And All The World Drops Dead (Part One)
And All The World Drops Dead
Prompt: Gen. Season 2. Gordon does more than just try and blow Sam to bits and pieces and he's a more formidable foe than even Dean realized. Much h/c with tied!up Dean trying desperately to save Sam.
Word Count: 11065
Rating: R
A/N: This story was never intended to be read by anyone other than me. I feel that writing this was a way of sorting through my own issues with sexual abuse, so this story feels... intimate. However, a Fic Challenge came up on OhSam and I wanted to take part. This story has become a fill for cherry916's prompt: Gen. Season 2. Gordon does more than just try and blow Sam to bits and pieces and he's a more formidable foe than even Dean realized. Much h/c with tied!up Dean trying desperately to save Sam. Cherry, I hope this doesn't disappoint.
WARNINGS: I'm afraid there is not as much comfort as there is hurt, and there are very sensitive issues being dealt with, including rape (maybe not terribly graphic but brutal), violence, a whole fuck-ton of swearing, forced haircutting (I think it's time I admitted to everyone, and myself, that I have some sort of weird... thing with Sam's hair) and character death (NOT Sam or Dean). Now, posting stories that deal with subjects like these makes me very nervous, so I would appreciate any feedback that anyone has.
XXX
His tongue might actually be the foulest-tasting thing in the world. Thick and furry and Jesus, has he been chugging sour milk and munching on chalk or something? Maybe he's somehow turned into a zombie, 'cause, man, his tongue tastes like it's rotting. It feels like there's a layer of mould growing on it.
It makes Dean want to throw up. He's wondering if maybe he already has. It kind of tastes like he has. What the hell was he drinking last night?
The fogginess of thick sleep ever so slowly recedes (but not enough) and other body parts start vying for attention. No wonder zombies are so freaking homicidal, if this is how they feel all the time. His head is pounding like his brain is actually throwing itself against his skull in an attempt to escape and all his muscles feel bruised and swollen, like something has been tenderising him (man, he really hopes that something hasn't been tenderising him). God, this must be the hangover to end all hangovers. The King Hangover. There is no way in hell that he is ever. Drinking. Again.
He gropes kind of wildly at the space beside him. He's not sure what he's looking for but a few gallons of water and a dozen packets of painkillers sound really fucking good right now and, as long as he didn't manage to piss Sam off last night while intoxicated - and if he did he really hopes that Sam's not being a bitch about it - the kid has probably been awesome and left something that will make him feel less like the living dead on the bedside table for him. Sammy's good like that. Dean can't hear him moving around so maybe he's gone to get coffee. God, coffee. As soon as his stomach stops thinking that expelling all of his internal organs is a good idea, he is totally going to murder some caffeine.
But instead of knocking the alarm clock from the night-stand or finding some magical hangover cure, his fingers scrape on cold cement. He hears a wordless noise of bafflement leave his mouth and then footsteps, heading towards him.
“Smmm?” he tries to say but he's got no saliva and he's still considering salting and burning his zombie tongue so it comes out all garbled and raspy. He gets a laugh in response that is
definitely not Sam's.
“Sorry, guess again.”
Dean's fingers clench automatically into a fist. His stomach joins in and for a moment he has to battle the urge to spew up his last dozen meals. Fuck. Double fuck and shit. He had been hoping that he'd never run into the owner of that voice ever again.
Well, time to act like he's not dying. He forces his eyes open in an extreme victory of mind over matter and is immediately glad that the only source of light in the room is a single naked light bulb that hangs from the ceiling as though from a noose. He doesn't think his brain could handle anything brighter.
The white splotches clear from his vision after a few blinks. Gordon Walker is crouched a few feet from him, back-lit in an eerie kind of way, poised deceptively casual with his elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between his legs. His body is blocking most of the room but on either side Dean sees grey brick walls. The floor Dean is lying on is cement and damp. He can see water-marks on the walls and figures this place must have flooded during the last heavy rainfall.
Gordon's face breaks into a grin, slow and sharp, when Dean makes eye contact.
“Howdy, Dean,” he says brightly, voice echoing off of empty space. It makes Dean's head pound harder. “Long time, no see.”
Basement, Dean's mind supplies helpfully, before he's distracted by the sight of a handcuff snapped around his left wrist. He follows it with his eyes to where the other cuff is clipped around a pipe that runs vertically up the wall, plumbing probably, and now that he's seen it he's wondering how he didn't feel it before because it's so tight it's threatening to cut off the circulation to his hand.
Something's wrong, besides the obvious, because he should have noticed all these things a moment after waking, should have had the situation assessed and a plan formed before he even opened his eyes, but his mind is still bogged down and whatever the problem is, it's on the tip of his tongue but he just can't figure it out. Get it together, Dean, and you call yourself a hunter.
“Gordon.” He finally addresses the older man warily, forcing himself up onto one elbow (because he's so not going to lie on the freaking ground in front of this sonuvabitch). “Thought you were still enjoying prison. You didn't drop the soap, did you? I hear that's a bad idea.”
Gordon shakes his head in a parody of fond exasperation. “Ah, Dean,” he says. “Still the same cocky bullshit. How's that working out for you?”
Dean glares and tries to stop his vision from splintering into a dozen head-splitting kaleidoscope images, and Gordon's smile widens, teeth gleaming white in the dim light.
“I thought about you while I was inside, y'know? You and -” His lips draw back in a sneer. “- Sammy. Lot of time to think in there. I wouldn't bother with that, by the way.”
Dean's fingers stop their - what he thought was pretty sneaky - search of his clothes for lock-picks or weapons.
“Nothing around here that's going to help you, Dean-o.” Gordon looks positively gleeful, the bastard.
Dean scowls at him, ignoring the way using his facial muscles makes his head feel like it's going to pop. “Pulling the same trick twice, Gord-o?” He mimics the hunters nickname. “You must have a pretty limited imagination, or did someone in prison beat out your last remaining brain cells? Remember what happened last time? Sam kicked your ass and you ended up as someone's cell bitch.”
Gordon laughs, as if Dean's just told a hilarious joke, like the one about the two nuns on the cobblestone road - that one had Sammy in fits - Jesus, Dean, focus, what's wrong with you? - and what the hell is so funny?
Gordon pulls himself together. “Somehow, I don't think Sammy's gonna be saving you this time.”
Dean doesn't have time to think that over - his mind feels like the sludge left at the bottom of the coffee pot - before Gordon stands, looking inordinately pleased with himself as he steps to the side and Dean sees what the hunter was blocking from his sights.
Sammy.
It is a basement, a fairly average-sized one. There are metal stairs against the far wall leading up into what must be a house. The basement's not big enough for this to be a factory or office building. It's entirely unfurnished but for a large solid desk in the middle and, in front of that, a heavy-looking wooden chair.
Sam sits with his head lolled forward, hair obscuring his face. His shoes and belt are missing, wrists bound to the chairs armrests with coils of rope, ankles bound to the chair legs. He's not moving, hasn't made a sound through Dean's conversation with Gordon, and Dean can't even see if the kid's breathing in the grim lighting.
There's an explosive mix of ice cold fear and red hot fury battling it out under Dean's skin and a traitorous little voice in his head is hissing; Well you fucked this one up, Dean, the one thing you had to get right, the one order that tops all other orders: Watch out for Sammy.
He automatically pulls forward, trying to close the distance between the two of them, straining to see whether Sam's chest is moving or not (it fucking better be) but he's yanked back by his cuffed wrist and the movement arouses the nausea he'd forgotten about, sloshing thick in his stomach. He needs a moment just to breathe so that he doesn't up-chuck everywhere, and in that moment he realizes that if Sam were dead Gordon wouldn't have bothered tying him down.
As much of a relief as that it, he's not exactly going to be celebrating while that could still change any minute. He feels his features twist into a snarl as he looks up at Gordon's gloating face.
“What'd you do to him?” he demands.
Gordon looks like the cat that got the canary or whatever that stupid phrase is (the hunter that got the monster) as he grins at Sam's unconscious form (and you can just keep your filthy eyes off of him, you psycho sonuvabitch).
“Oh, he's fine,” the bastard says mildly, “No worse than you.”
The pieces fall into place (and fuck, it's totally embarrassing that it took him this long to figure it out); the nausea the heavy feeling in his limbs, the pounding in his head.
“You drugged us,” he realizes.
Gordon snorts. “I was surprised at how easy it was. You boys must be losing your touch.”
Gordon turns. His footsteps are loud on the damp concrete floor as he passes Sam and covers the distance to the desk in six long steps.
“Sam!” Dean hisses behind Gordon's back. He's not stupid enough to think that the hunter can't hear him, but Sam knows that Dean wouldn't hiss at him if he wasn't clear to make some sort of sign to show that he was okay without their captor seeing.
Dean watches the kid's fingers, white from loss of circulation. One twitch for I'm screwed, two for I'm fine, and three for I've got a plan. But Sam doesn't react at all, just sits there with his head bowed, God freaking damn it.
Dean tugs on the handcuffs but they're solid, no room to even dislocate his thumb to slip them (which he'd rather avoid because it hurts like a bitch, he knows from experience, but a dislocated thumb is nothing compared to Sam's life).
The pipe on that wall seems unbreakable too. It barely shifts at all when he leans his full weight against it, and even though Gordon told him not to waste his time - as if he's going to listen to that douche-bag - Dean frantically checks himself for a paper-clip or something. (There's gotta be something. Winchesters are more resourceful than fucking McGyver. This is their fucking speciality.) But there's nothing. Gordon's proving to be a much more formidable foe than Dean gave him credit for.
“You know,” Gordon says, his back still turned, and over his shoulder Dean can see the wicked-looking knife the man is holding up to the light, as if checking it's sharpness. He's not, Dean knows. Gordon wants him to see for himself how sharp it is and that motherfucker's sharp. “Prison really was an educational experience for me. I learnt lots of new tricks there, like how to really make a man scream.”
“Gordon...” Dean warns, but it's not like he can back that up.
Gordon spins on his heel and steps up behind the chair Sam is tied to, resting his knife almost casually against the back of Sam's neck. (Sam doesn't move. Don't fucking move, Sam. You can wake the hell up but don't you dare jerk your head back into that knife.)
Gordon cocks his head to the side, smile malicious and teasing. “You don't really think I was the bitch in there, Dean? Isn't that Sammy's little nickname?”
Dean bares his teeth. “Leave him the fuck alone,” he spits.
Gordon ignores him, letting the knife trail over Sam's shoulder as he rounds the chair. “I bet this is just killing you, isn't it, Dean?” He clucks in mock sympathy. “So helpless over there, while I've got little brother right where I want him.”
“I swear, if you touch him-”
“Want me to give you a run down of how prison works?” Gordon cuts him off flippantly.
A wordless noise of aggression frees itself from Dean's throat. If, by some miracle, he gets them out of this alive, he's gonna kill the bastard, like he should have done last time, but no, Sammy had to pull his whole upstanding citizen act, which, yeah okay, Dean thought it was pretty cool (and hilarious) at the time but see where that's got us, Sam? If it wants to kill you, you kill it, and that's exactly what Dean's going to do, as soon as he Houdini's his way out of these freaking cuffs. (Come on, miracle. Any time now...)
Gordon crouches down beside Sam's chair, looking up into the kid's face. “Decided to join us, huh? Good. I want you to hear this.”
Dean snaps his gaze to the top of Sam's head. He can't tell from his position but the kid must be awake. “Sam?”
He gets a moan in response and Sam's head bobs a bit. If he feels half as bad as Dean did when he woke up then that's probably as much as he's going to get for a while. Dean turns back to Gordon.
“Let him go. You're wrong about him. He's got nothing to do with anything. He's a hunter, damn it!” he tries, a little desperately but come on, this situation is fucked up and it's bound to get worse so a little desperation is in order.
“I think we're a little past trying to change my mind, Dean-o,” Gordon says lightly. “Kid might not have turned yet but it's coming. If you were half the hunter your father was, you would have put him down already.”
Dean bristles at the mention of his father and unwillingly those words come back to him; Save Sam, or you're gonna have to kill him. He shakes it off. “You're out of your mind.”
“You're the one not thinking straight, letting your emotional ties get in the way of your better judgement. You know what he is, what he will be. If you had done your job, we wouldn't be here.”
“I know what my job is,” Dean snarls, rattling his cuffs against the pipe angrily. “And it's not killing innocent people.”
Gordon shrugs. “Where were we? Right, prison. Fun place.”
He moves his knife to Sam's wrist, hovering in the gap between the bindings and Sam's shirt sleeve. Dean holds his breath because he can swear and threaten the bastard all he wants but Gordon could slit Sammy's fucking wrists in a second and leave the kid to bleed out right in front of him and there isn't a single damn thing he can do about it except maybe keep his mouth shut now and not antagonize the psycho.
“The first thing they do when you get there,” Gordon continues brightly, twirling the knife on it's tip. Dean watched a small bead of blood well up on Sam's wrist. “Is take your clothes. It's a bit of a power trip for the guards. You know that saying, 'the clothes make the man'. Your first day is all about breaking you down.”
In a quick movement that has Dean lurching forward, Gordon slits Sam's shirt up to the elbow.
“Usually they give you prison-issue over-alls, but I'm all out.” Gordon carries on up to Sam's shoulder and then down the other side until Sam's button-up shirt falls away.
“What are you doing?” Dean demands, hauling himself up onto his knees as Gordon moves down to the ankle of Sam's jeans.
Sam's still awake, Dean can tell, but he's not really moving apart from an occasional flinch, like an afterthought, and Dean's not sure how aware he actually is of what's going on.
Gordon doesn't bother answering him, just methodically slices up the leg of Sam's jeans, blade getting uncomfortably close to Sam's groin as he reaches the top. Dean doesn't know what to do. As much as he is really not liking this forceful undressing of his brother (Geez, kid, could you look any more vulnerable?) it definitely beats watching Gordon carve him up. Plus, it gives him more time, to search for something useful (even though he's already covered the area surrounding him and all of the hiding spots in his clothes) and to plan (which, hello Dean, you're handcuffed to a wall. What the hell are you going to do?). So apparently he's just going to have to sit here and hope that Sam's not actually as drugged up as he seems and is right now formulating one of those brilliant plans of his... yeah, he may as well be pinning his hopes on Gordon winking at him and saying 'I was just messing with you' while he lets Sam the fuck go.
So yeah, Dean just sits there on his knees and watches as Gordon finishes his shredding, leaving Sam in his white t-shirt, boxers and socks. Sam's head bobs a little and he makes a small confused noise. Dean sees a shiver run through the kid and he doesn't know whether it's because of the damp basement air or if Sam's aware enough to realize that he should be scared but either way it makes him want to rip Gordon's lungs out.
Gordon seems to have forgotten him for the moment, focussed on pulling away the torn clothing, and Dean would use that to his advantage if there was any fucking thing around here to give him an advantage. No, Gordon planned this well, got the drop on them both (somehow, Dean still hasn't put those pieces together) and put Dean entirely out of commission with something as stupidly simple as handcuffs (it's kind of embarrassing really), leaving Sammy alone and defenceless.
Fuck but Dean had underestimated the crazy hunter. He didn't even know the dick was out of prison. (Should have kept track, should have known. What a fucking failure as a big brother, Dean. Does this look like keeping Sammy safe?)
Gordon stands abruptly and curls his fist in Sam's hair, yanking his head up sharply.
“Not fading out on me, are you, Sammy?” he taunts, spitting the nickname like a foul word, face close to Sam's. “We're just about to get to the good part.”
Dean watches Sam's eyes roll dizzily, on the verge of passing out (don't you do it, Sammy, c'mon, you gotta stay awake, you gotta help figure out a way out of here) before his gaze focuses on Dean ('Atta boy). Kid frowns at him with this kind of frightened bafflement, like he can't quite make sense of what's going on but has figured out enough to know that it's not good.
Dean's eyes slide of Gordon but the older hunter seems content to just watch for the moment so he switches his gaze back to Sam, shifting slightly so that the handcuffs are more visible.
“Having a party over here,” he says, and watches Sam slowly - too slowly, man, what did Gordon slip them? - decode his words into 'I'm stuck, what about you?'
Sam shifts in the chair, tensing when the bindings stop his movement. His gaze wanders up to Gordon's face before it slips back down, as far as it can get with that douchebag pulling his hair. He looks foggily confused by the sight of ropes and his lack of clothing.
“Needs music,” he mutters finally, slurring slightly, and Dean's stomach drops because that means that Sam's trapped too, not that he was really expecting anything different but a guy can hope, right? Especially now, when he's got nothing else to fucking do.
“Listen to you two,” Gordon cuts in. “So cute with your little code words.” He shakes his head mockingly and moves his knife to settle under Sam's chin, pressing lightly against the soft skin by his jaw. “Maybe I should cut out your tongue.”
Sam's breath catches, eyes dark.
“Leave him the fuck alone,” Dean growls. “Or I swear, you'll be sorry you messed with us.”
Gordon rolls his eyes. “Little clichéd there, don't you think?”
“I'm not fucking kidding.”
Gordon ignores him in favour of turning back to Sam. His hand is still clenched in Sammy's hair, probably the only thing stopping the kid from impaling himself on the knife, and Sam's eyes roll slowly up to look at him with only vague comprehension.
“I've just been giving Dean a run-down of prison life,” Gordon says, all casual and friendly, except there's nothing casual about the way he trails the tip of his blade up the side of Sam's face. It's all precision and perfect control, just the right amount of pressure to threaten without breaking skin. He's toying with them.
Sam blinks up at him, then at Dean, and shit, whatever Gordon drugged them with, the bastard must have given Sammy a larger dose than Dean. He's sure it didn't take him this long to leave la la land but Sam's still more out of it than in.
Gordon's knife makes it to Sam's hair-line. “They don't do the whole forced haircut thing any more,” he says musingly. “But you know, I kind of like that part. Want a haircut, Sammy?”
What the fuck? Dean smacks a fist against the concrete, handcuffs rattling against the pipe. “Oh come on!” he exclaims loudly. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Gordon huffs a quiet laugh, smirking as he traces the tip of the knife along Sam's scalp. Out of it he may be, but Sam must register what Gordon's saying because his eyes seek Dean out frantically, which makes Dean all the more pissed off.
“You touch one freaking hair on his head and I'll tear you to pieces.”
Gordon laughs openly this time, loud and booming and echoing off of the stone walls. “See, I knew there was a reason I didn't gag you. You and your impotent threats make this so much more fun.”
“You bastard, I swear-”
The knife slides smoothly through the hank of hair Gordon's grasping, barely an inch from Sam's scalp. Sam's head drops back down to his chest without Gordon holding it up and Dean really isn't kidding, he really is going to fucking kill this asshole and he's going to fucking enjoy it.
“Whoops,” Gordon taunts, dropping the severed clump of hair onto the damp concrete. “Must've slipped.”
Dean growls and Gordon grabs another chunk of Sammy's hair (Sammy's fucking hair. What the hell is wrong with this guy?) and runs the knife through it. He lets the strands slip through his fingers, scattering them over Sam's lap.
Dean yells and threatens and pulls desperately on the handcuffs (fucking stupid things, fucking stupid lack of a paper-clip, fucking gonna kill this god damned asshole who dared to touch Sammy) and Gordon just keeps on slicing, hair sprinkling the floor around the chair and tumbling over Sam's shoulders, and Sam makes a sound that's dangerously close to a whimper and tries to pull his head away, bangs still hiding his face.
“Aw, what's the matter, Sammy?” Gordon coos in Sam's ear.
“You're a fucking nut case, you know that?” Dean jumps in, determined to pull Gordon's attention away from Sam while the kid still has most of his hair. “You wanna finish up playing hairdresser so we can get to the part where I kick your ass?”
Gordon pauses, straightening slowly so that he looms up behind Sam, and looks down at Dean (and yeah, Dean really wishes there wasn't a bracket holding the pipe to the wall that stops him from standing 'cause seriously, how threatening can he look on his knees?).
Dean glares, putting on his best 'come and get me' face, and Gordon... Gordon smiles. He fucking smiles, all slow and malicious and freaking hungry or something.
“Yes,” he says softly. “We should move on to the next part.”
Dean freezes from the inside out. Something with teeth and claws clamps down on his stomach and his lungs make a spontaneous decision to go on strike. Gordon's going to kill Sam. He can't breathe and Gordon's going to kill Sam and there's nothing he can do about it but sit here and not breathe and fucking watch, Jesus fucking Christ, what is he supposed to do?
“Don't you fucking dare-” he starts, but Gordon's lowering the knife. He drops to one knee and before Dean has a chance to ask what he's doing, Gordon's slicing through the ropes holding Sam's ankles to the chair, then the coils at his wrists. Dean has to remind his lungs to do their job. (It's not over yet.)
Sam lists forward, like a marionette with slack strings. Dean sees him catch himself, avoiding a face-plant on the unforgiving concrete floor, but then Gordon shoves his shoulder and Sam falls to his hands and knees with a gasp, white underclothes bright in the dim lighting and dingy setting.
Gordon doesn't give him time to recover before he swings his booted foot (and Dean bets they're steel-capped too, the freaking sadist) up into Sam's ribs.
The air leaves Sam in a 'whoosh' and he collapses onto his side, curling up around his injury without even enough breath to moan. (Dean thinks he might have heard something crack, shit.)
Gordon stands beside him, listening to Sam's ragged gasps. He tosses the knife away, which is somewhat of a relief, and Dean watches it skid into the shadows of the far corner.
“Get up,” Gordon orders flatly.
Sam's eyes seek out Dean's, still foggy but more aware than before (nothing like pain to give you an adrenaline rush). His gaze travels to the cuff on Dean's wrist, then around the room and damn it, Sammy, move! Do something. The bastard's going to fucking kill you.
“Get up!” Gordon breaks up Dean's silent rant with a roar and another kick to Sam's ribs.
Sam grunts and finally (fucking finally, come on, Sammy, shake it off) pulls himself back up on his hands and knees.
“That's it,” Gordon coaxes. “Get up, you filthy monster. This is your one chance. You think you can beat me with whatever powers that demon gave you? You wanna show your brother what a freak you are? Bring it on.”
Dean's straining against the cuffs, as though being a few inches closer will make any difference. “Shut the fuck up! You don't know anything about anything! He doesn't have any powers!”
Gordon ignores him (seriously, he's gonna get some sort of complex from all this dismissal) in favour of watching Sam drag himself to his feet, unsteady and wavering, and really, all Gordon's gonna have to do is, like, breathe on the kid and he's gonna fall over. They are so screwed.
Sam throws the first punch, taking both of them by surprise, connecting with Gordon's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head back, and dear God, maybe some of Sam's fuzziness is just an act. Dean can barely ring himself to hope but it's all he's got at the moment so come on, Sammy, show the sonuvabitch what you can do.
Gordon swings back and Sam manages to duck in time but Gordon's ready, not about to underestimate the kid twice. He follows up with a kick to the stomach that sends Sam stumbling backwards and then he's on the floor again.
“This isn't even a fair fight!” Dean tries to argue as Gordon advances. “What the fuck are you trying to prove?” Get up, Sammy. GET UP.
Sam doesn't get up. He barely manages to push himself up on his arms so shit, the grogginess must have been less acting and more drugs (of course, that Winchester luck couldn't let them catch a break). Gordon grabs the back of Sam's butchered hair and pulls his head up. Sam's hand reaches up to try to break his grip but Gordon slams a fist into the kid's face and Sam moves instead to try to shield himself as Gordon starts raining blows down on him.
Dean yells and swears and tries to dislocate his thumb even though he knows it won't work, 'cause shit, it's starting to look like Gordon's gonna fucking beat his brother to death right here in front of him and he has to do something, even if his something is a whole lot of nothing, damn it.
Sam, face bloody now and Dean's not sure where it's all coming from but fuck there's a lot of it, finally finds an in, grabbing Gordon's ankle and tugging. It's not much but it's enough to throw him off balance and Sam follows with a shove that puts Gordon on his ass.
Sam scrambles back and drags himself to his feet, out of breath and dripping blood down the front of his t-shirt. He spits a mouthful of it onto the floor.
Gordon gets up slowly, not because he's injured, he's just dragging this out, taking his time. He knows he's going to win this fight. Dean knows it and Sam knows it too, because when Gordon takes a step forward, Sam backs away. Sam's not a wimp or weak, he can hold his own in a fight against pretty much anything but he's also smart (freaky smart usually, when he's not being an idiot just to piss Dean off) and retreat is kind of his only option here, or it would be if he had options, fuck.
Dean can see the kid's eyes darting back and forth but Sammy's coming up as empty as he did. There's nothing in this room that Sam could use to defend himself (of course not, Gordon had this all figured out, probably sat in his cell, stewing and planning), except Gordon's knife, which is too far away - Gordon would never let him reach it - and maybe the chair, which Gordon is blocking and anyway, that chair looks heavy and Dean's not so sure on whether Sam would even be able to lift it in his state.
“See, Sam,” Gordon starts. His back is to Dean so he can't see his face but his walk is like a tiger, slowly closing in on it's prey, backing it into a corner with an almost hypnotic sway. This is Gordon The Hunter. “Before, it wasn't anything personal. You were just a job, like all the other monsters. I would've made it quick, after getting some info. You know how it is.”
Sam backs into the corner of the wooden desk that sits in the middle of the basement, large and imposing, jumping as he hits it, as if it might be a person behind him, as if Dean wouldn't have fucking warned him, Jesus.
He stumbles around it but then Gordon's right fucking there (Did time just skip a moment?), his hand snaking out to fist the back of Sam's hair (What is it with this guy and Sam's hair? Must have a fetish or something and isn't that a creepy thought?) and then he slams Sam face first into the desk.
Dean's whole chest lurches along with his stomach. The sound of Sam hitting the desk is overwhelmingly loud in the echoing basement, a sharp smack that reverberates off of the walls, and Dean hopes like fuck that nothing just shattered in the kid's face.
Sam slides to the floor in a heap, bones turned to water. He's not quite out but close enough, hands feebly moving to cover his face as he moans out a thin agonized sound.
Gordon turns so Dean can see his face, the light bulb directly above him casting ominous shadows, making him look more monster than human. He looks at Sammy (at fucking Sammy) like he's lower than scum, like he's one of the monsters they hunt. And then he spits on him.
“Now it's personal,” he says.
Suddenly everything's moving too fast and Dean feels like he's stuck in slow motion or fucking freeze-frame, like those dreams where you're trying to get somewhere but you never get any closer.
Gordon drags Sam up by the back of his t-shirt. Dean's not sure whether Sam manages to shove at him or if Gordon simply staggers under the kid's dead weight (it's probably the latter) but both of them go down this time, out of sight behind the desk, and Dean can't see, can't fucking see, and even though he can't do jack shit, he needs to see, needs to be here with Sammy 'cause Gordon's gonna kill the kid, he knows it, and he needs to be here so Sammy knows that he's not alone, needs to be here because it's the only fucking thing he can do, shit, and he hears the sound of flesh striking flesh a few times and it's impossible at this point but he really hopes that it's Sammy getting those punches in.
Gordon finally reappears with Sam in tow and shoves the kid against the desk, bending him over it with a fist in his hair until he's pressed flat against the desktop. Sam struggles but it's weak at best. Kid's probably seeing more than stars; A knock like that must have brought the whole freaking universe flashing before his eyes, and there's blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Gordon leans over with him, pressed against his back so his mouth is right by Sam's ear and when he speaks he's looking straight at Dean.
“You know how they punish people in prison?”
PART TWO