SPN/RPF Fanfic: Comin' Down the Mountain
Title: Comin' Down the Mountain
Rating: PG-13
Genre: RPF non-au/Gen
Word Count: ~3500
Disclaimer: None of this ever happened and hopefully never will.
Warnings: OPOV. References to violence that occurred in Number One Fan.
Spoilers: None here, but if you read the first story, there are spoilers for 7x23
Note: I did not plan to write a sequel to Number One Fan because the RPF non-au thing made me feel squirmy. Then I sat there looking at all the empty squares on my bingo card and decided, what the hell. I think this fills my fever/delirium prompt for hc_bingo.
Note 2: Those of you who were kind enough to express interest in reading about the aftermath to the first story...this is probably not what you were looking for. Sorry.
Note 3: I know nothing about Canadian mountain terrain, so I'm sure I screwed things up. If it helps, I know very little about American terrain either. Thanks to hells_half_acre for giving me a couple of brands of Canadian cigarettes to choose from. All other mistakes are mine.
Summary: Sequel to Number One Fan. For a half second or so, Ben thinks he might actually be seeing a Sasquatch...
Ben Thompson is driving one-handed down the curvy mountain road as he lights a fresh du Maurier, late afternoon sun in his eyes, when he comes out of a sharp curve and has to slam on the breaks to avoid hitting the creature walking down the middle of the road.
For a half second or so, Ben thinks he might actually be seeing a Sasquatch. He's never been one to believe in ghosts or fairies or Big Foot, but the figure in front of him looks so bizarre that Ben finds himself reaching for his phone so he can take a picture to show Molly.
His heart is beating fast at the close call but the man-and he sees now that it's clearly a man and not a beast-hadn't seemed to even notice the vehicle behind him. He just keeps weaving all over the road in his odd, shambling walk.
Big Foot. Christ. Still, the fact that the man was tall, hairy, half-dressed, hunched over, and moving along awkwardly with small, crooked steps leads Ben to forgive himself for his momentary foolishness.
He eases his F-150 over as far as he can on the narrow winding road and puts it in park. As he steps out of the truck he tosses his phone back onto the passenger seat; Molly is gone, though he keeps forgetting, lost to the breast cancer they thought she'd beaten in her '30s. She would not be looking at peculiar photos with him ever again.
"Hey!" Ben calls. "Hey, Mister, you need some help?"
The man seems not to hear him. Ben takes a step closer before realizing the stranger is barefoot and wearing prison chains around his ankles. No wonder his gait is so odd.
Uneasy now, Ben reaches for his hunting rifle resting on the gun rack. Although what an escaped convict would be doing 16 kilometers up Spring Creek Road is beyond him. Ben knows for a fact that his hunting cabin, another 20 kilometers to the north, is situated at the end of the road. Nothing behind it but acres of wilderness and only scant few houses between his cabin and the little town at the foot of the mountain. There's a sprinkling of small homes the first couple of kilometers up the twisty road, and then nothing until the Miller's little A-frame, just 800 meters or so up ahead. And then there's Geoff Thibault's place a little ways back. Geoff had succumbed to his own cancer-pancreatic-a couple of years ago, but Ben thinks maybe he's seen Geoff's weird kid hanging around the place lately. Weird kid, weird name. Drummond? Draco?
"Hey!" Ben calls again, though he's keeping his Remington handy. The man stops shuffling forward, but continues swaying like a felled tree just before it drops, and Ben's sure he's gonna go down. Hard.
As Ben moves closer he notices the man's hair is matted with blood, and there's a manacle around his wrist. He's clutching at a rubber mallet in his right hand, the kind Ben might use to pound a stuck rotor. Before he has time to process this information, the man turns more quickly than Ben would have guessed possible and swings the mallet around.
It's a good foot away from Ben's face but still his heart is knocking hard in his chest. He raises the rifle and shouts "Drop it!"
The man stands there, eyes unfocused, breathing shallowly, and Ben finally gets a good look at the stranger. He's surprised to see that the man is young, doesn't look much more than 25. The way he'd been creeping along, all hunched over, Ben thought he was at least 20 years older. The next thing Ben notices is that the man's body is a riot of bruises and blood, his whole left side looking kind of saggy and caved in with broken bones, left arm wrapped pitifully around his middle.
"What the hell happened to you, kid?" Ben asks with a note of wonder in his voice, lowering his rifle.
The stranger sways another couple of seconds and then collapses onto his knees, a wheezy cry of pain escaping his lips as he makes contact with the pavement. Fresh blood oozes from beneath the chain that's cutting into his waist and connected to his feet.
Ben makes up his mind right then; it's hard to imagine this guy doing him any harm in the state he's in now, and he looks like he needs help yesterday.
He sets the rifle down gently and then kneels in front of the kid, arms raised to show he means no harm.
"Were you in a...wreck?" Ben asks doubtfully, at a loss for any other explanation for the deep bruises and spatters of blood that cover the man's torso.
The stranger's eyes are bright, breath shallow, and his skin looks awfully dry considering the warmth of the day and the perspiration that's already beading up on Ben's face. Ben thinks he might be suffering from heat exhaustion or a really high temperature. Maybe a little from A, a little from B. He doesn't even seem to see Ben, or maybe he doesn't think Ben's real. Ben's heard that you can hallucinate from dehydration or a high fever.
"Right. Lemme see if I've got water in the truck," he says as calmly as he can. His mind is racing though, wondering what in the holy hell happened to this guy. Ben's not sure he even wants to know, the man's injuries and...fetters...are so very strange.
Ben is not too keen to get involved in some distasteful S and M thing that went awry, but on the other hand the stranger looks so helpless and hurt. And he remembers Molly clucking over one of her True Crime stories she was always so fond of, about that Dahmer character, and how one of his victims could have got away but the cops sent him back to the crazy cuss.
Anyway, Ben doesn't see how he could continue to call himself a good Christian if he keeps driving on down the road.
A good Christian also wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain as often as you do, he hears Molly chide him in his head. God, but he misses her.
There's nothing in the truck but a half-drunk Pepsi, which Ben remembered just as he was opening the door, but he takes it out anyway and walks slowly back over to the stranger. Even on his knees the guy continues to sway, and when he finally tumbles over onto his left side-the side that looks like it's gone a few rounds with a sledgehammer-Ben winces.
"I'm Ben," he says, feeling ridiculous, like they've just met over a pool table at George's Pub. "Ben Thompson. What's your name, kid?"
The stranger's eyes focus on him for a second before drifting away.
"Sam?" the man asks, like he's not sure.
"Okay, can you take a drink, Sam?" Ben asks. Sam licks his pale, dry lips.
"Hot," he says.
"Yeah, I can see that." He places a hand on the kid's forehead and winces. "Christ, you're burning up."
He rolls Sam onto his back and then raises his head a little so the kid can take a drink, trying to ignore the whimper of pain Sam makes.
"C'mon, drink a little and then we'll see about getting you off this rock."
Sam takes a drink of the warm fizzy beverage and promptly starts coughing it up, along with a spray of blood.
"Christ," Ben says for about the 10th time since he slammed on his breaks. He is in way over his head here.
"Stay there," he says stupidly as he runs back toward the truck. He's pretty sure he knows what he's gonna see when he checks the bars on his phone though, and yep, there's not a one. Ben can get service if he stands in just the right spot on his front porch, but the road down the mountain is riddled with dead spots and he's in one. Not for the first time, he thinks he should just get rid of the damn thing since he's taken to staying up at his hunting cabin most of the time.
He looks at the kid, the truck, the kid again, uncertainly, and runs back over.
"Sam, do you think you can walk?" he asks.
"You're not real," Sam says.
Ben blows air through his lips in exasperation and kneels down again.
"Can you tell me what happened to you?"
"Earthquake," Sam says. "Plate tectonics." His eyes shift from left to right. "Drift."
"Right." Ben sighs. "Right. Okay then. I'm not sure I can move you, so I'm gonna drive down the road and call an ambulance for you. Can you at least get out of the middle of the road?"
Sam jerks back upright and looks around wildly. "Where is he? He's coming back, he went to town but he'll be back!"
"Who went to town?"
"He's coming back, he's gonna to salt me!" Sam tries to get to his feet but collapses back on his knees.
Ben lays a hand on Sam's good shoulder and he twists away in fear, the movement eliciting another gasp of pain.
"He's gonna salt me! He's gonna burn me!"
"Sam. Calm down. Who's coming?" Ben asks, expecting another nonsense answer.
"Dru. Dru-with-a-u. He's on his way back and Sam can't help me!"
Ben closes his eyes. "I thought you were Sam," he sighs. Then he thinks over what he heard and realizes who Sam's talking about.
"Sam-son-are you saying that Drury Thibault did this to you?"
"Dru. Dru-with-a-u." Sam looks back and forth rapidly, eyes wild. He grips the mallet even more tightly to his chest.
"He wants to be my devil, he wants to kill my demon."
Ben sighs and gives a quick prayer for strength, wondering how he's supposed to get a delirious, broken giant down off his mountain. Especially since Ben's last growth spurt some 30 years back leveled off at 5'7. Maybe 5'7 and a half if he's wearing his boots and standing real straight.
"Son, did you walk here from the Thibault cabin?" Ben asks. That's more than eight kilometers back and he can't quite believe this guy made it that far with his bones busted up and his ankles chained together. He takes a look at Sam's feet and sees they're shredded and bloody, and Ben supposes needs must.
"I'm a lucky guy..." the man says, like that's an answer.
Ben runs his fingers through his unkempt hair. Molly would know what to do but Molly isn't here. So. Think, Benjamin, he tells himself crossly.
He's got a delirious man he can't move sitting in the middle of the road, no way of calling for help, and the possibility that Geoff's weird kid is even more weird and homicidal than Ben ever would have guessed. Obviously he can't leave this man, Sam or whoever the hell he is, if Dru's gonna come looking for him. It's like one of those damn riddles where you have to get a duck and a snake across the river or some such.
Ben hates riddles.
He gets back into his truck and pulls it as close as he can to Sam. Then he climbs out and approaches the man again.
"This is gonna hurt, Sam, but I gotta get you into my truck, okay? At least get us down to the Millers' place and then I can call 911 and figure out what to do next."
Sam's eyes are bright with fever and show very little understanding of what's happening around him.
"Son? I need you to help me, can't lift you on my own. I need you to stand back up. Let's try to get you home, okay?"
"Home?" Sam lurches forward like he expected to just hop to his feet and then writhes in pain again, but Ben was ready for him. He braces his shoulder underneath the larger man's good arm and then pushes up, sweating at the effort.
He tries not to pay too much mind to the bloody mallet still clenched in Sam's fist. He knows better now than to try to get it away from him and just hopes Sam can stay lucid long enough that he doesn't decide Ben's skull might make a good nail.
Sam trips, causing Ben to stumble, but somehow they both manage to stay upright.
"C'mon Sam, almost there. Let's get you to the truck."
Sam seems to have forgotten that his ankles are chained together. He tries to take a big step but pitches forward, smacking into the hood of the truck. He stays on his feet though, and Ben is thankful for small favors.
"It's okay, Sam," Ben says, easing him into the passenger seat.
"Don't...not...Sammy," the man says.
* * *
The Millers are nice enough neighbors, if "neighbor" is the right word for someone who lives 21 kilometers to the south. Still, Ben wishes it was Dennis who answered his desperate knock and not Addy, who was a bit of a busybody in his opinion.
"Ben, what a nice surprise," she calls from the side of the house where she's been weeding the flower bed, then she gets a look at his face. "What's wrong?"
Ben has no idea how to explain the weird turn his life has taken in the past 15 minutes, when all he wanted to do was go on his weekly grocery run and maybe stop for a beer at George's. He looks at her helplessly for a moment, not sure what to say.
Then the passenger door creaks open behind him and the stranger lurches out, falling heavily to his knees on the Miller's gravel drive.
"Jesus kid, are you determined to kill yourself?" Ben snaps.
Addy looks from the kid to Ben and back again.
"Ben?"
He runs a hand through his hair.
"I have...no idea. He was wandering down the middle of the road just a little ways back."
"What the heck happened to him?"
"If he's to be believed, Dru Thibault happened to him," Ben says, watching as Sam tries to climb to his feet again before giving up and collapsing. "But he's not the most reliable witness right now. Seems out of his head with thirst or fever or pain. Probably all three."
Addy is already heading into the house to phone for an ambulance, and Ben looks back at the road. An awful part of him, the part he'd never want Molly to know about, kind of wishes he'd skipped his trip into town today. He'd retreated to his hunting cabin last spring for a reason, and it was not to get involved in the strange doings of other folks.
Then he looks down at the man, trying to get back to his feet so he can keep walking down the mountain, keep walking home, and he feels a stab of pity in his gut that shames him.
"Hey Sam-Son, you just stay right here. We're getting help. You don't have to walk anymore."
Sam-the stranger-looks at him again and Ben thinks he might see a little bit more awareness in his eyes.
"You don't have to keep walking, okay?" Ben says, kneeling down. "We can take it from here."
* * *
After Addy places the call, she comes back out and helps Sam-whoever-take small sips from a glass of water she'd brought out (and Christ, the kid looked like he wanted to cry when he saw all that water, and Ben hated himself a little more for wanting to just drive away). She keeps going, slowly, until he starts coughing up blood again.
She eases him back to lying down and they both retreat a few feet away, uncomfortable in the presence of so much confusion and hurt.
"Do you think he's some kind of...sex slave?" Addy whispers loudly, and he gives her a look. She and Molly both liked their true stories, as he remembers.
"I think I better go up to the Thibault place and figure out what's going on."
"You can't, what if that poor Drury really did go crazy?"
"Well, he could just as easily find us here."
She looks around uneasily at the lengthening early evening shadows.
"Look, I can be there and back in 10 minutes-probably beat the ambulance by 20."
She looks nervous, but she also looks curious, and he knows what will win out.
"Okay," she says. "I'll wait with him. You go."
He nods and heads back over to his truck, parked haphazardly on her front lawn.
"You be careful Benjamin Thompson! You aren't exactly a spring chicken you know."
He waves a hand behind him and climbs back into his truck.
* * *
As soon as he pulls into the Thibault lot, he sees things that he was oblivious to as he was barreling down the mountain, chain smoking and looking forward to his beer at the pub. For one thing, the door to Dru's white cargo van is wide open. For another thing, a bag of groceries and medicines from town has been dropped next to the van. Eggs and spoiled milk and dented cans of soup and vegetables lay in a smelly heap. One of the jars of beans had busted open and looks like fresh vomit. Doesn't smell much better.
Then Ben gets within 10 feet of the cabin and he doubles over, gasping at the smell of putridness.
Just go back, this is a matter for the cops now, he thinks. And maybe he's no better than Addy Miller, but he can't seem to stop his feet from moving towards the cabin, from seeing what lies within.
He clamps his left arm over his face so he's breathing in the scent of detergent instead of rot, and pushes open the frayed screen door with the barrel of his rifle.
After the smell, a hideous mix of rotten cheese and shit and something worse-much worse-and more visceral underneath, he notices the flies.
Hundreds. No, thousands of them, crawling and swarming all over the dead body of Drury Thibault. His entrance stirs them momentarily, and he gets a good look at the body. The skin seems to be rippling, and he realizes with disgust that hundreds of thousands of maggots are eating away at Drury's flesh, making it look like his skin is languidly moving in a breeze.
He looks around the cabin, wondering what in the ever-loving-Christ happened here. The large bed in the corner is bloodstained, soup has dried running down the wall next to the bed, the kitchen table is overturned. A pair of odd looking boxing gloves are abandoned on the floor next to a kitchen chair that's shoved askew against the far wall.
The smell is overwhelming, and eyes watering, gorge rising, he stumbles back out towards his truck and the fresh air beyond.
* * *
He beats the ambulance back to Addy's by five minutes. She's itching to ask what he saw, but she must see something in his pale, shaken face because she sets aside her curiosity.
He throws her a bone anyway. "Looks to me like the Thibault kid's been dead at least 24 hours, probably closer to 30."
"How can you-?" she asks and he gives her a dark look. If she wants to play forensic detective she can drive her own damn car up the road.
"How is he?" Ben asks.
"Hanging on. I don't know how. Especially if he spent 30 hours stumbling down the road in this condition."
"Did you give him more water?"
"Tried. Can't keep it down." She hesitates, as though she knows she's veering from helpful information to gossip but can't stop herself. "He keeps asking for his baby. Keeps saying baby baby baby." Her eyes brighten with tears, and Ben feels loutish for his unfavorable opinions of her. She never could keep a little one in the womb past the fifth month, as he recalls, and she was always sweet to his Molly, even through the worst of her illness.
"Baby. Huh," is all he says. Baby. Could mean a woman, could mean a kid. Hell, it could mean a dog, Ben himself had a retriever he damn near would have died for when he was a teen.
Ben steels himself-this trial is surely almost over, and the kid could use some comfort-and walks back over to kneel beside him.
"Hey Son, it's me again. Ben. Ben Thompson."
The man seems to see him for the first time.
"Ben?" His voice is gravel.
"That's right. You just lie still and help is gonna be here any minute. Get you to a hospital where they'll get you patched up in no time."
The kid reaches for him but he's still keeping a death grip on that damn mallet. Ben intercepts his hand and takes it in both of his, hammer and all.
"Help's on the way son. You wanna tell me your name? Your real name?"
The kid closes his eyes and sighs. "Jared," he says. "I'm Jared."
Sequel: Waiting in the Wings