy last month, I promised that if I got the chance, that would be the last one. No more.”

The guy sounded completely bat-shit crazy but if there was someone else up there, if this Margret was worse than Billy... the longer this took the slimmer their odds for success would be.

“I promise,” Jeremy whispered, “no yelling. Just get me outta here. Please.”

“Smart boy, you are. Yup,” the man grunted and knelt down next to Jeremy. The boy tried to sit forward to give him better access to the chain. “Sit still,” he corrected. “Don't want her hearing the chain move so much.”

“W-why?” Jeremy bit his lip. Aunt Theresa had told him once, ‘If it seems too good to be true, it probably is’. So as much as he dreaded hearing it, he feared more just how much he’d be willing to do to get free. “Why’re you helping me?”

“’Cause,” he grunted. Jeremy felt the chain move some. “They’re distracted-Margret's losing control over Billy all because of him, the one trussed up in the barn. ‘Cause maybe the screams will stop. Screams of the dead. I can’t take it anymore. You're next and already too many have died.”

“Wh-why?” Jeremy choked back a sob, but anger flooded quicker than he realized and he continued in a hushed whisper, “I never did anything to Billy.”

The man eased back to look at Jeremy. “You look like him, like little Frankie. Margret wouldn’t have it. He wasn’t good enough for him. For her baby. She killed him. Made Billy crazy.”

Jeremy had heard all this before; he couldn’t hold back now. He sobbed, openly, loudly. Tears flowed freely down his face.

“No… nononono,” the man said, more anxious than soothing. “That’s what they hate. Tears. Weakness. Shhh… I’ll get you out, but you have to be quiet. We don’t have much time.”

Despite his young years, hardship and learning the hard way to not let anyone in or show any weakness had taught Jeremy plenty about controlling his emotions. Reaching down he managed it. Took a shuddering breath.

“That’s it,” the man soothed this time. “The man in the barn…,” his gaze drifted toward one of the outside walls, the direction Jeremy had heard the shouts of pain earlier, “he’s holding out longer than the other one did and that’s good- for us, anyway.”

The shouts of agony had stopped but Jeremy remembered them; they echoed in his memory like that nightmare. “Wha-what’s Billy doing to him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not allowed there. But this one’s strong, much stronger than that cop all those other years ago. He lasted a few hours before Billy killed him. This one though, well, Billy rather likes this one. This is good for us. For now.”

Jeremy shuddered. He couldn’t imagine anyone’s prolonged pain and suffering being a good thing so he just had to ask, “Why?”

“Because,” the man turned toward Jeremy and at this distance, Jeremy could see the sadness in his eyes. “He’s a distraction.” He went back to fiddling with the chains. “Billy and Margret are so busy arguing over him that I can be here. Do this.”

Jeremy felt the chain grow taut then a loud clang as one of the links broke in half, leaving a short length of metal chain hanging from the cold metal bracelet on his wrist. He was free.

Quickly gathering his hands in front of him, Jeremy scooted into the nearest corner, away from the man.

The man stood and backed away, head turned to glance up the basement stairs. “You’re gonna have to be brave now, and quiet too. Can you do that? Be quiet?”

“I-I think so,” Jeremy squeaked back.

“Good ‘cause from here, you’re on your own.” He looked at Jeremy and for the first time, Jeremy saw fear in his eyes. And shame. “I’m sorry. I’m just not as strong as her so… don’t let her hear you leave.”

About halfway up the stairs he turned, sad watery eyes fixed on him. “It’s not all Billy’s fault you know, but he and Margret…,” he swallowed. “When you get out, you run. Find cops. Don’t let him bring anyone here again.”




"DEAN!"

“Sammy?!" The call goaded him into action and Dean dropped his shoulder. With as much strength as he could muster, he surged forward.

Caught off-balance, the throng stumbled back enough and gaped open. Dean seized the chance and slipped through the first one, zigging left, then another to his right, making headway, but not at all sure this was the right way.

“Keep calling!” Dean needed to keep him shouting, needed a response, needed to get his bearings. ”I’m coming! Just hang on!”

“Watch out for your brother.” Dad's voice echoed in his head.

"I'm trying," he muttered brokenly. “Dad, I’m,” another body pushed into him, “trying.” The disappointment in his father's voice twisted like a knife in his chest.

It was hard not to notice the unfamiliar faces of the crowd, glaring condescendingly at him, mouths drawn in stern lines of disappointment and judgment. Still, Dean focused on the small gaps in the crowd as he pushed through. Hoping for just a glimpse, just a peek to make sure he was-

"You’re supposed to be saving people.” The crowd suddenly parted. A small boy, blond hair ruffling in the breeze stared hurt and accusingly back at Dean.

Dean's mouth opened to say something-the crowd closed back again. The boy was gone. Sam was gone. "No..."

"DEEEEEEEAAAAN!" Sam's voice again, scared, panicked. "HEEEEELP!"

"No, no, Sammy!" Dean shouted again, trying to move forward.

Pushing, shoving his way through. God, the crowd was so thick he wasn’t real sure he hadn't just been going in one gigantic circle. They teased, let him through, once, twice, a third time, and just when he thought he was making headway, they swarmed and swelled.

"Dammit." Dean was buffeted backward. Righting himself he dived forward, like it was some enormous mosh pit, throwing himself into the bodies, shouting, "MOVE!”

But they didn’t. They bounced off one another, but never really moved. Never went anywhere. Their eyes condemned even without looking at him. Dean heard their comments, full of scorn and rebuke but their mouths never moved, their eyes blank and vacant.

Nothing but lost, empty souls. Trapped. Moving in circles. Just like him.

There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, all around, crowding in on all sides. Their presence made it hard to think. Hard to hear. Hard to breathe.

There were so many and yet, he'd never felt so alone. Alone with his failed promises. Alone without Mom. Without Dad, and now, without Sam.

"I told you to keep an eye on your brother." Dad again. Dean didn't look at him. This time Dean closed his eyes against the accusatory pain.

"I'm trying," he whispered disheartened and anguished. "Dad I-"

"That’s the thing about you Dean," the voice changed. It wasn't Dad. It was psycho Perv. Bill. "You try and you try and yet, you still fail."

Dean opened his eyes. Bill leaned in, a mock smile on his face. "Think that since your Daddy don't want you, I'll just keep you-and your brother."

Hands balled into fists, Dean wanted to lift them. Wanted to wipe that look off Perv's face. "You don't touch my brother," he ground out, jaw clenched tight. "You don't-"

Bill was gone. In the distance, Dean saw a small, familiar boy, playing, carefree, eyes full of trust and devotion. Dean couldn't put a finger on who-

"C'mon, Dean." The man’s voice slithered down Dean's spine. "You know who that is."

Dean shook his head in confusion.

"Ah, guess they were right about you being the dumb one," Bill chuckles. Then his voice goes calm. "Don’t you remember little Sammy?"

The air drove from Dean's lungs like he’d been gut-punched.

It was Sam. A much younger Sam. Fourteen-year-old version of Sam.

Dean wanted to run to him, tried to move, but found his legs wouldn't work.

The other man didn’t seem to have the same difficulties, however. The crowd parted easily for him as he walked through, strolling casually toward his brother. Carefree. He turned toward Dean, walking backward, still approaching the fourteen-year-old Sam.

"He's not my normal taste, hair’s too dark... eyes not quite blue,” Bill grinned, “but then again, neither are you, so, might as well enjoy, right?"

"NO!" Dean shouted. Sweat was pouring down his face, neck and back. He had to get to his brother, had to protect him. He’d promised Dad. "SAMMY! RUN!"

Sam just looked back at Dean. Smiling. Trusting.

"Don't look s' sad Dean," the man shouted back. "I'll be back for you," a slimy smile slithered across his face, "when I'm done with your brother."

The crowed closed back. Swallowing up his brother, the perverted monster. They were gone.

Noise. Voices. So loud....

The people, they were all looking at him now. Shouting. Accusing. “Your fault…” “Never were any good…” “Always failing…” “Letting your family down…”

It was deafening, making Dean’s ears pound incessantly. "No, I'm-" he covered his ears, wincing at the onslaught of sound. “Sam!" he shouted, trying to ignore the others.

The volume increased, pressure so intense it drove Dean to his knees. His fingers scraped against the floor feeling for something, anything to keep him from keeling over.

Something wet covered his hands-blood. “NOOOOO!” Dean shouted, eyes squeezed shut, the sound so strong his head felt like it’d explode if it-

“Deeeeeaaaan?” the younger Winchester’s voice shouted above the cacophony. “Please… don’t let him hurt me.”

Fighting against the agony, Dean rose, slowly, growling at his own weakness. Opening his eyes he saw Bill, little Sammy smiling at Bill.

Launching forward, Dean found his feet. Ran, legs pumping hard as he moved. “Bastard!” he glared at Bill. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

Sam was smiling up at Bill, trusting, relaxed. Bill laid a possessive hand on Sam’s shoulder, and together they moved away, their backs to Dean. Before they rounded the corner, Bill tossed a knowing glance over at Dean.

Then they were gone. Dean’s heart lurched and he ran harder. “Nooooo!”

Dean rounded the corner and came to a stop. “Sammy!” There was no one. He was alone. Tears flood his eyes then spilled down his cheeks. “No…Sammy…”

Exhausted he dropped to the ground, dejected. The weight of his failure pressing him further down. Head heavy, he dropped his chin to his chest, overwhelmed.

“Dean...,” Sam’s voice beckoned. It was older, steadier. Confident and strong. Like that night in Palo Alto when Dean showed up to tell him about Dad. “You gotta get up. Get outta here.”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean murmured, head burrowed into the darkness he’d claimed for himself. Exhausted, it felt so good just to let go, stop fighting it. “Just… need a minute. Hurts. Everything hurts, S’mmy.”

“I know, but-” Sam inhaled sharply. “Dean!” Oh God, it was that young, high pitched Sammy again. Anxious and filled with fear.

Sam's screaming reminded Dean of that time they'd summered in West Virginia. Stumbling on a lake spirit, the thing had grabbed Sam’s ankle and dragged him toward the water. But this wasn't that time. This was Bill, serial killer, child molester, murderer Bill.

“You gotta stop him,” young Sam’s voice shouted. “He-he’s killing me. I’m next, Dean! You got-oh no, Dean! HELP ME!”

...“SAMMY!” Dean bolted upright, eyes wide and searching. Heart hammering hard in his chest, shuddering breath wheezing in the empty space. "Sam? Wha...?" he breathed.

Reality was slow to return but when Dean blinked, heaved a deep breath, it all came crashing back.

Perv. The barn. He was still in the damn barn. The images of little Sam... it had all been a dream, a nightmare.

The nightmare and the task ahead loomed before him, daunting and at the same time urgent. Dean flexed his hands, the pain of the nail in his palm reminding him of what he needed to do; get free, find Sam. Dean shook his head. The kid, he corrected. Find the kid Bill had taken - assuming he was still alive - and get the kid and hell outta Dodge.

Curious to know how long he'd been out, he gazed woozily at one of the barn windows, noting how the shadows cast by the interior barn light had not shifted; he'd not been out long. “Finally, a little good luck.”

Eyes closed, Dean worked the nail free from his skin, cursing as his numb fingers worked too slowly for his haste. Finally, he had a solid grip on the nail’s head.

“Okay,” Dean breathed out. “Good... good Dean. Now for the hard part.”

It took far to long to gain any clarity of vision, but he had to move. Now. Had to get a look at just where the square locking disc in the zip tie was and how he'd get to it. But his hands kept trembling, muscles fighting against the cold and the strain. If he lost his grip on that nail now...

Taking a deep breath Dean opened his eyes, blinked a few times, pleased that things seemed clearer, less warbled. He leaned his head back and to the right, moving away from the pole as far as his protesting shoulders would allow and gazed upward.

“Perfect,” he breathed out as he noted the position of the lock. The square was near the center of his outside wrist, and while not perfectly centered, a few twists, agonizing as they were, would bring it further around.

After working the nail toward the tips of his left hand thumb and forefinger, he curled his hand over the right wrist, aiming for the plastic square, careful to keep the top of the nail pointed toward the lock.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, making him want to shake it away, but he didn't dare. Blinking several times he maintained his concentration.

Finally the nail was poised over the square and he pressed it in. With the tip of the nail imbedded into the lock he curled his wrist hard, forcing it to press with his last bit of strength and determination.

There was absolutely no sound, but Dean felt it when the plastic finally gave way. It worked.

Letting gravity do the rest, Dean bit on his lip to stop himself from screaming as his arms fell down, useless lumps of meat after being strung up for so long.

Dean sighed and brought his hands slowly away from one another, feeling the burn in every muscle in his shoulders. “God...”

The room swam again and he closed his eyes, hissing in pain, his arms now limp at his sides. “No passing out Dean.” Like the currents of electricity from earlier, hot needles of pain raced up and down his arms, shoulder and chest. “C'mon...”

After a moment, when he felt more in control, when the sensations ebbed, Dean opened his eyes. Tougher work lay just ahead.

“Ok,” Dean breathed out, “now, next step is to... well, take the next step.” He looked down at the tops of his thighs, eyes traveling to his knees, where his legs disappeared beneath him, folded and utterly unresponsive.

Like his arms, they too had lost all feeling-too bad that hadn't been the case when that asshole Perv had pressed that damned cattle prod to the bottoms of his feet-and making them work would be hell.

“So, what do ya think Bessie?” Dean glanced at the cow that had her back to him. “Maybe a triple twist with a two-and-a-half gainer?”

The cow swished her tail in answer.

“Sure, why not?” Dean muttered. This was going to hurt like hell. “Well, here goes nothing,” he coughed out.

Steeling himself for the agony ahead, Dean twisted his torso. Sort of. Legs still secured, motionless against the bindings and caught on either side of the pole. Renewed blood flow in the larger muscles was agonizing, and he huffed out a breath, closed his eyes and rode it out.

Hell, just getting enough movement to look at his ankles... that would be bad enough. No. Moving would definitely be worse.

Opening his eyes, he got a good look at his next obstacle: freeing his feet. His ankles were twisted in the industrial grade zip ties, blood, both old and new stuck to the tops of his feet and down to his heels. He couldn't wait to see how bad the bottoms of his feet were.

Well, actually... he could.

"Dammit, asshole took my boots," he muttered instead, because he'd rather focus on a fact that he'd known a long time before, than what he knew he had to do to get them free.

"Ok, now," he twisted and glanced at his left ankle, "for the hard part." Hell, it had all been hard, but he knew this would be harder still.

Dean sat back, pushing his already sore back against the unforgiving pole, and twisted his arm, just enough to get the nail into the ties. He had no choice but to go at it blindly, eyes closed in concentration as he arched back to reach his ankle.

Never let it be said that Dean Winchester was not a bendy guy.

It took more control than Dean figured he had, but he managed it. The tie securing the left ankle, the one he had to use his left hand to get at, was a bitch to unlock, though he strongly agreed it had more to do with his half numb fingers and awkward positioning and twisting. The nail slipped from his hand only three times. All three times he got it back.

Rather than move that leg, he stayed on his knees and repeated the same actions to free the right. That tie gave way fairly easily, both feet were free of the metal posts, which looked more like railroad ties.

Dean gingerly moved forward on his hands and knees, inching away as carefully as he could from the post, from the stakes, from the blood and sweat covered ground to which he'd been held for... And promptly puked on the floor, adding more gunk to the already soiling mess.

When the stomach revulsion finally ended, he lay panting. “'Course," he huffed breathlessly, "'cause being burned, cut-up, skewered by barbed wire and electrocuted wasn't enough? Gotta be sick too?”

Dean wiped at his brow, the angry heat beneath his skin telling him he was burning with fever. “Terrific,” he muttered, sitting back down, legs extended in front of him. From that position, he could see his damn leg muscles jumping above his knee, cramping all over.

Renewed blood flow and sensation reminded his body just how cold it was; a shiver trailed angrily down his spine. “Fuck.” Forgetting sore muscles, Dean reached up to rub at his exposed torso, starting with his arms. Teeth chattering, he looked around. “Cold, hot. Make up your mind Dean."

Shirt, coat, boots, God, he needed something to protect him from further exposure.

"Okay," Dean sniffed, head wobbling, he looked about the room, "now, if I were a sick, perverted fuck, where would I leave my victims’ clothes?” Squinting his eyes he searched the dimness beyond the light of the bulb.

The barn was far bigger than he'd first realized. His eyes searched further into the room, not wanting to move yet, just hoping to see any small, out of place lump, or a swatch of cloth or boot lace. Or-

Dean's head froze. Leaning carefully to his right, he squinted hard. Just next to the one open stall window, a small mound peaked curiously back at him.

Switching from his arms to his thighs, Dean rubbed quickly at the flesh through his jeans. After a minute he rolled to his side, and bent one knee to get a foot beneath him. “Here goes nothin',” he said, and pushed up.

No sooner had he got his feet underneath him than Dean was falling to the floor again, chin scraping against the floor where his hands were still too numb and slow to catch his fall. “Son of a bi-” The epithet ended in a litany of coughs, light dimming all around him.

Dean turned his head. It was hard to focus but after a moment the image of Bessie swam into view. Head twisted in her stall, she was looking at him and no longer chewing. Clearly she was unimpressed.

“Aw c'mon,” Dean coughed again. “'Least I stuck the landing.”

Talking always helped Dean; whether anyone was in the room with him or not, it worked for him. So he talked. It helped him stay focused on what needed to be done, helped divert attention from the pain and moreover, the consequences of his failure if he didn't make it. There was another life at stake here; the kid.

Failure, he knew well, was not a Winchester option.

So, he talked. Even if it was to a cow.

Another swish of her tail and Bessie turned back, more interested in whatever she had to keep her belly full.

“Jeeze,” Dean blinked and swallowed the cotton in his mouth, “everyone's a critic.” A series of harsh coughs wracked his aching body again. This time was worse than the last, he did the only thing he could do: he rode it out, feeling each jerk of his body pull at his already aching muscles.

“God damn...," Dean groaned, "I'm gonna kill that asshole,” he promised. Forcing his sore shoulders to work again, he fought against the the pain and raised one hand and this time, using the post as a crutch, rose slowly, achingly to his feet.

Leaning against it, teeth grinding against the agony caused by putting weight on his feet, Dean stood still, stubbornly refusing to buckle to any of these 'discomforts,' reminding himself he was just damn lucky to be alive.

After a moment’s rest, “C'mon Winchester. Move your ass," he finished, then pushed away from the wall.

The efforts were less than graceful and more than clumsy and on more than one occasion he nearly took a headfirst pitch into the ground, but he managed it. Reaching the small mound, never once allowing himself the thought that it may not be what he'd hoped. Wavering, he stood, staring down muzzily at the the small pile of familiar clothing.

A slow smile spread across Dean's face. “Son of a-” and he sunk ungraciously to the ground.

The room faded and his head swam and he fought against the tide, against the exhaustion that he could no longer deny.

“D-damm...it,” Dean slurred as his voice faded and his eyes closed once again.




The plan had been simple enough. Sam would wait in his car and, when Brimmer left, Sam would follow.

The man in the photo, the one Mildred had photocopied for him, from Brimmer’s application file, didn’t look like a raging psycho killer who raped and tortured little boys for fun. Of course, they rarely did. This guy had mousy hair and large-framed dark glasses, and he looked more like a nerd than a threat. Sam guessed that was all part of the act.

Sam hated the fact that, from the time Brimmer arrived at the clinic, to the time he left again, the two women left in there would be alone and at the killer’s mercy. If Brimmer smelled a set up...

Judging by Mildred's pasty complexion and nervous glances, and Kelsey's scared-shitless face, it wasn't like Brimmer would have to be all that intuitive to get it. The pair of them seemed to be growing more anxious and nervous by the minute and that wouldn’t do. Not at all. If the man sensed a change in either of them, it could spook him.

Sam knew he couldn’t leave them here alone at this late hour. Not with him.

When he offered to sit in the waiting room, pose as a patient, to stay closer at hand should something go wrong, that seemed to sooth frazzled nerves immediately. The plan seemed to be back on track after that.

Mildred had let the remaining staff go for the night. There weren’t that many around, just a lab tech and another nurse. It was quiet enough; Bill wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary.

So, it was just Mildred and Kelsey remaining, as the latter had refused to leave, strangely protective of Mildred.

Sam pretended to be a patient. It seemed an easy fit given his appearance. Slumped down in one of the chairs in the waiting room it was all he could do to keep his head down as the clinic’s front door opened.

“Oh, thank heaven,” Mildred’s voice chimed in acknowledgment. “I’m so sorry you had to come in on your week off, Bill. Hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Sam watched Brimmer’s boot-clad feet move across the linoleum.

“Anything for you and the clinic, Ms. Cooper, you know that.” Brimmer’s voice slid easily into the clinic’s harsh light and white walls. “Besides, I had to come into town anyway. Worked out for all of us.”

Sam heard more footsteps.

“Hey, Bill,” Kelsey said dryly. “Here to save my butt, I see.”

Well, he had to admit it. As nervous as the girls had seemed about Brimmer showing up, when the chips were down, they actually rose to the occasion. So far.

Sam chanced a look from over his upturned collar.

Brimmer wasn’t exactly an imposing man, barely reaching Kelsey’s height. He gave her a brief look, devoid of anything remotely resembling warmth, then turned to Mildred. “I’ll open that locker and bring the supplies right up.”

“No need for that,” Mildred’s voice cracked. Her calm demeanor was slipping. “If you could just unlock it, we’ll take care of it when you leave-”

“I insist.” Without another word he moved around the counter and disappeared down a long hallway.

Sam stood and moved quietly in that direction. At the entrance to the hall he pressed a finger to his lips to remind the two women to keep to their regular work. Then, back to the wall, he moved forward toward the basement. Sam had scouted out the area beforehand; he knew exactly where Brimmer was going.

A sound to his left, glass and metal, in close proximity, caught Sam off guard and he dropped to his knees. The sound tinkled lightly again and Sam canted his head, eyes scrunched in question.

No one else was here but the two nurses, Brimmer and himself. What the hell…?

Crawling, Sam moved cautiously in the direction he’d last heard the sound. A small office was just to the right. The scuffling noise tinkled again and Sam crawled forward quickly, pressing himself against the half wall outside the entrance.

Slowly, he raised up enough to peek over the glass portion. Brimmer stood at an opened glass cabinet; small glass vials of varying sizes lined each shelf in neat rows. Brimmer inspected their labels and tucked a handful from a few rows into his pockets.

He made a quick grab at several wrapped syringes, those going into his other pocket. As he turned to leave, Sam dropped again and backed away swiftly into an adjacent exam room. When the footfalls died down along the hall, toward the basement, Sam dashed quickly to the front desk.

“Take an inventory of the drugs in your medicine cabinet when Brimmer leaves,” he whispered harshly. “He took some drugs and if he’s using them on my partner, I may need to know what they are. Can you do that?”

Mildred nodded, her features pale.

“Okay. You’ve got it from here, right? He’s just went into the basement, so when he comes back up, just send him on his way. Nice and easy like you did when he got here. Okay?”

Mildred nodded again. Kelsey behind her, her face turned toward the hall, like a sentry guarding for the enemy’s return, didn’t even blink.

Sam looked out the front, to the old pickup at the curb. It wasn’t the one he’d seen in the city traffic cam and he wanted to be sure. “That’s his car?”

“Yes,” Mildred answered, her voice shaky.

Sam turned back to her, “You’ve got to keep your cool. You’re nearly done, alright?” Mildred didn’t answer and Kelsey still had her head turned. “Mildred,” Sam barked in hushed, anxious tones.

“Right,” she put in hurriedly. “Keep cool.”

“I’ll be just outside in that black car across the street. Signal me if you need me, okay?”

She nodded. Sam patted her hands and ducked out into the night.




Dean had considered crawling, he really had. Especially given the outcome of his first few attempts to make it to his feet. The pain and agony that ripped through his body every time he went crashing down, ass first, back to the hay-strewn floor of the barn was something that he could really do without at this point.

Instead, he had sat, blinking back gray spots, breathless and panting, nothing but sheer determination and stubbornness keeping him conscious. Walking, he decided right there and then, seemed highly overrated.

That was when the traitorous part of his brain had first suggested the unthinkable: crawl.

“Nope.” He shook his head carefully. “No fucking way.” Glassy-eyed, he looked around the room only to find the cow staring at him with brown soulful eyes. Practically condemning. “Don’t take that tone of face with me.” Dean winced. “Great… I’m talking to a cow. Again.”

Not for all the tea in China, would he crawl. Not for the dozen or more blistering burns on the bottoms of his feet. Not for the multiple concussions or unknown drugs swimming through his veins, both making his head fuzzy and disconnected. Not even for what it had cost him to stand that first time. Nope.

Didn’t matter. None of it, he told himself.

Not the odd muscle spasm that still wracked his body with near crippling pain. Not the dozens of cuts that bastard Billy had sliced into his torso, many of which were deep enough to do more than trickle a little blood here and there. Not even the places on his chest where the viciously removed barbs left holes deep enough to see muscle tissue, or the eviscerated flesh down his spine where he’d slammed back on the barb-wrapped post numerous times-none of it mattered because…

“Winchesters. Do. Not. Crawl,” he gritted out angrily, then broke out into a fit of coughing that doubled him over, left him gasping on his side, until he could catch his breath and prop up on one elbow.

When he finally closed in on his goal, Dean sighed in relief. He hadn’t seen wrong, he hadn’t even been imagining it. It really was his stuff, dumped in a heap on the ground, covered in hay and filth.

As he squinted at the pile, things seemed to come into focus. His things were partially engulfed in shadow but, canting his head to the side, Dean could just make out a swatch of dark material. His own gray t-shirt.

A small grin spread over his face. "Yahtzee," he murmured.

Encouraged by the small find and the short distance to it, he moved faster. It was no longer crawling, it was more of a scoot, and less of a demeaning hands-and-knees thing. It was the preservation of strength because the intended target, one of his shirts - and oh god, was that a sock? - was just. Right. There.

In the end, Dean managed to find both socks, though no boots. "Fucker," he grunted.

It wasn't easy but he managed to force them on over bloodied flesh, and up, until they covered the torn skin of his ankles. There was a nice-sized goose egg where Bill had kicked him earlier, the fucker, Dean repeated mentally.

Getting limbs to cooperate was a bitch, but after several grunts and groans the shirt was up and over his head, until the material covered his torso. It stuck in painfully to the open wounds on his chest and back, but like the socks, some protection was far better than none. Even if just the touch of it hurt like hell.

“Now,” he swiveled, searching the room, still sitting on his ass. “If I can just… ah!” His outer shirt, the button-down. It was close and from his seated position he reached it easily. The movement sent a sharper pain up his leg, huffing as he gathered the garment.

Dean sat and stared at the knife wound in his thigh. It oozed blood, not fast, but the more he moved. The more bloodflow increased. "Dammit," he muttered. Using his mouth in coordination with his still less than dextrous hands, he ripped the fabric in half.

Fingers fumbling, he managed to get half the shirt balled into a wad to cover the hole, and the other half he wrapped around to keep it in place. Sufficiently packing the wound. "Man..." he grumbled when he was done, breathless, "I liked that shirt too."

Out of his periphery he'd spotted his leather jacket. Easily recognizable, the item sat much further away, near an outer wall of the barn.

“Well, no use putting it off,” he huffed. Placing both palms on the ground, he got his socked feet under him and carefully came to a stand. Much to his surprise the pain was manageable, though he still found himself hobbling the last few yards to where his coat lay.

The absence of his boots was still an issue and he glared down at his feet. Much as he'd not relished putting any sort of shoes on, walking around barefoot was too painful to even consider. But the boots were nowhere in sight and for now, the socks would have to suffice. They'd offer at least a modicum of protection from the dirt and grime.

Lifting the coat in one hand he carefully shifted first one arm, then the other until he was swallowed into the welcoming warmth of the leather and its thick lining. Much as he didn't appreciate the added weight on his wounds, he knew prolonged exposure to the cold would be far worse.

Dean didn't waste time, now that he was standing and walk-er-hobbling. What little energy he had, he needed to direct toward finding the kid and, if he was alive, getting them both out of there. Fast. Preferably before Bill came back… or after Dean found his gun.

Glancing at the barn's main entrance, he clenched his jaw. Much as Dean believed Bill was gone and time was of the essence, every instinct in him screamed caution. Walking out the main entrance, with that big-ass halogen light announcing his escape to the entire county, didn't exactly seem the best course of action.

Turning around, Dean looked for a different, less visible way out. His gaze caught on a stall window and deciding for a quick glance at the world outside, he stowed away any discomfort and moved quietly toward it.

He peered out the opening. The rest of the place was exactly as he had imagined it to be; a two-story, creepy-as-hell farmhouse lay about fifteen yards off, directly across from the barn. Quickly, he noted the full, bright moon and how it offered enough light to see an old corn silo just to the left, its tall structure standing like a silent silhouette outlined against the cold night sky.

Between the silo and the house, Dean felt pretty sure that the house was the more likely place to stash the kid. Most houses this far north had basements and whether concrete or hard-packed soil, escape from one would be pretty difficult.

Now to find a more covert exit from the barn, find the kid and get gone.

Dean moved away from the window, skirting the edges of the light that shone from the bare bulb that hovered over the table. That cart where Perv had kept his 'toys,' and the post where Dean had been dealt more physical pain than he'd ever known possible.

A back door of some kind would work and he squinted into the darker shadows of the barn, searching. The shadows were too deep so he stayed close to the wall and felt his way along, one shoulder skimming against the decrepit wood, both for support and for any tactile discovery he might make. If he didn't see it, he'd surely bump against it.

Forcing himself to take his time, he'd just neared the back of the barn when a board gave easily against his shoulder. Dean had to rock back to keep from falling and he drew to a halt and placed his hands against the boards.

It wasn't exactly a door, but more of a rotted piece of wood. The wide plank swung left, its rusted nail attaching it to the frame having long since loosened its hold. Dean pressed the board as far as he could to the left and grunted his approval.

"Perfect," he murmured. It would be a tight fit but the boards on either side of it weren't all that healthy, so if push came to shove, they should break easily.

Bending his knees, Dean stooped and, leading with his right shoulder, squeezed through the opening. When his back scraped against the boards, he found himself insanely glad he'd put on the thick coat. Before they splintered and broke, the pressure on his chest and back alone hurt like a bitch.

Once outside, Dean stilled, keeping himself against the outer wall of the barn long enough to orient himself.

Dean approached the farmhouse at an angle, muttering more than his fair share of curses. Lost in pain and his own determination, he'd nearly missed the sound before it filtered into his clouded mind. When it did, he held still for a minute, canted his head and listened.

There was nothing to hear now, the night sounds full of only cicadas and rustling wind, and yet every hair on the back of his neck was raised. There was a car parked near the house, but enough tire tracks on the ground to tell Dean that the old rust bucket sitting near the door wasn’t Bill’s sole means of transportation. Every instinct screamed caution and 'wrong wrong wrong' but dammit, there was nothing there.

In a gait that was far from his usual smoothness, Dean crossed the yard quickly and came to stand at the concrete stairs that led to the front door. Pausing, he glanced up, breath frozen in his chest.

Dean blinked. For just a second he could've sworn he saw someone at the window, a shadowy figure that vanished almost as soon as he glanced up. Almost like a gh- no, this wasn't a supernatural thing. There was nothing in that upstairs window.

Dean shook his head. Fucking concussion.

“Keep it together, Dean,”he murmured and placed a foot on the first step. Without warning a sudden chill split down his spine, rocking him violently from head to toe. It was nothing like the post-electrocution spasms he'd endured hours ago.

Dean shrugged it off. “Jesus,” he husked breathlessly. “Place gives me the creeps, way too literally.” His head was all wonky, he argued, that's all it was so he climbed the rest of the steps and reached for the front door, pausing only to take a deep breath. He had no weapon, no idea who might be in the house, or if this was even the place where Perv had stashed the kid.

After a moment's hesitation, Dean relented. “Fuck it,” he murmured angrily at himself. Following his instincts had become second nature to him, had kept him, and others, alive on more than one occasion. So what if they'd been a little off on this hunt, well more of a not-hunt, as it turned out.

Still, no matter how fucked up his head was at the moment, Dean knew his instincts were still the best thing going. Still dependable. “Getting fucking paranoid Dean,” he murmured and gripped the door knob.

The door opened easily enough, though the sound it made in the process was like something straight out of a Hitchcock movie. The screech wasn't particularly loud but against the stillness of the air and quietness of the room, it was deafening.

Grimacing at the sound, Dean stepped across the threshold and instantly realized the one single benefit of not having his boots.

Outside, between the barn and the house, where every sharp rock and poky stick had skewered his burnt feet, he'd muttered more than his fair share of expletives. even made up a few new ones. But in there? In a house so old the floorboards practically creaked just from looking at them, the absence of his boots turned out to be a good thing. It made for a quieter, almost soundless trek through the aged structure.

Between the light over the barn and the full moon shining through the windows, visibility in the house wasn't too bad. Stopping for a moment he took in the interior with wide searching eyes, ready for anything.

First thing he noticed was the copious cobwebs-hell, cobwebs on top of cobwebs. Like little spider condos and hell, even some of those were dilapidated. Stilled, Dean took it all in, getting a lay of the land before he moved too deeply inside. Listening for any sound that was misplaced.

Just inside the front door and directly ahead was a massive staircase. Most of the rungs were broken and many of the steps were missing boards, but for the most part it was intact and would probably sustain his weight if he had to traverse them. He hoped he wouldn’t have to.

A large living area, furniture that had seen better days-er decades-lay to his right, with another room that could be seen beyond that one. An old roll-top desk sat against one wall, papers scattered everywhere; an office maybe.

"Okay," Dean murmured to himself, eyeing the interior. "If I were a psychotic killer, fond of dark places to kill in, where would I keep my next-" A Basement. "Of course," he said nearly slapping a palm to his forehead, but lacked the strength.

Dismissing the other rooms, and the rickety stairs leading up, he looked for what might pass as the kitchen. It was typical of the area for basements to be accessed from the kitchen, he only hoped the goddamn farm didn't have a storm cellar somewhere away from the house.

"One thing at a time, Dean. One thing at a time," he whispered, eyes wide, swiveling left and right, searching.

The glint of moonlight over metal caught Dean’s attention and he drew up short. A crooked table stood just next to the stairs and on it, something familiar. A silver plated Colt 1911-his silver plated Colt 1911-sat on top of it, like a piece of jewelry on display, its normally shiny exterior somewhat dulled by dirt and shadows.

“Ah, thank God,” Dean's voice scratched out into the cold air. Carefully, he picked it up, wiping it on his jeans to get rid of some of the dirt, then checked the clip. It was full. “Finally,” he muttered, coughing into the crook of one arm, “something’s going right tonight.”

Feeling even less naked now, even with the rest of his clothes on-minus his boots,fucker...-Dean gripped the gun tightly and moved about to search the rest of the house.

There was an arched entry to his left and it appeared to lead to what was probably a dining room of some sort. Inside that room, a light fixture that had seen better days hung precariously from the ceiling, big and spooky enough to look like something straight from The Phantom of the Opera. Wallpaper, faded and peeling, clung precariously to the walls and numerous holes dotted the aged drywall, giving it the appearance that some crazy woodpecker had at some point found refuge in the old house.

Beyond that room, it was the next space that garnered Dean's attention.

Light streamed in from somewhere outside, bathing the room in a blue glow; trapped in the beam, the cracked countertops, old stove and an old model refrigerator seemed frozen, cold. Stopped in time, it was a kitchen, straight from the 70s. If this house was stereotypical of the era, the door to the basement would be in there somewhere.

As he neared the entrance, Dean's mind was so busy working on just how they'd get out of here and how far away help might be that he didn't hear the rush of air and intake of breath until it was nearly too late.

Dean jumped back, but the movement was slow and clumsy.

Something hard struck a glancing blow to the side of his head. Gun hand pulled in, the downward moving object ricocheted off his right shoulder then stopped.

“Son of a...,” Dean stumbled but leveled his gun, eyes searching furiously for a target.

“Wait!” a small panicked voice whispered back. “Don't shoot!”

“Just don't-” Dean blinked as thick fluid dripped down his head to cloud his right eye. Even though some part of his mind told him the voice was young, he was in no hurry to concede trust.

Gripping the gun tighter, getting it steadier, he wiped the blood from his eye and grimaced. “Don't fucking move.”

“I won’t,” a voice responded meekly. It was anxious and scared. “But mister-Dean, we gotta go.”

Dean stared confused at the fuzzy image. "What?"

Blinking several times, Dean’s vision cleared allowing him a better look at his assailant.

It was a kid. More importantly, it was the kid from town. Arms high, a thick board clutched tightly in one scrawny hand, though at Dean's stare, it dropped lithely from his hands to clatter to the floor. The kid stood in a splotch of light shining in through the kitchen window, small frame trembling violently.

“You’re the-the,” he coughed, chest constricting, nearly doubling him over. “The kid Bill kidnapped.” Then his mind clicked. “Wait. How'd you know my name?”

"I-I heard." The boy cast an anxious look around, then turned back to Dean, shuffling in hesitation, face drawn. Dean sensed this wasn't going to be good.

"You heard, what exactly?" Dean encouraged.

"I heard Billy... and you, when he..." It was clear the words were not what he wanted to say, "in the barn..."

Dean felt his face drain of color. "Oh." The kid had heard him loosing his shit. "Terrific," he muttered awkwardly.

"I heard him say your name a few times, that's all," he lied.

Dean looked at the kid, shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he offered. "So how'd you get free?"

The boy was casting anxious looks around the room. “Billy's Dad. He helped me, broke the chain,” he said. Hands fisting nervously at his side he practically whined, “So, can we go now?” He didn't wait for an answer, but moved to go around, heading for the front door.

“Hang on a second.” Dean snaked out a hand and grabbed the boy's upper arm. It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to ask about 'Billy's dad' but touching the boy, Dean noted how he was trembling, saw his head jerking visibly. Saw the length of chain still dangling from his right wrist, heard it jingle with the tiny shudders.

"Please...?" The boy was crying.

Dean sighed. Taking off his coat he wrapped it around the small shoulders. “It’s big but it should help. So, you know my name, what's yours? Can't go around calling you 'kid' all night.”

The boy nodded. “Jeremy.” It was clear from his face that he really wanted to say no to the coat-offer, but the need for warmth easily overtook pride and he sank into the oversized coat, face lax.

“Okay, Jeremy. So, tell me again," Dean folded his arms over his chest, the gun in his right hand peeking out beneath his elbow. "Perv - I mean - Billy's dad helped you escape.” He rubbed at his forehead, feeling that headache come back. “So… you're saying that there's someone else in here?”

Wasn't this just their luck? More than one crazy to deal with; Bill wasn't working alone, even if his partner - his dad - seemed to be having second thoughts about his fuck-wad son.

“Yeah, Billy’s dad and,” Jeremy’s eyes rolled upward to indicate the second floor of the house. “Margret.”

Dean canted his head-had he heard right? “Margret?”

“Billy's momma... she's evil.” The reminder sent the boy into a clear state of panic. “Look, Billy’s dad, when he set me free, he said to run. Said to leave. We gotta go now!” He was backing toward the front door.

“Just-” Dean grabbed the boy's arm, lost inside his leather jacket. “Hang on a second. I get that you’re scared, but if Billy's working with someone, for all we know, they could be standing outside, waiting for us. You gotta tell me exactly where they are.”

“Jeezus, I don’t know. I just got out of that basement when I heard you come in. Thought you might be her-or Billy."

Dean rubbed a frustrated hand down his face. Much as he didn't want to accuse the kid of lying, he wanted to be sure the earlier encounter hadn't been just panic-attacked and hallucinated. “So you met Billy's dad, but this-Margret, did you actually see her?”

A quick shake of his head answered. “But I heard her when I was in the basement. When she yelled at Hal.”

“Hal?”

“Billy's dad.”

“Naturally.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose where that damnable ache was growing sharper by the minute.

“Geeze, you’re not following real well. I didn’t hit you that hard, did I?”

“No,” Dean lied, “I just find it hard to be on first name basis with psychos who are trying to, you know, kill me. So,” he tried again, “any chance that what you heard was actually a TV or radio?”

“No, I'm not some baby who can't tell the difference between what's real and what's not. I know what I heard and what I saw.”

“Alright, alright, I'm just trying to be absolutely sure.” Dean glanced around. "So, you said Hal told you Margret was upstairs?”

"Yes," the boy nodded but looked frustrated, "Look, I really don't wanna be here anymore." He motioned toward the front door, movements jittery, hopping from foot to foot. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah,” Dean turned the boy toward the front door and placed a hand to the small of his back, giving a gentle but insistent push toward the exit. “God, Sam's gotta be climbing the walls by-”

A board creaked somewhere behind them and they both froze. The laughter that followed, was definitely feminine and utterly insane. It sent Dean's flesh crawling.

"It's her," Jeremy whispered, his voice like thin glass about to break.

Dean made the next decision quickly. Putting one hand to Jeremy's back he moved him quickly as he could limp to the front door of the house. "Need you to do me a favor," he said opening the door.

Confused, Jeremy spun on him. "L-like what?" he asked throwing his hands out to the side.

Dean put a hand to his chest and less gently he shoved the boy across the threshold, placing him outside. Dean cut him off. “Wait here. I'm just going to check it out.”

“No. Let’s just go!”

Cutting him off, Dean shut the door in his face, the deadbolt seemed to work and he threw it. “Run if you see Billy's car, Jeremy. I'm just going to check things out.”

“No shit I'm gonna run,” Jeremy shouted and kicked at the door, frustration and panic obvious in his voice. The kid sounded torn between running and staying to help. Dean really hoped he'd run. “I don't wanna be out here alone...”

That plaintive, broken voice was nearly Dean's undoing. But things weren't adding up and this might be his only chance to piece it together. Not to mention, his feet weren't exactly in good shape, so the boy would likely get further without him if it came right down to it.

“Just... sit tight," Dean called back. "I've got a plan," he lied. Casting a dubious gaze at the stairs, knowing full well it led to the noise they'd just heard. Knowing too that going up there was probably a bad idea, and really... what was he going to do?

"What are you going to do?" Jeremy repeated, shouting through the door.

"Survive," Dean murmured, "I hope."




Chapter 7 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 9