Going Through the Motions - Chapter 9 Part B
The sense of relief that Dean feels as he approaches the Civic is so complete that he almost collapses right there in the street. Tate is there in the backseat, just as he’d left him. Tate’s wide-eyed and staring, though, and it’s enough to raise the hair on the back of the hunter’s neck in response.
“What?” he demands as he throws the door open, trying to collapse in a controlled manner as he falls into the driver seat. “You look like you saw a ghost. And I would know.”
Tate doesn’t look amused. “How do I know you’re you?”
Dean frowns. “I say again: what?” He turns his head suddenly, coughing into the crook of his elbow until his face turns bright red from the effort.
Tate relaxes slightly, then hunches forward in commiseration. “That’s how,” he mutters. He paws around the back seat where he’s still sitting and then leans forward and goes through the glove box in the front. He doesn’t find water, but his fingers brush on a travel size container of Tylenol. He brandishes it triumphantly to Dean, who eyes it as though he’s not sure it’s really there or if it’s a trick of the light. After a moment he takes it and worries at the childproof cap, hands shaking. Tate goggles for a second, coming to the realization that he’s not just really sick. He’s really, really, seriously fucking ill.
“Um,” Tate makes a vague motion in the direction of his face, indicating his mouth area. “Your lips are getting blue. And your fingernails,” he gestures at Dean, points at his hands even as he continues to fight with the Tylenol. And it’s true; the nail beds are also discoloured. The teen sighs and swipes the container out of the hunter’s hands, who grunts in disapproval.
Tate opens the lid and shakes out a couple pills, passes them over. Dean swallows them without argument. He can’t help himself, but Tate feels a little deflated. Not to say that he was having such a swell day to begin with, but now the gravity of the situation is starting to sink into him. Dean only has so much steam left. And the guy’s been putting forth a monumental effort already. One look is all it takes to confirm it. He looks like absolute crap. He’s pale and flushed, sweaty and shivery. When he breathes he sounds like a punctured accordion, and when he coughs it sounds like his lungs are turning themselves inside out. In glue. Even as he sits next to him, Tate can feel the heat of the fever that is pouring off of him. And then there are the signs of oxygen deprivation. Suddenly, he realizes that he hasn’t asked Dean one very important question. He sits up abruptly, ramrod straight. “What happened in there, anyway?” he asks the hunter. “Did you find them?”
Dean’s face darkens. “I did, and I wasn’t the only one, apparently.” A hand passes over his face, rubbing at his forehead briefly before he continues. “They’re dead; someone caught them by surprise,” he looks at Tate expectantly. “You gonna tell me what happened to you while I was gone anytime soon?”
Tate licks his lips, blanching slightly. “I saw you,” he says. “Or your doppelganger, I mean. It-it just came right up to me, out of nowhere.”
“Come again?” Dean asks. “My doppelganger…it was here?” That explains the dead bodies, anyway. Although he still doesn’t understand why he’s got a behind the scenes helper. He cranes his head around. “Where’d it go?”
Tate spreads his hands. “No clue. It just appeared and it gave me a message for you. Then it left. It told me to tell you-“ he falters, voice dropping. Dean waits impatiently for him to resume, eyebrow cocked.
“And?” the hunter prompts. “It told you to tell me what?”
Tate runs a hand through his hair in such a Sam-like gesture that Dean feels the ball in the pit of his stomach tighten.
When Tate speaks up again, his voice is hesitant. “It gave me these,” he reaches under the seat again, pulls something out and hands it to Dean. It’s a knife with a short blade. Tied to the hilt is a business card with the name “Donnie’s Repair Shop," an address imprinted on it. “It said the knife would work…like the angel’s?” The question is clear in Tate’s voice as he says it. Dean flicks a quick look up at Tate, sees the confusion in his eyes and quickly looks away again. Crap.
“It said we’ll find everyone we’re looking for there, but we need to hurry before more doppelgangers come, before they summon more.” Tate pauses, unsure. “Um, what did it mean, `angel?’ He’s talking about Castiel, isn’t he? Like, halos and harps kind of angel?”
Dean tucks the knife beside his gun in the waist of jeans and starts the Civic up. “Sorry, kiddo, but angels aren’t at all what you’d expect. They’re all pretty much dicks and you can’t trust the bastards. Well, except for Cas. He’s not a dick so much as he’s, well. He’s Cas.” Looking over at Tate, he can see he’s completely lost. “I’ll explain it to you,” he tells the kid as he pulls into traffic. And why not give him a tutorial, anyway? The kid’s already in this up to his eyeballs. May as well give him the full experience.
“And all we get is a toothpick?” He sighs tiredly and checks one last time to make sure the knife is secure. It’s pathetically small. “It couldn’t have given you a gun with doppelganger-killing bullets?” he asks ruefully.
“Sorry,” Tate says, trying for levity. “I guess the store was fresh out.”
Dean gives a wry chuckle. “Story of my friggin’ life.” But the laugh breaks into a cough and a ragged fit of hacking and gasping ensues. Tate winces. Dean notices.
“Don’t worry,” he tells the teen. “It’s only as bad as it sounds.”
Tate rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s a relief.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate Dean’s attempts at humor, but it’s no secret between them that he can only go for so much longer.
Tate sighs and hunkers down into the seat a little. Thinks of his sister.
* * * * *
Sam’s been knocked unconscious enough times in the past. He knows the process of waking up. The first thing to come back is touch.
Take right now, for starters. He doesn’t remember exactly what happened yet, but he already knows it’s not good. He can feel that his arms are tied behind his back, and that the floor beneath him is cold cement. The circulation in his left wrist is cut off and his arm is tingling. His ankles are also bound tightly. Behind his right ear there is a sharp pain and a damp spot that is starting to dry; his hair feels gummy and a little crunchy as the blood dries.
Then it’s smell that returns. Oil, grease, metal: industrial smells.
The garage. They’re in the garage.
Crap. Jen.
It all comes rushing back in that moment, and Sam’s eyes fly open. Miles is beside him, also bound in the same fashion. He’s sitting propped against the wall, still out, head drooping towards his chest. The younger Winchester turns his head, looks around. They’re in the corner of the huge garage, the view of the front door obscured by machinery and lifts. Sam’s eyes stray back to the office door where the bodies are. Above the door is the business sign and emblem, Donnie’s Repair, with a cherry red semi truck beneath the lettering, shooting flames from under the wheels and belching smoke from its outtake. His eyes fall on a bloody handprint on the door.
“That’s Donnie’s,” a voice sounds. Jen, or rather, her doppelganger. It walks into plain sight, from behind a lift. It’s referring to the blood on the door. “He wasn’t especially cooperative.”
Sam grunts, slowly eases himself up to a sitting position. He slumps against the wall under Jen’s watchful eye. Beside him, Miles is starting to come around, groaning softly under his breath. An eyelid flickers. The younger man nods towards the door. “And the others in there? Who are they?"
Jen smiles knowingly and steps closer, leaning against a gutted truck. She’s twirling Castiel’s knife in a casual manner that is anything but.
“They’re no one of concern to you,” she says coolly.
“I find dead bodies always a little concerning,” Sam replies evenly, matching her tone. “Especially if they’ve been murdered by a monster.”
The Jen-creature laughs, scratches her temple with the point of the knife. She stands up and starts to slowly pace back and forth as she talks.
“That’s funny, Sam. Especially coming from you. Real good stuff.”
Sam growls in frustration and strains against his bindings. He tries to twist his wrists to encourage some slack in the rope, but to no avail. He hears a door open from the far side of the garage, and the sound of encroaching footsteps. A moment later he is met with the sight of Patterson’s doppelganger, back from wherever the hell he was while Sam was unconscious. It comes over and joins Jen, who nods.
“Thanks for that,” Sam spits at Patterson.
Patterson shrugs indifferently. “Your friend killed some of our own back at that motel. It was the least I could do.”
“You’ll be joining them soon enough,” Miles growls, lifting his head. His head is also bleeding, and it’s dripping into one of his eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice. He looks around, moving stiffly. “Where’s Cas?”
Sam sighs. “They sent him away.”
“Away?” the older man frowns, not understanding.
“Yes, away,” Jen agrees. “Nice of him to leave me this, though.” She looks down at the knife she’s been idly playing with. She lifts an eyebrow at Sam. “That’s quite the resourceful angel you’ve got perched on your shoulder. I can only imagine where he got this.” She mock-shudders. “No thanks.”
Patterson crosses his arms, regarding Sam dispassionately.
“So this is the great Sam Winchester? I have to say, I’m not impressed. I thought that the vessel of Lucifer would have been…more than this.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what he sees in you, kid. But all the same, he’s going to be happy to see you. This might put his five year plan ahead of schedule.”
Sam’s blood begins to boil, heart hammering wildly in his ribcage. He refuses to look in Miles’ direction, and neither does he let his voice waver. He’s not going to give them the pleasure of seeing him squirm. He narrows his eyes. “And just how do you know so much about me?”
“Sam,” Jen says, exasperated. “Why, you’re the talk of the town, so to speak. You’re our ticket out of the shadows, after all.” She resumes her slow pacing as she talks, gesturing with the knife vaguely as she talks, as though she’s forgotten she’s holding it. “I don’t think you get how many people are rooting for you. You’re like our very own dark horse.” She flashes Sam a grin. “You’ve definitely got my vote. And when you say yes-“
“That’s never going to happen,” Sam growls. He tries to be as surreptitious as possible as he flexes his wrists, working the ropes. Jen’s doppelganger isn’t affected in the least by his little outburst.
“When you say yes,” she repeats calmly, “the real fun can begin. But this is pretty entertaining, too.” She holds her arms out, indicating everyone in the room.
“And just exactly what kind of fun do you call this?” Sam queries. “What are you getting out of it?”
Patterson snorts in derision and shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything. Jen is clearly the one who will be doing the talking around here.
“I already told you,” she tells Sam, a little impatiently. “You know, it’s not such a great existence, being what we are: someone’s walking, talking double and death omen. It’s surprisingly not as fun as it sounds. This way, we get to come out of hiding. We get to live our lives, or their lives, I guess.”
“And why the school? Why kids?” Miles’ voice is razor sharp. Sam can see a muscle bunching in the older man’s jaw.
Jen turns to Miles, feigning sympathy.
“Poor Miles, I understand that this must all be hard for you. Brings back memories, does it? Like losing Riley all over again?” She cocks her head. “He and Tate must be just about the same age before he died,” she muses. “I wonder if it will feel like your son again when we kill the boy right in front of you.”
“When I kill the boy,” Patterson interjects. “That distinct pleasure is mine. I owe the punk for this.” He points to the new scar on his face.
“Looks good on you,” Sam mutters, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly. His head is pounding in relentless time with his heart.
Jen continues smoothly, unperturbed. “Why take the kids? Because they’re teenagers, and a little erratic behavior can be so easily accounted for. Just a bad case of hormones. And the school was perfect. We already had an in, a very important one.”
“An in?” Sam asks, getting ready to not like the answer he will receive. Jen opens her mouth to respond but is cut off by the sound of a switch being thrown. Ballast by ballast, the garage is suddenly thrown into artificial light. Neither Jen nor Patterson look concerned, however, and soon footsteps reverberate softly in the garage.
“What now?” Miles grumbles, shifting. Sam grimaces in agreement, pretends not to notice how the older man is blinking back tears brought on by the mention of his dead son’s name.
They don’t have to wait long to get an answer. Jen’s doppelganger steps to the side, in deference. And Sam feels himself gape a little when he sees who comes around the corner, the person responsible for this whole shit show.
Alice, the receptionist at James Fulton, smiles softly and waves in greeting.
“Hello, Sam. Hello, Miles. Good to see you again.”
* * * * *
Next time, Sam takes the lame car. What was I even thinking?
Dean misses the Impala intensely as he negotiates Seattle traffic. He doesn’t feel like he’s driving so much as zipping around, flitting between cars and puttering at red lights in a car that sounds like a glorified golf cart. It’s humiliating. Luckily, he’s too busy hacking up a lung to dwell on it overly.
“Are you okay? I mean, are you going to be okay?”
The hunter glances over at Tate, who is looking at him closely.
Dean gives the kid a grin, but it’s flimsy and stretched thin. “I’ll keep,” he says. “What about you? You going to be okay?”
Tate nods, returning the same weak smile. “Yeah, I’m good. I’ll be good.”’
Damn straight. Dean has no intention of letting the kid out of his sight. Not for one second. He doesn’t know quite yet how he’s going to manage it, but frankly he doesn’t care. He’s not going to let anything happen to Tate, or anyone else for that matter.
“We’re getting them back,” he says resolutely to the teen, knowing he’s repeating himself. “The other kids, too. I don’t want you to worry about them, okay?” He coughs raggedly, winded.
“It’s not just them,” Tate says firmly, leaning forward. He feels slightly ridiculous sitting in the backseat, but Dean won’t have it any other way. “I’m worried about you, too. Don’t blow this off so much, Dean. You need a doctor.”
Dean briefly looks over his shoulder at him. “Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t lean forward…and stay in the back where people can’t see through the windows. You’re missing, remember?”
“Dean, you’re not listening.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Holy crap, are you taking bitch lessons from my brother? Because bravo.” He heaves a sigh, coughs again from the effort. He glances back at Tate again after a moment. “I’m listening, Tate,” he says wearily. “I am. And I hear ya, bub, but there’s nothing we can do about that, okay? We just have to keep going and worry about me later. We don’t really have a choice about how to go about things, here, and taking time out to sit in a waiting room is definitely not on the list. And that’s what I’ve been telling people from the start, so no offense, but I’m getting tired of it. Just stay near me where I can keep an eye on you; that would help me the most.” It’s the most Dean has said in one go in a while. It leaves him breathless and wheezy.
Tate shakes his head, burying his face into his hands. When he speaks, his palms muffle his voice.
“I know; I get it. I just-God, this sucks. I don’t know what I’m trying to say, or what I’m supposed to say.”
The car is suddenly filled with Dean’s laughter. Tate looks up, surprised. The hunter has his head thrown back and he’s practically howling. He laughs for so long and so hard that Tate starts to feel confused, then uncomfortable. The teen arches an eyebrow warily. “I don’t get it.”
Dean lets out a whoosh of air and wipes the tears out of the corners of his eyes, presumably from all the laughter. He rubs his nose for a second, chuckling to himself.
“Oh, nothing really,” the hunter says. “I was just thinking of how much I can relate.”
* * * * *
Seeing the Impala parked on the property is like a beacon in the darkness. When they walk up to it, Dean has to resist the urge to get inside the beloved car and pass out on the seat. Instead, he settles for reaching out and patting her as they pass. They haven’t taken two steps when Dean thrusts an arm out and stops Tate.
“Hold up for a sec,” he mutters, and suddenly swings back and doubles up by the wheel of the car and vomits. Tate hangs back, uncertain. It’s when he sees Dean start to sag onto one knee that he steps forward.
“Dean! Hey, don’t do that. Open your eyes.” He’s rubbing and patting at Dean’s back with one arm while he’s hoisting him up with the other. Dean shakes his head and blinks, eyes unfocused.
“Yeah, I’m good…I’m good,” he murmurs. “Just dizzy.” He straightens out of Tate’s grasp and rubs his eyes. When he looks up, his face is ghost white. His lips are definitely becoming blue tinged. He knows that he blacked out for a moment, and he’s not only just embarrassed; he’s deeply concerned. Earlier, he felt like he was flickering in and out of reality, confused from the fever. Now he feels more out of it than in, and his vision is tunneling and graying out around the edges. His head is spinning crazily and his skin feels constricted with heat. Even though he’s purged himself, it doesn’t help with his churning stomach, and the fact that he has to fight just to take a breath of air does nothing to help the situation.
Above all, he fears that the next time he passes out, it will be at the worst of times. He can’t let that happen; he just can’t. He takes as deep a breath he can manage, wills his head to clear as he looks around.
The property seems quiet, like Dean and Tate are the only two people there. Dean knows that’s bull. He scans the garage and the rows of semi trucks parked outside. Some have their trailers still hooked up. Wordlessly, Dean turns back to the Impala. For a moment Tate thinks that he’s going to throw up again but the hunter clearly has other plans. He deftly picks the lock on the trunk and riffles through it briefly. “Come here,” he says to the teen. Tate obeys, and Dean is loading a handgun and shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters. He gives Tate a hard look. “For the love of God, don’t shoot yourself.” He hands over the gun. “That’s one of my favorite Smith & Wessons,” he admonishes. “Do you know how to use it?”
Tate nods dumbly. “My dad takes me to the shooting range sometimes,” he stammers. It’s not the same thing and he knows it, but Dean looks a little mollified.
The hunter nods once. “Okay, then.” He starts moving again.
Tate quickly follows, tearing his eyes away from the 9mm in his hand. “Where are we going?” he asks. “The shop?”
Dean shakes his head. “We will be, but not just yet.” He’s holding a pair of bolt cutters, left from Sam’s little locker check at the high school, and uses it to indicate the trucks. “Something tells me I’m gonna be pissed at myself if we don’t open these up.” It’s then that they hear it, and they both freeze.
It’s faint and muffled, but it’s there. Yelling and pounding.
Tate’s face pales, and he breaks into a run. Dean hauls after him, cursing his weakness. He can barely keep up, and when they come to the first line of semi trucks his heart feels like it’s going to explode from working so hard with so little oxygen. His muscles are also deprived, and he can barely keep himself on his feet. He’s well aware that he’s shaking, but it can’t be helped. When Tate looks at him, the kid’s eyes are bright, full of hope and urgency. “Can you hear that?”
Dean can. There’s a voice, distinctly calling Tate’s name. It sounds as though it’s coming from a tin barrel. A tin barrel about twenty-five feet away. It doesn’t take them long to discern which trailer the yelling is coming from, and with every step the noise gets louder. Soon, they can tell that there’s more than one person in there. When they get to the trailer Dean has to stop and bend over to cough, shoulders shaking as he hacks and chokes. He thrusts the cutters to Tate, who takes them without hesitation and whirls on the padlock that keeps the bolt fastened. It’s more difficult than he had thought it would have been; the padlock is large and heavy. He strains for a moment, but then the adrenalin kicks in and lends him the extra surge of strength he needs. He hears a metallic snap and he opens eyes he hadn’t even been aware of closing. With shaking hands, vaguely aware of Dean straightening up beside him, Tate tosses the padlock down to the ground, slides the bolt free. Dean grimly reaches up and they each take a door, swinging them open without a word.
Jen comes flying out.
“Tate!” She throws her arms around her brother. Her face is wet with tears and she’s grinning ear to ear. “I’m so happy to see you. I knew you’d come.”
She looks up then, and sees Dean. The smile vanishes and she stiffens. “Who are you?” Her eyes narrow in recognition. “You. You guys came to the apartment. I followed you to the motel-“
“And you were taken?” Dean finishes.
Jen looks reticent to confirm or comment. “How would you know?” she asks slowly. Tate reaches over and gently grasps his sister’s wrist, drawing her attention.
“Jen,” he says placating, “it’s okay. His name’s Dean, his brother is Sam. They’ve been helping us. They know Miles.” The emphasis is obvious and Jen seems to settle down slightly. She nods and looks back to Dean, who holds out his hand.
When Jen takes Dean’s hand, the first thing she notices is that his skin is burning hot. It’s then that she notices the other things: the paleness, the sweating, and harsh breathing. His eyes are glazed and it’s obvious he’s working hard to stay on his feet.
“This is kind of like déjà vu,” he jokes lamely. “I feel like I’ve met you already. Your doppelganger was pretty much a dead ringer.”
Now that she knows he’s on their side, Jen feels suddenly shy. He’s incredibly gorgeous. “How do you know what’s going on?” She asks tremulously. “Are you a hunter like Miles was?”
Even as she asks him, Dean is already climbing into the trailer. He is met with confused, blinking stares. All four other missing students are there, bound and gagged. The hunter bends down swiftly and begins untying them, giving the inside of trailer a cursory inspection. Near the doors is a small pile of discarded ropes. His eyes sweep over the frame around the door and he understands. She must have sawn through the ropes by rubbing her wrists against the projections around the hinges. This would have been tediously slow going; she must have started the second they threw her in here. As he works, Jen’s voice drifts into the trailer.
“-hole near the rear. I noticed it when the daylight came through it. I could see a black car pull up, and I think I saw Miles go in, but he wasn’t alone. And then I saw my car, and you. So I started screaming. I’m so glad you heard me.”
“We didn’t, at least not right away. It was Dean’s idea.” Tate’s voice. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m awesome now.” Jen’s voice wavers. “You saved me. Thank you, little brother.”
Dean unties the first kid, a girl about thirteen. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, but the rescue seems to have worked wonders on her morale. Her hands fly up as soon as they’re free and she takes the gag off.
“Who are you?” she asks, her eyes huge.
“I’m Dean,” the hunter responds. “And I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for much else in the way of introductions. Can you untie your feet? Good. In a little bit we’re going to get you out of here, so just hang tight for now. Yeah? You can do that?” He looks up as he hears Tate stepping up into the trailer, Jen behind him, who quickly moves to help untie the other two kids. Tate bends and works on the ropes around their feet.
In moments, the group is up on their feet, but Dean holds his hand out. “Wait,” he says as they begin to move towards the exit. He clears his throat, wincing, and turns to Jen. “Do you have your keys?” She nods, and Dean continues. “Okay, good. It’s going to be tight, but I want you to cram everyone in your shoebox of a car and take everyone somewhere safe. Take them to a motel. Take my cell phone; I’ll call it when this is over. I’ll let it ring twice, then hang up. Then I’ll call straight back and you answer. Like that, okay? Don’t answer otherwise. Don’t let them make any phone calls,” he glances over shoulder as he says it, voice dropping to a low whisper. He pushes his phone into her hands. “Whatever you do, don’t let them contact anyone. We don’t know what their doppelgangers are doing, or where they are, who they’re with. So we need them under wraps until we figure out the next step. Okay?”
Jen nods, intent on his every word. “Okay,” she says, and Dean can tell that she means it. He’s grateful to her for keeping her head together because there’s just not enough time for damage control right now. When they step outside of the trailer, the hair on the back of the hunter’s arms raises, and the back of his neck prickles. Something is different. In the next moment he sees what it is.
The lights in the garage shop are on.
Dean turns to Jen and Tate. “Okay, this is it. Keep low to the ground and move as fast as you can.”
“I’d advise against that.”
The voice is soft, feminine. When Dean turns around, he is met with a familiar face. He searches his brain for a brief moment but then he remembers who she is.
Alice, the sweet little mouse of a receptionist at James Fulton. She smiles at what Dean can only guess is a confounded expression on his face.
“Hey again, Dean,” she doesn’t sound shy anymore. In fact, she seems pretty confident in the situation. It must be because she has Miles with him and she’s ramming a gun in between his shoulder blades. Miles has his hands tied behind his back, and he’s bleeding from a gash on his head. His eyes are sparking defiance.
Dean stands his ground unflinchingly, nudges himself in front of his wards. “Where’s Sam?” he demands, voice a low growl. He coughs into his shoulder, unable to stop himself.
Alice flicks her eyes over in the direction of the garage, inclining her head slightly. “Inside,” she says simply. “Where you’re all going.”
“I’ll go without a fight, but let everyone else go. You don’t need them.”
Alice gives a slow shake of her head. “Sorry, Dean. But you know as well as I that I can’t do that. That would defeat the purpose of the whole operation. Now come inside before the show starts.”
Dean glares, biting back a remark. “What are you talking about?” he asks instead, threateningly.
Alice smiles serenely. “We’re calling an old mutual friend over.” She blinks and then Dean is suddenly staring into black pools of malice.
Of course it’s a demon. When is not a demon? Dean chuckles to himself, but he’s not sure if it’s out loud or just in his head. A fit of shivering is sweeping over him and the buzzing in his head increases.
Alice notices. “You look like shit, Dean. Like you’ve seen your ghost, or something along those lines. It figures even your doppelganger would be obnoxiously meddling. It’s been going rogue for a little while, now.” She nods towards the shop again. “Inside, please. I won’t ask so nicely again.” She pushes the gun harder against Miles meaningfully.
Dean holds his hands out. “Fine,” he grates out. He motions for his charges to bunch up closer to him. “Lead the way.”