Big Bang 2010: Last Child, Chapter 2
The bell above the door chimed as Sam stepped inside and proceeded to trip at the office entrance.
Stumbling in, Sam looked down in annoyance and decided to blame the green monster on the floor - a fuzzy door mat with the words 'Howdy stranger!' in bright yellow letters - rather than his wobbly, cardboard legs. The previous days of fever still robbed his body of its normal balance.
Well, so maybe he wouldn't be running downtown, necessarily. But, Sam relented mentally, he could certainly walk pretty fast.
Maybe. If the walk was downhill.
The damn taxi had been a bust. They'd told him it would be an hour before they could get to his location. Sam didn't want to wait an hour. He'd been ready to try a different service when his cell had died.
Of all the luck...
In frustration, he'd come very close to throwing the thing across the parking lot, just to get some satisfaction at watching it shatter. But he didn't. Instead, he added 'a working phone' to the list of things Sam now needed as he entered the motel’s office.
Lost in her own little world, the girl behind the counter seemed oblivious to his presence. Head bent over a book on the counter, it bobbed rhythmically to some tune Sam couldn’t hear. In her right hand, the one with the fingerless glove and black nails, she twirled a blue highlighter, but occasionally stopped to snap the air at some invisible musical instrument.
A set of twin wires led from beneath her dark and thick, purple-streaked hair and down to an mp3 player on the counter. The glow from the little LED screen told Sam the source of her distraction.
The piercing on her black painted lips twitched as the occasional lyric whispered from her mouth. In a failed attempt to capture her attention, Sam bent down and noticed more jewelry; a stud in her nose, and three hoops of various sizes in her right eyebrow.
A punk-rocker; Sam had seen many at Stanford, though none quite so adorned as this one and he was willing to bet she had other piercings he could not see.
“Um,” Sam cleared his throat loudly, “excuse me?”
No response. She opened her mouth and started singing loudly, out of tune. Sam cringed.
The girl's lack of acknowledgment sent Sam's impatience boiling and he yelled, "HEY!" At the same time he tapped her shoulder, just in case.
It had the desired effect and she jumped. Hands flailed as she grabbed the ear-buds from her ears and pulled. "Shit mister!"
Okay. Make that four piercings: her tongue supported an extra hole as well.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sam placated, hoping to calm her down. "I just need to borrow your computer for a minute. Ten tops. Look, I’ll pay you.” Sam fished in his back pocket for the wad of bills Dean had won in a pool game a few weeks ago.
“What?” The girl glanced at the PC then back at Sam. “Save your money mister, that relic hasn’t worked in ages. I keep telling Stanley, but they don’t seem to give a crap.”
Sam’s lips thinned in annoyance but he quickly changed tactics. "Can I borrow a phone? And I need someplace where I can rent a car. Oh, and a map of downtown too, if you have one." She looked questioningly at the cell still clutched in his hand. "Dead," he replied.
"Ah, bummer." She started digging behind the counter. "Not sure about the map..." she said shuffling through papers, "but I'm born and raised here. What'cha looking for?"
"Coffee shop, not sure the name. It's at the corner of Crescent and Maple.”
“A coffee shop?" Goth Chick pulled her head back from behind the corner and looked incredulously at Sam. "Man, that’s a long way to go for a cup of joe. Maggie’s is around the corner, and if you ask me, the coffee’s way better than those downtown joints. 'Specially for the price."
“No, no...," Sam shook his head, "not the coffee I need, just the shop.” When she looked questioningly at him, he added, “My brother, I was supposed to meet him there. We were supposed to work a job in the area."
"Your brother..." she said thoughtfully gazing at Sam as if trying to place him. "Short hair, hot ass, sweet ride?" she asked.
Sam hesitated. It took a minute to assure himself that by 'ride' she probably meant the Impala. But then, with Dean, stuck in a motel for days on end, probably bored out of his mind, Sam could never be sure.
That in mind, Sam kept his expression neutral as he nodded slowly. "Short hair, yeah," he said, making it quite clear what he was agreeing to.
“No shit?” All annoyance gone, she stuck out her hand and smiled. “You must be the sick brother! Sam right?” Sam tentatively shook her hand. “I’m Angie and yeah, that black, ‘67 Impala? Cherry ride man, not a car I’d soon forget.” She grinned, “Or your brother with those killer eyes."
Sam blinked at the rush of information, beginning to wonder just how much he'd missed during his bout with the flu. Sick as a dog when they'd arrived, he'd stayed in the car, head propped against the passenger side window, all but dead to the world while Dean checked them in. Just how familiar had Dean gotten with this girl?
"Damn," Angie continued, startling Sam a little. "I was never so glad to lose that bet with Amy. I was sure you guys were gay - which is cool if you were, no biggie - but that brother of yours….” She smiled. "Well, that's some fine gene pool you two come from and it’d be a shame not to share with the fairer sex.”
Sam rubbed at his forehead. “This is not happening,” he muttered. There seemed no getting her off this course of conversation so he offered a resigned response. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no, Dean’s not gay. Not by a long shot.”
“Cool.” Angie smiled a bit too triumphantly. “So, he's not and you're not and, in the interest of full disclosure-”
“No interest here.”
“-neither am I, you know, in case you were wondering. Well, except for my bi-curious moments, I’m more into guys. Guys like Dean."
Sam stared disbelievingly at her waggling brow, the three piercings bouncing up and down. Any other time, he would’ve rolled his eyes at the obvious Dean-worship, or shuffled uncomfortably in the face of her blatant behavior. Not now, however. He was too worried, too anxious to be moving.
“Yeah, so,” Sam tapped on the counter, trying to steer this conversation back to a less awkward, more pertinent topic, “any idea where it is I’m going?”
“What?" She said as if suddenly realizing he'd spoken. "Oh, right, Crescent and Maple.” Angie nibbled at her lower lip, rubbing idly at the piercing in her nose. “You know,” she backed up and looked behind the counter, searching, “if I could just find that paper map, I could get an idea of the area and I migh-”
“The Java Loft, dumbass!” a male voice called out.
Sam looked over Angie’s head to an office behind the counter. A young man about Angie's age emerged, hair mussed, a three-day shadow of scruff on his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and the proud beginnings of a beer gut was outlined against his sloppy clothes, a wrinkled t-shirt with the words ‘I only party on the days ending with Y’ visible despite the food stains.
Once at the counter, he slung a backpack off his shoulder to rest heavily on the floor. A pamphlet that had seen better days was clutched in one hand. “Good coffee if you need to stay awake for exams.”
Angie huffed, “Yeah, so long as you don’t mind paying four bucks for a friggin’ cup of caffeine.” Her face wrinkled and she waved a hand in the space between she and the new arrival. “Jesus, Vince, I got one word for you: shower!”
"Sure." Vince looked smugly at her. "You com'n with?"
Angie wrinkled her nose, and took a breath, prepared to fire back. This was getting out of hand.
“Look," Sam interrupted. "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of in a hurry." Directing his question to Vince, he added, "Can you tell me how far it is to the Java Loft then? Can I get there on foot?”
“You mean like walk there?" Vince huffed. "Sure, if you wanna die.”
"Real nice, asshole." Angie glared sideways at her co-worker.
Ignoring Punk-Rock for the moment, Vince reached across the counter to point at the mass of overpasses outside the window. “See that tall overpass on top of all those other slightly less tall overpasses?" he continued. "You'd have to get across that and it ain’t exactly pedestrian friendly.”
Sam's gaze followed his gesture. In his chest, his heart caved a bit at the news.
"But this should get you there." Vince slapped the pamphlet he’d been holding down on the counter. “There's a bus schedule. Next one's in about fifteen minutes and, depending on traffic, will get there in about thirty, give or take, but at least you'll be alive to complain about it.”
"Ew, Sam, I wouldn't touch that thing," Angie eyed the grimy pamphlet. "He carries it round all the time. Probably scratches his balls with it."
"Fuck you, Angie," Vince snapped.
"You wish. Sorry herpes-boy, I wouldn't get near you with a thirty foot pole. Oh God," she blanched, "you'd probably enjoy it if I did."
The pair argued and Sam walked to the large front window of the office and stopped, staring at the uppermost overpass bridge that led toward downtown. When they'd been kids, on the rare occasions Dad had taken a job in a large city, Dean had called them 'spaghetti bowls'- a tangle of bridges all leading somewhere. Today, the one he needed would lead him to Dean, he hoped.
Chewing on his lower lip, he considered his options. They were severely limited. No help for it, he’d have to steal a car. Dean would be proud of him. Well, after he'd kicked Sam's ass for fucking around here for so long searching for alternatives.
Mind made up, Sam looked at the pair and said loudly, "Thanks anyway," and turned to leave.
“I could give you a ride,” Angie’s voice chimed in brightly.
Both Sam and Vince turned to stare, Sam finally saying, “You’d do that?”
“Sure,” Angie hurriedly gathered up her purse and pack then met Sam on the other side of the counter. “Now that Vince is here, I’m done here. I gotta head into town anyway, so," she shrugged, "let’s roll."
Vince was shaking his head. "Blind leading the blind," he grumbled.
"I know where the Java Loft is Vince," Angie threw back at her coworker. "My study group meets there once a week. I just didn't know the street names." She looked at Sam, chagrined. "Hazards of living in one place all your life, I know where I'm going but I suck at giving directions.”
Sam bit his lower lip. Still a little uncertain, so he studied Angie a moment, before centering in on her face.
Sure, she was half his size and probably less than that weight-wise, but Sam knew enough about the things that went bump in the night not to let outside appearance fool him. In the end, however, it was her eyes that convinced him. Her brown gaze didn't hold anything suspicious, just pure, open, unadulterated sincerity. Maybe a little lust too... Yup, definitely Dean's type.
Sam relaxed. "Sure, okay," he finally nodded. "I'd be grateful, thanks." He was rewarded with a smile that on her black, outlined lips, looked odd when the piercing wiggled.
Vince, his head down, pretending to look through the day’s checking cards, muttered none too discretely, “Serialkilleralert….”
Angie’s only response as she opened the door to leave was to lift her right hand, middle finger extended proudly, a clear statement of just how highly she thought of Vince's opinions.
Sam stood flat-footed a moment, still hesitant. Skeptical, he looked from Vince to Angie and then to the mass of interstate bridges outside. Then at his useless cell, not realizing he’d pulled it from his pocket or when, and that his finger hovered over the redial button. Again.
Didn't matter. Even if it was charged, his heart told him he'd only get voice mail again. Sam muttered a quiet curse.
The entrance bell sounded and he turned. Angie stood there, hand on the knob, door wide open and an expectant foot tapping on the floor. “Well? You comin’ or what?”
Sam glanced down at his watch: 11:25 a.m. "Yeah, I'm coming."
It was the jarring, the feeling of falling that woke him. Head aching, Dean’s world was turning, spinning, his body being moved and pushed, though he had nothing to do with any of it. God his head hurt like a bitch.
Memory wasn’t in much of a hurry to return, but he knew there was something he needed to be doing. Knew there was….
Soft sobbing, childish in its youthful echoes, bounced inside Dean’s brain. It sounded close. It sounded scared. It sounded like…
The kid!
Dean was thrashing, not at all sure how successful his movement was, but he had to get the kid away from that… thing.
With great effort he pulled his eyes open. Sight did him little good; all he could make out was a form, no details, just a shape. It was moving toward him. Against his will his eyes closed again, but he still moved fists raised aimlessly.
It was a failed attempt at best, but he had to try. Pride flooded him when his left fist connected with something soft. There was a grunt. Dean was pretty sure it wasn’t him. Sluggish as he was, he’d managed to connect.
The weakness of the earlier blow proved a bigger obstacle as he fell back, his body folding into some kind of enclosure. A hole?
Then something strong held down his head, while something else pinned his left arm to his side, crushing his fingers. Fuck! That hurt! The darkness sparked when pain exploded behind his closed lids, lighting up the inside of his skull.
Okay. That grunt was his.
The world that had been gray moments before was a little darker, though not completely so. There was still a chance.
Exhausted, woozy and hurting, he collapsed against whatever enclosure he’d been placed in, his eyes unwilling to open. Still, that didn’t stop him from trying.
Then, the collar of his shirt was being ripped, the chilly air prickling his exposed flesh. There was a pinch, a prick in the flesh of his left shoulder. A rush of ice flooded his veins, fanning out, digging in.
Drugs. Dammit.
The graying world was now spinning, funneling back inward, the ebony corners curling up like burning paper. All in all, he’d rather be kicked in the head than feel the debilitating rush of drugs permeate his system.
All in all, he knew that he was fucked.
On the drive to town, Sam learned that Angie had absolutely no filter between her brain and her mouth. At. All.
Lips moving constantly, she chattered almost non-stop about every little thing that crossed her mind. Every class she took, her profs, the last concert she'd attended and her friend Kelly and how cute she was. It was one long stream of consciousness that ended with how, once they found Dean, the four of them should go out.
Sam found himself considering unconsciousness as a viable option. He just wasn't sure whose he favored more; his own, or hers. Definitely hers.
At one point, while Sam had stared in amazement at her ability to hold such a long, drawn out, one-sided conversation, the words lost meaning in favor of the constant waggle of the piercing above her lip. The thing bounced, bobbled and twisted to the point Sam had wondered if it would fall out. Or start smoking from the friction.
Tuning out the drone of her voice, Sam looked away, gaze drifting out the window. With the phone plugged into Angie's car charger, the cord was long enough for Sam to keep the cell gripped firmly in his left hand and near his side. Mind racing, he propped his right elbow on the passenger door and stared out the window.
Angie talked on, but it didn't matter to Sam and it obviously didn't matter to her; his participation wasn't required. It was better this way; he was preoccupied with his own worries and concerns, the unrelenting questions constantly nagging at his mind. Like, what could possibly be happening that Dean couldn't answer his cell? What would he find when he found Dean? How would he find Dean? Would he find Dean?
Sam shook his head; of course he would.
The longer they drove Sam found a new annoyance to focus on, other than Angie's endless gift of gab. It was the distance between the motel and the hunt. The suburb Dean had deposited them in was way too far from the area of the abductions and it was taking far too long to get there.
It wasn't like Dean to limit their easy access when there were plenty of motels downtown, or at least nearer. Sam understood though. It was that protective big brother gene that Dean practiced well and often.
Sam had been too sick to travel so Dean had stopped at the first motel he could find. It just happened to be on the furthest outskirts of town. With a place to rest and regroup, where Sam could take some time to get back on his feet, it had apparently provided convenient down time for Dean to do some research while keeping an eye on his brother.
What had Dean seen that had given him cause for alarm or suspicion? Finger in his mouth, Sam began chewing on his nail, hoping that whatever it was that had spurred Dean to action, that Sam would find an answer. More importantly, that Sam would find Dean.
“…‘bout Dean. He seeing anyone?”
The mention of his brother’s name shook Sam out of his thoughts. “Humm?” He looked at her as the car sat at yet another traffic light. Angie just stared back. “I’m sorry, what?” he tried again.
A small quirk of her lips, and Angie pointed at his phone. “Ya know, I think you’re going to wear that button off if you don't stop doing that."
It had been Angie's idea for them to swing back by their room so Sam could grab his charger. The phone was now nearly at full charged and plugged in, if Dean called, it would ring.
Sam had resumed the unconscious motion from before; his thumb rubbing over the SEND button constantly, mindlessly, Dean's number fixed on the LED screen, ready to try for the hundredth time to reach his brother. Sam sighed and stashed the phone in his pocket.
The time flashed on the screen: 12:50 p.m. Sam sighed.
“Sorry, I’m not much company," Sam said, rubbing his hands nervously on his jeans. He missed the odd look Angie gave him.
"No biggie..." Angie shrugged and stared at the unmoving cars. "Ya know, for brothers you two really seem pretty close... like inside-each-other’s-pocket close.”
Sam shrugged. “Yeah,” he offered, clearing his throat. The lack of movement in the cars around them left him anxious and with his phone tucked away, he started drumming his fingers on the armrest of the door. “I guess you could say that.”
This time Angie was quiet for a long moment, and Sam had noticed she was studying him, but he was just too distracted to care. They were on the overpass that led into the city and it was bumper to bumper traffic, and it wasn't moving. Sam felt his frustration mount.
Mired in his worry, the phone was back in his hand and he stared at it, the battery symbol on his LED screen reading nearly full. Then up to the traffic and he blew out a long breath of frustration, thoughts turning to his next move and what that might be when he got to the coffee shop - if he got to the coffee shop, Goddamn traffic - and how he'd trace Dean's steps...
Then, the word's death and family and Dean and Angie's voice suddenly filtered through Sam's inner dialogue.
"... a death in the family or something?" Angie finished looking expectantly at Sam.
Sam looked at her, face blank. "What?"
She shrugged. "It's just that sometimes siblings that cling to one another like you two seem to be doing, there's a deeper reason for it. Like, a death. A tragedy that brings them closer. Is that what you and Dean have experienced?"
The audacity. It left Sam speechless and shaking his head, mouth open.
"You can talk to me, I am a psych major, after all. Hell, I've even heard of instances where siblings develop deep physical relationships over traumatic experiences, if you get my drift."
The drift was more like a snow storm in Sam's mind. He got it. He got it completely. Sam just couldn't believe what he was hearing.
Angie held his disbelieving gaze a second before blinking. "What, so… you and Dean, you never...?”
The implication was clear and Sam's jaw dropped this time. At a momentarily at a loss for words, it was a full half minute before he could render himself capable of speech.
“What? No!" Sam's voice cracked.
"Well, it's just that you seem closer than most brothers I've ever met and-"
"God... just... stop!" Sam all but shouted. Fortunately for her, she did.
Sam felt the tension in his shoulders add to the headache that had been building behind his eyes. “We just, uh, we've had some bad luck and... we've always watched out for each other. And this really isn't any of your business anyway.”
The car's interior was quiet for a beat.
“I’m sorry,” Angie backpedaled. Somehow she'd come to the realization that she'd crossed a line. “I’ve got a big mouth, like freakin’ Grand Canyon HUGE! Aside from which, everyone’s always telling me I’m blunt, too blunt. And did I mention that I talk too much? Yup, I do, so anyti-”
“Angie!” Sam snapped and pinned her with a glare.
Angie, her mouth open, mid-sentence, looked quietly back at him. Words stopping, for once.
Head bowed and chin resting on his chest, Dean groaned. The stabbing, incessant pounding in his head was motivation enough to just embrace the fact that he had no inclination to move, even as he woozily wondered if he even could.
Dean really didn’t remember getting shitfaced last night, not that it mattered.
Experience had taught him that, whether waking from a particularly long night of drinking and sex - God he hoped there had been sex - or regaining consciousness, a feeling Dean was all too familiar with, things always were a bit fuzzy after.
No need to panic. Just keep swimming to the surface. Keep kicking. Think.
Dean tried to force his eyes open. That didn’t exactly go as planned. They felt weighted shut, refused to budge. So, he shifted. Or tried to.
Neither his arms nor his legs would cooperate. It was like they were stuck. There was also an almost maddeningly sharp... something raking his back and while the latter seemed to be a first in Dean’s memory, albeit fuzzy, the first two seemed par for the course. He only hoped she'd been pretty.
Dean'd had some… interesting experiences in the past. Trudging through deep, quicksand memories, he could almost relate those memories to what he was feeling now. Vivid images of a blond chick dressed in red leather and handcuffs… he was pretty sure handcuffs had been involved…
Head lolling over to one shoulder, Dean grinned sloppily.
What was her name? It’d been a while, but Dean was sure that chick had a very memorable name. Something flowery… Lily? No… Rosemary?... Daisy! Damn, that had been one talented chick. It had been the first time Dean'd ever realized the benefit of a girl who could tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. A very talented tongue too….
After she'd bound him upright, Daisy and her ruby red lips had descended over his groin, eyes hungrily admiring him. The lurid memory played vividly behind Dean's closed lids and he sank deeper into the images, his spine seeking a soft place to get comfortable.
God, he thought as he let himself relax deeper, she’d had the biggest-
"Jeeez's..." he hissed and shot forward. Limbs uncooperative, the movement didn't take him far, but it was enough to get him away from the knife-like pain at his back.
Pain had definitely not been part of that particular, vivid memory. This felt like splinters digging into his skin only way worse. The trickle down his back told him just how much worse. The pointy bastards had pricked and snagged hard enough to draw blood.
Dean's brow furrowed in confusion. Headboards weren’t usually sharp and poky.
Not wanting to risk further contact, Dean held still, his body upright but wobbling like a buoy in the ocean.
Tiny alarm bells were going off in his head. The volume increased with each newfound discovery of his surroundings. But he ignored them because he really didn’t need more noise in his already addled brain.
Wobbling forward to avoid the pricks at his back, Dean’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t one to ignore warning bells, even if he wanted to. But his brain and body weren't cooperating. He couldn't get anything to fucking move.
It was like that hunt he and Sam had been on in the dunes, in Holloman, New Mexico. Each step and your legs sunk up to the knee. Running had been near impossible, but not actually an option, not with a Spring-Heeled Jack on your tail. And not with your brother down and about to get clawed to ribbons.
Dean had saved Sam's ass then. Had pushed against the sand that had threatened his progress. Dean focused on that determination and forced his body to move.
But when he tried to bend his arms regret came in the form of nearly electric pain.
“Fug…,” he slurred. In his head it had sounded right. The thick, heavy feeling of his tongue felt… wrong.
Dean wasn't sure how he'd managed it, but he got his arms to move. A little. And that little bit, Dean regretted. Instantly.
Pins and needles assaulted his arm. The all-too-familiar sensation circuited through his extremities, racing like a million tiny fire ants, biting and burning a trail under his skin. Just like that time in Texas. Dean couldn't have been more than ten years old. He'd stepped on a mound and... and...
Dean shook his head. It seemed to help some but things were still sliding in and out of place in his mind. It was so hard to focus.
Daisy, or whoever, really needed to come back now.
Limited mobility was one thing, but sadistically limited movement was quite another.
Dean wriggled. “Sssonofa…”
Not only were his arms bound over his head so tightly that it went past the point of painful - definitely not an item on Dean's sexual foreplay list - but he was pretty damn sure he was on his knees.
He’d really hooked himself a wild one this time. A freakin’ sadistic one. He hoped. Anything else and he’d be good and truly fucked. In ways he didn’t think he’d like.
Dean stilled. Took a deep breath… and recoiled.
The smell sent his stomach rolling so he inhaled through his mouth and waited for it to subside. When it settled, he tried again, this time a more tentative breath-and gagged.
"Goddamn," Dean coughed. It was like a wall of putrid air: dank, moist... and shit! Was that...shit he smelled?
Face wrinkled in disgust, Dean scrunched his eyes closed tighter because sight, apparently, did not want to take part in the sensory exploration... not yet, anyway.
Maybe instead of her place, they were in his room, because no chick’s place would smell like that. Well, no chick that was an actual person and not literally a chicken would smell like that. There wasn’t enough alcohol on the planet for him to consume to allow him to make that big of a mistake.
In Dean's clouded mind, that left only one or two options: Sam, angry at Dean for getting hammered enough to have brought a girl back to the room, had taken a dump on the floor. Which was, well, admittedly, very un-Sam-like; or option two; maybe there was sufficient alcohol on the planet but not a free room anywhere and he’d taken this chick to some barn… which wasn’t really his style, not when he had a sweet ride parked outside.
Yup. Time to find a hotel with softer sheets and warmer rooms. And maybe a different town too. One where women didn't smell like... uncooked, bathed-in-shit, chickens.
Speaking of warmer…when had it gotten so cold?
Content for the moment to his world of darkness, Dean grew more curious about his surroundings. Sight unavailable to him, he stretched his hands, deciding on a tactile exploration.
Fingers barely mobile, he pressed and prodded at the surface of whatever it was he was secured to. It didn't take long to come to his conclusion: a pole. Not a headboard, but a goddamn pole. The little metallic needles too... were on the pole... digging into him... and...
Awareness and sensations were coming back in small, lapping waves. A rattling shiver ran through his body, forcing an unwanted bout of coughing, making something painful scrape against his chest.
Movement forward was, clearly, not working, so Dean tried the reverse, leaning back against the post. He’d forgotten about the ‘splinters’. It felt like fucking horse-sized needles, sharp and pointed, digging in and grabbing hold of his flesh like starving chopsticks.
Dammit but the little fuckers really hurt! Dean’s brow furrowed and he struggled to open his eyes ‘cause really...What the fuck?
Dean arched his back carefully, easing away from them.
The needles were substantial; they had girth, sharp and pointy. Every attempt to breathe deep, every attempt to move forward to avoid the spines at his back forced the small sharp tips deeper into his chest.
“God…,” Dean ground out through a clenched jaw. A deep, muscle-cramping ache wracked his body.
It was an ache borne of unnatural muscle movement and shape. Perhaps from too much shivering for too damn long because he had no idea how long he’d been here, wherever here was. The chill tugged excruciatingly at his skin, raising goose-flesh on his exposed torso-
Wait. Exposed? It was an effort but he managed a small shift, noticed the feel of denim rubbing against his thighs; he was naked from the waist up.
Oh yeah, sex. Rough as hell sex.
“Fuck!” Dean choked out, and his eyes finally flew open. The sharp barbs thrust deeper into his chest. The sensation of being ripped apart tore through his body.
Desperate to take his weight off the needles, he rocked back, away from the pain in his chest.
Bare skin collided with the 'prickly surface'. The impact drove the points deep beneath his skin. This time hooking on muscle. Grabbing like fishhooks onto the mouth of a distracted cat-fish. Stabbing his flesh, they dug deeper than before. This time, Dean swore he heard them scrape bone.
The pain was relentless.
Dean's mouth dropped open in a soundless shout. Head flung back he stilled, gasping, dry-sucking air as pain rocked his body. It was intense, it robbed him of breath and thought. It whited out his vision. He wanted to pass out, but he fought it, knowing instinctively that to lose himself would be worse.
So he fought it, and he fought to breathe. Fought to comprehend. Fought to remember all the painful lessons he'd learned since waking. Breath shallow. Don't lean too far forward, don’t relax against the pole either.
It was a long moment before Dean was able to talk. Able to think.
"Shit..." he managed, but it was more of a squeak because he was still trying to fight the urge to scream for all he was worth. “'K... d-definitely not…" he stuttered, with a bit more strength, "s- splinters…”
Mind still fucking sluggish, he pushed it. Harder. Working to assess just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.
There was no give of any kind to the pointy bastards embedded in his back. Whatever they were, they felt… metallic. Needles that hooked. Barbed like hooks, but thicker. Dean felt blood trickle down his back in several places where the metal hooks held.
Dean wanted to move away from the pain, but the things ripping flesh from his body kept him still.
Desperate to know just what held him in such agonizing grasp, Dean forced his eyes to focus on the metal wire wrapped around his chest. Following the vicious contraption, Dean strained his neck to see the wire disappear around his back and the wooden pole behind him.
“Fuckin’ barbed wire,” Dean gritted out.
Taking in his surroundings, Dean quickly learned where the stench was coming from. It wasn't a hotel room. It wasn’t a room at all. It was a barn. Dimly lit, dirt floor, rusted tools all around and not a single wall was anything less than rotted wood.
An old barn and not a very well-kept barn either.
There were several spools of rusted, ancient-looking barbed-fucking-wire, likely the same wire that was wrapped around the pole. They sat directly in front of him, across the room and from there, the tips of the angry barbs mocked him in the cool of the barn.
Dean realized something else too. Looking down, he saw only the tops of his knees.
It took seeing to understand it because between the cold and his position, he'd lost circulation in his legs. They weren't stretched out in front of him, not as he'd expected. Instead, he was sitting on top of them. In a kneeling position, legs folded beneath him but separated, divided by the pole at his back.
It took just the right amount of angling his head to see more. His ankles were secured with zip ties, each to a stake that was driving into the cold, packed earth of the barn.
“Great…just friggin’ great,” he panted and rolled his head to rest against the pole. At least the fucker who had strapped him like a roasted pig had left his head and neck alone. Overwhelming dizziness spun his vision and he closed his eyes, hoping the sensation would pass soon.
Dean used his cold fingers to search the skin around his wrists. He winced at the nearly unbearable itch that ran the length of his forearms. Dried blood, he was sure. Probably hours old from where the tight bindings cut into his flesh.
When his finger tips brushed against a narrow but thick plastic band, Dean's brow furrowed in concern. Further tactile exploration confirmed his suspicion; the surface of the band around his wrists was covered in tiny, symmetrical ridges.
The result was disheartening. More zip ties.
"Aw, man," Dean whined, sagging inwardly, because he didn't dare move. "This day just keeps gettin'... better 'n better."
Rope? Not a problem. Cuffs? Same. He could pretty much pick anything and he'd find something to pick it with, but zip ties? Fuck. The things couldn't be cut through with just anything, and you couldn't necessarily pick them...
Pain offered clarity and memories were coming back, like a crashing wall of waves.
The monster. The kid. The alley. "Fuck," Dean panted, punchy from exhaustion and pain. "Got the drop on me... never gonna live this... down."
Falling back on his training, Dean knew he had to make a plan. Get free. Get out of there. Find that... thing and... First things first; get the lay of the land. Assess his situation thoroughly.
Head tilted back, Dean's gaze traveled the length of the pole where he glimpsed his secured hands. Arms stretched high, the plastic ties cut mercilessly into the tender skin near his palms; blood, just as he’d suspected. Both old and fresh, it cut a trail down his arms from where the thick plastic bit into his skin.
"S-s-son of a bitch..." Dean muttered.
The guy was thorough, Dean had to admit. These were no lightweight zip ties; they were the thicker, industrial kind. And, at the juncture where his wrists joined was a length of thick, sturdy chain leading upward another foot or so to loop through a metal ring. There was very little slack in the length, but enough so that he could lean forward, away from the barbs at his back. And that's just what he intended to do.
“Okay well... that's gonna be a bitch to get out of.” Dean refused to see the scenario as completely hopeless. Just... somewhat hopeless.
Dean blinked several times, finding it hard to keep his vision clear, much less his mind. Concussions and fuzziness of brain that came with them weren't unheard of, especially in their line of work but this was different. Keeping focused on the here and now was beyond difficult. Things seemed to constantly melt in and out of time.
Shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, Dean sucked air between gritted teeth. The skin at his back pulled and ripped. Oh yeah, he was still stuck to the barbed wire at his back- that never really should have slipped his mind.
Much as he dreaded it, Dean knew he had to regain some kind of mobility, no matter how small. Even if it meant excruciating pain. The ability to look at his surroundings, to increase his options for escape. Pulling free from the barbs, it just had to be done.
“Well, might 's well...,” Dean panted, trying to steel himself for what he knew he had to do. This was going to hurt like a bitch. “Get this over with.”
He swallowed hard and taking one final, deep breath, expanded his chest with as much air as he could. Like diving into water, he pushed forward.
Pain. Pain and shock were the only way to describe it. Dean froze, mouth open and incapable of drawing air for the moment. Aside from the sound of his own flesh being ripped from his back, his head filled with the rush of blood, pounding in his ears.
It was a little bit like ripping a bandage off a blood-encrusted wound, but more like taking a hot burning stick and shoving against a wound to cauterize it. Both of these things Dean had experienced. Both paled in comparison to ripping one’s own flesh off of angry, fist-sized pointed metal burrs.
Once the shock passed and air filled his lungs, the next sound was that of his own agonized cry. It surpassed the roar of blood in his ears and when it seemed he had no more air left, the room grayed.
It was no use trying to stay conscious; in fact that was the last thing he wanted.
Selfishly, he welcomed the dark curtain that covered his sight and ushered him under, once more.
“Hey!” Angie shouted in surprise.
But Sam was already out of the car. Angie's shouts barely registered. The honks and shouts of the drivers whose cars he had to slide across to get by, barely registered. The car that narrowly missed him, barely registered.
What had registered was the passing time. The ticking clock. The hours since he'd last talked to Dean. The fact that he'd still been unable to reach him. Dejectedly, he'd tossed his phone down on the seat next to him. Cursing quietly.
Caught between lunch hour gridlock, and some accident they couldn't see, couldn't work around, they'd slowed to a crawl. Hours ago. Then to a complete stand still, all movement ended.
Sam's patience too, had ended.
Then, after hours of crawling, he'd caught a glimpse of the sign, up ahead and squinted: the Java Loft. Maybe a half-mile ahead. Without a word he was out the door.
Heedless of all else, Sam was running. Fully charged cell squeezed tight in his hand, he willed it to ring. Blocking out all other sounds but his ring tone, the continued silence sent fear knotting his chest.
Hopping the curb, Sam moved to the cross walk. Breathing hard. Java Loft directly across from him.
The white letters on green background might as well have been shouting at him; Dean had been there. The street sign for Crescent hanging from the pole echoed Dean's directions. The 'No Crossing' sign mocked him. Oncoming traffic, not affected by the jam, moved through the intersection.
Sam didn't wait. Wouldn't wait. A small opening was all he needed and when it happened, he bolted. He shot off the curb, his long legs taking him quickly into the fray of moving vehicles.
Shouts and honks, tires squealing, nothing slowed him down. Especially when, as he got closer, Sam spied the familiar car parked out front. Black. Sleek. Empty. No Dean.
The Impala sat in the parking space, looking lost. Forlorn. Abandoned. Moving around her, Sam could almost believe it was talking to him, telling him this was wrong. Very wrong.
There was no way Sam would tell Dean that 'his baby' talked to him. Dean would never let him live that down.
Now, he just needed to find Dean.
At the shop, he flung the door open and frantically scoured the room, restless gaze bouncing from one unfamiliar face to another. No matter how much fun he made of Dean's size, his brother was still taller than the average Joe and, therefore, usually easy to pick out amongst a crowd. No Dean.
"Dammit," Sam whispered. Then he noticed something else too; every eye in the place was on him. Staring.
Fear overrode self-conscious concern and he shoved onward, his eye catching on a familiar laptop and notebook. They sat on a table in the corner where a young woman in a blue apron, identifying her as an employee, eyed him a moment, then dropped back to her task. She was in the process of gathering up Dean's things. Their things.
“Excuse me,” Sam called. The young woman watched him speculatively as he beat a frantic path toward the table, stumbling over some chairs and one table leg in his haste. “Hey, did you happen to see where the guy went, the guy who was sitting here?”
The girl shook her head. “Not a clue. Just shot outta here like his tail was on fire. Nice tail though,” she grinned. Stacking the papers on top of the closed laptop she picked them up and Sam’s hands covered hers.
“I’ll take those,” Sam said in non-negotiable terms. “They’re mine, well, mine and my brother’s but I’ll make sure he gets them.”
Bundle in her arms, the girl pulled back, shaking off Sam’s hold. “Listen, we know this guy, and we know this stuff is important for his book, so unless you're his twin, which you aren't, I can't just give this stuff to you. I’ll just put these in the office safe and when your 'brother’ gets here, they’re all his.” With that she moved to turn away, only Sam’s hand on her upper arm stopped her.
"You don’t understand,” Sam put in quickly and held her arm tighter. Willing her to believe him, he strapped on his most pleading, innocent facade. “It’s just not like him to run off like that. Can you tell me anything? Which direction he headed in? How long ago he left? Was he alone? Did he say anything?”
“Um...,” The girl glanced nervously down at his hand, the one squeezing her arm, “he was on his cell, but the equipment’s too loud I couldn't hear anything."
"How long ago?" Sam pressed. "What happened after that?"
"Look, I told you, he just ran out the door. Alone." She started twisting slowly in his grasp. "I-I'm not sure how long ago... you're hurting my arm!”
“Oh, 'm sorry,” Sam released her quickly with the good grace to look embarrassed. “I… didn't mean to... It's just that I was on the phone with him when he was here, and now he's just... his car is right outside and I can't....”
She gazed a moment at Sam's face. Finding some modicum of sincerity in his face, she softened a little.
"What we do, the books we write..." Sam felt the edges of desperation closing in as he eyed the computer and papers in her arms. Her arms that were now folded possessively around them. "It's kinda dangerous. I've gotta find him. I'm sure he might have written something down, or kept a computer journal that might help. If I could just- "
"I'm sorry," she said shaking her head. “I mean, you may be telling the truth and all but I can't just give you this stuff, not without some kind of proof. I mean, this is a college town and frats and pranks abound. I could lose my job if he comes back and his things are gone. So, if you'll excuse me-”
Sam's face fell for, but just for a moment. “Wait!” he said, eyes alight with hope as he dug in his jacket pocket. “I have proof.” The phone was in his hand, plastic still warm from his unrelenting grip over the last several hours. He fumbled through the buttons a moment. “Just give me a second here.” Then his triumphant, “Here!”
Sam tilted the screen and the weary waitress leaned in hesitantly. In a second her eyes widened and she moved closer for a better look.
The girl chuckled. Not because she was looking at a picture of the cute guy that had left all of his stuff behind. No, it was a picture of a guy, asleep in a car, hair all out of place, spiked tips colored pink, and drool coming from the side of his mouth. There were several bright colored, clip-on ribbons haphazardly stuck to the ends and on the visible side of his face was a drawing of a penis.
Sam didn’t laugh. The resemblance was clear enough for him. In his mind, his inner mantra continued, please believe me, please believe me….
“Okay,” the girl straightened and smiled, and for just a moment Sam claimed victory. “That’s your proof? Buddy, what part of ‘this is a college town’ did you not get? I see shit like that every day, especially during pledge week."
Sam felt his heart sink.
"So, you were close enough to the guy to get his picture," she continued, shrugging. "Big deal! I could've gotten one of him pulling one of his NC-17 faces after he tried our cake, and sold it on E-bay for a truckload of money. That doesn't prove diddly squat, so if you don't mind, you’re gonna have to-”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” A familiar, angry, exasperated voice echoed out behind them.
In unison, Sam and the girl turned.
Angie stood in the doorway, clearly seething. She slammed the door shut, the bell over the door ringing in a furious beat that matched her thunderous face. Lips pressed in a tight line, she stormed over toward them, eyes hot and angry.
Sam gritted his teeth in irritation. The longer all of this took, whatever shit his brother had gotten himself into, was only going to get worse. At this point, he was very tempted to just grab the laptop and papers and make a run for it.
However, deep down, Sam knew that even if this girl had seen nothing, perhaps someone else had. He needed to keep a cool head, take a breath, sort this out and then find Dean.
Angie stopped in front of them, her arms flapping in frustration. "I was still in the street. In. Traffic! The least you could've done is... Oh, hey Sara,” she suddenly acknowledged the coffee girl, then turned again to Sam. "Least you could've done is warned me you were gonna dive outta my car like a friggin' lunatic."
"Wait,” Sara interjected. “Angie, you know this guy?”
Angie crossed her arms and glared at Sam. “'Know' is such a strong word,” she replied, and Sam again had to grit his teeth. “I took pity on him and gave his sorry ass a lift here to find his brother.”
This was the proof he needed. Angie and the waitress seemed to know one another, Sam realized.
“I...,” Sam choked back his irritation, and dredging up his most pleading look, he implored Angie. “I just want to go find my brother. Angie, please, could you describe Dean to her so that I can have his stuff back? We're wasting time here... Please.”
In the face of Sam's very palpable fear and sincerity, Angie's anger quickly dissipated. “Fine, jeeze you're breaking my heart here,” and turned to her friend. “I'll vouch for him. His name's Sam, the other one's his brother, Dean. They're stayin’ out at the no-tel."
"I dunno..." Sara bit her bottom lip in uncertainty. Sam flapped his arms out to his side in frustration.
Angie elbowed her friend. "C’mon Sara, no way you didn’t notice this guy. Short hair, killer green eyes, and a sweet ride. Although,” she grinned lecherously. “I’ve not had the pleasure, but I sure wouldn't tell him no.”
“God, Angie,” Sara said with a grin of her own, “you’re so crass.” She canted a quick, embarrassed look at Sam and handed the laptop and papers over to his eager, awaiting hands.
“Hey!" Angie feigned an affront. "Mind outta the gutter, coffee wench. I was talking ‘bout his car… mostly.”
"Sara, please," Sam interrupted as the girls seemed to be caught up in a game of innuendo. He tucked the laptop and papers safely under one arm. "Did you, or any of your co-workers, happen to see which way my brother headed when he left here?"
“Sure, once he got to the other side of the street, he headed that way," she gestured out the window, "toward the river."
After a quick nod, Sam turned to leave, hands going to his pockets for his spare keys. Mind furiously thinking through his next step. Follow in Dean's footsteps. Maybe-
Sam stared down at the ball of lint in his hands. The pocket he usually kept his spare keys in was empty - well, except for the lint. Taking it in stride, he checked the other pocket. Again nothing.
Sam drew to a stop. Shifting the laptop and papers to his other arm he began patting down and digging furiously into every pocket of his jacket. Even the inside pockets. Nothing. Then to his jeans pockets and... nothing.
"Shit," Sam murmured, patting his ominously empty pockets.
His spare keys. In all the insanity of getting out the door. In all the panic and press, he’d forgotten the fucking his keys. Sam quickly remembered that Dean had placed a third, hide-away set in the trunk of the Impala, one just for emergencies. Only, to get to them, Sam would have to do the unthinkable...
"Lose something?" Angie called out.
God. Dean was going to kill him for this, but this was, after all, an emergency.
Sam spun on his heel. "Don't suppose you've got an old wire coat hanger I could borrow?" he asked dejectedly.
Sara and Angie looked at one another, then back at Sam. Sara nodded, pointing over her shoulder. "Um. Yeah," she said uncertainly, "I'll just-" and without finishing the sentence she turned and headed toward the back.
Angie was looking at the car, not at Sam. "You're not seriously going to break into his car." She looked at Sam incredulously, "With a coat hanger?"
Sam shrugged, trying to lessen the severity of it. "Just the trunk," he sighed. Dean was going to kill him for this.
In a matter of seconds Sam had the trunk of the Impala open. The scratches were hardly noticeable, Sam thought as he rubbed a thumb over a particularly deep groove. Besides, it was just the trunk. With any luck he'd find Dean and he'd use Dean's keys to get into the car and drive them both back to the motel.
Sam looked at the very deep scratch near the lock.
Sure, Dean was going to kill him, but that was kinda the point, wasn't it? Get Dean back so he could be mad at him. What Sam wouldn't give for that right now...
After a quick look around, he lifted the false bottom and the first things he'd grabbed were the Desert Eagle and two clips; consecrated rounds in one, just in case, and silver bullets in the other. The latter he tapped to tighten the springs and shoved it into the grip. Then, turning his back to the trunk, he tucked the weapon into the waist of his jeans and concealed it further under his jacket.
Closing the trunk Sam nodded at Angie and Sara in the shop. Sara once again held the laptop and notebook in her hands.
Since Sam hadn't intended to take the car yet, he’d handed the bundle back to her, for the time being. Considering what he'd gone through to get Dean's things in the first place, the irony wasn't lost him. Or on Sara, for that matter.
Angie, Sam discovered quickly, was pastry-motivated.
Before heading to the car, and to make sure she didn't see him digging in the trunk, Sam had bought Angie a coffee and a piece of banana-nut cake. Dean had been right; their pastries were huge. Either way, it had worked and she'd tucked into the cake happily, and out of Sam's way.
Or, perhaps it was the chill in the air that had kept her inside. It had gotten cooler, Sam realized as the pulled his collar close around his neck.
Sam gazed in the direction Sara had mentioned. He would go on foot. See if he could figure out where Dean had gone. See if anyone had seen anything... unusual.
Chapter 1 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 3