The sky too is folding under you (and it's all over now, baby blue), part 8
Dean only woke up when he felt a nudge on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to Jarod standing beside the car, passenger door open. He pulled the blanket out and tossed it back on the backseat, and unbuckled his seatbelt. His legs felt numb and his toes tingled.
The dried blood from his wounds was sticking his pants to his skin, and his shoes were torn and damaged. His back hurt, and his hands were scratched.
He got out of the car and shut the door. Jarod was watching his every move, probably looking for any sign of him freaking out again.
He took in his surrounding, realizing how good Jarod had been at picking a secure location: the street was small and dark, the building tall. Dean didn’t know which city they were in, but he bet the neighborhood only had small streets that Jarod already knew by heart; if they ever had to run, no doubt Jarod would be able to lose the Centre in this maze.
Dean knew Jarod would be leading them to one of the top floors, because it was the best strategic position they could have: being as far from the main entrance as possible would buy them time, and they could use the emergency exit from the rooftop to escape.
But that was the worst-case scenario. Dean knew there was little chance the Centre would find them here.
The apartment itself wasn’t bad; it was certainly better than half the motels Dean had lived in since his dad at taken them on the road. Dean swiped the room once, like he’d done for as long as he could remember. It was cleaned, settled. He could tell Jarod had been there for some time.
Jarod closed the door behind them and threw the keys on the table; took off his leather jacket, folded it on the back of a chair in the kitchenette.
“You want to sleep some more?”
Dean shook his head. Jarod had said they’d talk, and Dean needed answers. He sat on one of the two chairs in the kitchenette, as Jarod had motioned him. Jarod disappeared into what appeared to be the bathroom, and came back a few seconds after that, disinfectant, scissors and cotton in hand.
Jarod knelt down in front of him, and started cutting through his pants with the scissors. The cuts weren’t deep, not as nasty as they could have been, and they’d stopped bleeding in the car. Dean felt awkward as Jarod removed his shoes for him too, feeling like some kind of freaking princess, but it didn’t show. His feet were dirty and sore, and it felt good to be able to stretch them and cool them down on the cold floor.
The disinfectant was stinging his wounds, but Dean showed no sign of being in pain. He let Jarod work on them, cleaning out the dried blood and dirt. It felt good having someone care for him, touch him for another purpose than to harm him or abuse him.
Jarod got him a pair of pants and made some coffee. Soon, the aroma filled the room, and Dean’s mouth started watering. He wouldn’t have thought he would be able to remember the delicious taste of fresh, black coffee, but as soon as he smelled the beverage brewing in the pot, it was as if he was already drinking it.
“You want anything to eat?”
Dean shook his head: his stomach was knotted; he didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything any time soon.
Jarod poured the coffee into two mugs and passed one to Dean. He took a sip and felt himself relax as soon as his taste buds arose to the flavor. He took another careful sip, then put the mug down.
“You said we’d talk,” he blurted out, without further introduction. His eyes were locked on his hands, throat dry, feeling like he was back in that room, under the gaze of the sweepers.
Jarod cleared his throat, and sat down in front of Dean.
“Okay. Hum… why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks?”
Dean considered the question. How much did he know? The Centre had been keen on keeping him in the dark, never really telling him why he was there, how he’d gotten there, how they’d known.
“I remember a bar, in Minnesota.” The memories were still pretty vivid in his mind. He’d forgotten a lot from the outside: impressions, feelings, but his brain was still there, and the events hadn’t been erased.
“I was getting some money at the pool table. Then I head out to my car and next thing I know, I’m getting mauled by these four big guys, except it’s not a mauling, and they put me down with a needle.” He paused, shuddering. The panic of that day was still there, deeply embedded in his bones. It had never left him. He’d never felt safe after that night.
“I woke up at the Centre, in a cold cell. Spent the rest of it being tortured and forced to do these things for them,” he spat. “They didn’t tell me much, only that I was a pretender, and that they wanted to use my simulations.”
Both men were staring at their respective cups, letting the silence calm Dean down. Reviving such trauma was pretty intense, and Dean was grateful for the time Jarod was giving him. He didn’t even know where to start, what to ask first.
“How long as it been?” he finally asked, dreading the answer.
“When were you in Minnesota?”
“March 2005. I think.”
Jarod looked him straight in the eyes, the sympathy on his face clear.
“Today’s October 28th,” he said. “I’m sorry…”
“Seven months?” Dean swallowed, blood rushing out of his face. “Seven?”
It felt longer. And shorter. Dean didn’t really know how he was supposed to feel. It was strange, being able to put some time value to the months of torture and abuse. It was weird, to be able to finally tell WHEN he was.
He nodded, licked his lips. “Alright. What can you tell me? Where’s my dad? What do you know about Sam? Fuck, where’s my car?”
Jarod smiled at the last part. “The car is fine. I found it in Minnesota, right where you left it. It’s safe, in an underground parking lot, not too far from here.”
The relief Dean felt at the mention of his car being safe was short-lived, his mind directly going to the other part of the question. “Dad?” he just asked, his chest tight and his breathing laborious.
“Your dad is okay… as far as I know.”
“What do you mean, as far as you know? What’s going on?”
“Maybe I should tell you the whole story first…”
Dean didn’t reply, motioning with his hand for Jarod to continue.
“Right.” Jarod cleared his throat and took a deep breath. His hands were cupped around the coffee mug, and he was staring at the black liquid, as if he was reading the proper response in it. “As you know, you disappeared in March. The Centre was very discreet about it, and even checking up on their goings-on regularly, it took me a while to realize something was going on.”
Dawn was breaking outside, and the sky was red, the clouds stretching the colors infinitely. The remnants of a hot summer Dean hadn’t seen pass by were still hanging low in the atmosphere, making the early day already hot and promising more heat to come.
The sun was breaking in the room, awaking Dean’s skin to something he hadn’t felt in seven months. Birds were singing outside, starting their busy day. Garbage men were loading trash in a truck, not too far away, the sound of the machine echoing through the alley. The world had still been rolling without Dean; hadn’t waited for him to come back.
Jarod took a break, sipping his coffee.
“By June, though, I hacked into the Centre’s system, and looking at their current account, I realized something was off. A quick call to Sydney was all I needed to know they’d gotten their hands on you. I learned as much as I could hacking into the Centre, but it seemed like nobody knew your last name.”
Dean frowned, remembering he’d never been addressed as “Winchester”, and thought Lyle might have been the only one to know his full name. Thinking back at the people he’d met in the Centre, there wasn’t a single person in there that ever had a full name. Odd.
“It took me one month to get your last name and trace it back to your dad; two more months to find your father, and get him to trust me enough to help him get you back. At the end of August, we knew as much as we could: security was tight, and there was no breaking you out until we knew Sam was safe.”
Dean raised his head at the mention of his brother, and looked at Jarod inquisitively. Jarod nodded, confirming what he’d already promised earlier: Sam was safe.
“However, we still didn’t know who was watching Sam, nor did we know how to get you out. We worked on both fronts for a couple of weeks, but couldn’t get anywhere. Your dad started taking off for days at a time, coming back to the house we’d set up bloody and tired.”
Dean knew some kind of explanation was expected, but he would give none. Hearing that his father had kept hunting while he was rotting in the Centre hurt at first, but he quickly pushed the feelings aside, knowing they’d only make him weak. Rationalizing, he told himself that it had been the best strategy: there was no point in letting innocent people die and monsters live if his father and Jarod were running in circles, chasing dead ends.
“Finally, I managed to make a breakthrough in the Centre’s system again, this time unnoticed, and learned more about your location. At about the same time, Angelo sent me a mail to tell me about the person watching Sam. At that time, your dad had taken off again, told me he’d gone to Jericho, California, not telling me what he was going to do over there.”
Jarod swallowed and brushed his forehead, looking embarrassed and preoccupied.
“Then what?” Dean pressed.
“I tried to call your dad back, but he wouldn’t answer his phone. I left him a dozen messages, but he wouldn’t answer.”
Dean’s eyes widened, his hand turning into a fist on his thigh.
“Relax, Dean,” Jarod urged as he saw his reaction. “I think your dad is fine. Even after the twelve or something messages I left him, his voicemail was still registering them, which meant your dad listened to them and erased the new ones. For some reason, he decided to cut contact, but I knew he was okay.”
Dean’s heartbeat slowed down again, but his mind was raging. How could Jarod have taken such chances? What if his dad had not been okay, and Jarod had broken free without being sure Sammy would be safe? Was Sammy safe?
“So I sent him all the information I had on your brother’s situation, and told him exactly when to strike; I knew he’d take care of it his own way. I knew he was a very competent man and wouldn’t fail his sons. I made my way to the east coast and set down two safe houses: the one we’re in, and a closer one I used the night before I broke you out, and that we would have used if either of us had been injured and unable to make the long trip without some rest.”
Dean closed his eyes, trying to imagine his dad, having lost his two sons. Even when they were both hunting solo, they could still rely on each other for support, council and, even if they wouldn’t admit it, comfort. Even knowing the other one was out there was sometimes still enough. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for his Dad to live in the dark like that.
“While you were out, in the car, I tried calling for him again. I didn’t get an answer, but shortly after that I got a message confirming that Sam was safe and his threat taken care of.”
Dean rubbed the stubble that was irritating his skin, trying to sort out all the information. Why would his dad go to ground like that, and cut all contact? Was he really okay? Was he in trouble?
Dean, frustrated and bothered, quickly jerked out of his seat, starting to pace across the small kitchen.
“Did Dad tell you anything? Did he give you any clue at all? I need to know!”
Jarod shook his head, eyes following Dean’s movements.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I ran every possible scenario in my head, I have no clue. I just told you everything I know.”
“What did my dad look like, aside from bloody? When he came back?”
“Your dad was worried, but that’s understandable: both his sons were in danger. And…”
“And what?” Dean pressed again.
“He seemed kind of paranoid. But so was I. The Centre has ties everywhere in the US, and out of it. We had to be careful… I figured your Dad just knew his business, had been trained well by the Marines…”
“How paranoid exactly?”
“He was checking things all the time; in his bag, in his journal… He was sleeping with a gun in his hand and a knife behind his pillow… Wouldn’t trust a stranger, would eye everyone warily.”
Dean frowned. What was he afraid of? Had a job gone wrong? Was he afraid of having been followed? Did he cut off contact with Jarod to protect him from something that was after him? What was in Jericho?
“Look, Dean… I think you should get some rest, sleep through this…”
“No,” Dean cut. “I gotta get going. I gotta get Sam somewhere safe.”
“Now hold on, Dean. You’re in no state to drive across the country, and Sam will be fine for a while.”
Dean violently put both his hands on the table, looking Jarod dead in the eye.
“Safe? The Centre wants me, and these bastards won’t hesitate to hurt him to get to me. You think he’s safe?”
Jarod smiled, malice shining in his eyes.
“Trust me when I tell you Sam is the last thing they have on their minds. Not with the ruckus I caused in their system.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean frowned.
“The Centre will probably be more concerned with securing their assets and saving their asses than thinking about you or your family for a while.”
“What about Lyle?”
“Lyle just lost you. The Centre is not forgiving, Dean. He’s going to have one hell of a day, trust me. I don’t think he’ll have time to think about anything else than saving his own ass for a while. Lyle is a coward. He won’t face danger, he’ll fly; without resources, without any way to get his hands on Sam.”
Dean nodded, breathing out deeply. Okay. He could do this. He could trust Jarod’s words. And he was right, he did feel tired and mentally drained out.
“The bedroom is the next door to your right” Jarod said, as if reading his mind. “You go and get some sleep, I’ll find us some food and check on things.”
Dean nodded. “Jarod, I…”
“Don’t mention it.”
***
His target barely struggled when he saw him come out of the shadow. Didn’t have the time to. He swooped down on him, his free hand covering the victim’s mouth, silencing him.
He pointed the gun into the man’s chest, right above the heart. He wished he had the time to actually make the man suffer, to shoot him in the guts and let him bleed slowly, in agonizing pain for hours. But he had places to go, and he needed to know his sons could be safe before he could undertake his last journey.
He plunged his gaze into the man’s eyes, smiling at the fear he read in them.
“I have to hand it to you, Professor. You were good. You covered your tracks well. But you made one mistake.”
He adjusted his grip on the gun, his finger gently covering the trigger and his smile faded.
“You don’t mess with a Winchester.”
The gun went off.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10
The dried blood from his wounds was sticking his pants to his skin, and his shoes were torn and damaged. His back hurt, and his hands were scratched.
He got out of the car and shut the door. Jarod was watching his every move, probably looking for any sign of him freaking out again.
He took in his surrounding, realizing how good Jarod had been at picking a secure location: the street was small and dark, the building tall. Dean didn’t know which city they were in, but he bet the neighborhood only had small streets that Jarod already knew by heart; if they ever had to run, no doubt Jarod would be able to lose the Centre in this maze.
Dean knew Jarod would be leading them to one of the top floors, because it was the best strategic position they could have: being as far from the main entrance as possible would buy them time, and they could use the emergency exit from the rooftop to escape.
But that was the worst-case scenario. Dean knew there was little chance the Centre would find them here.
The apartment itself wasn’t bad; it was certainly better than half the motels Dean had lived in since his dad at taken them on the road. Dean swiped the room once, like he’d done for as long as he could remember. It was cleaned, settled. He could tell Jarod had been there for some time.
Jarod closed the door behind them and threw the keys on the table; took off his leather jacket, folded it on the back of a chair in the kitchenette.
“You want to sleep some more?”
Dean shook his head. Jarod had said they’d talk, and Dean needed answers. He sat on one of the two chairs in the kitchenette, as Jarod had motioned him. Jarod disappeared into what appeared to be the bathroom, and came back a few seconds after that, disinfectant, scissors and cotton in hand.
Jarod knelt down in front of him, and started cutting through his pants with the scissors. The cuts weren’t deep, not as nasty as they could have been, and they’d stopped bleeding in the car. Dean felt awkward as Jarod removed his shoes for him too, feeling like some kind of freaking princess, but it didn’t show. His feet were dirty and sore, and it felt good to be able to stretch them and cool them down on the cold floor.
The disinfectant was stinging his wounds, but Dean showed no sign of being in pain. He let Jarod work on them, cleaning out the dried blood and dirt. It felt good having someone care for him, touch him for another purpose than to harm him or abuse him.
Jarod got him a pair of pants and made some coffee. Soon, the aroma filled the room, and Dean’s mouth started watering. He wouldn’t have thought he would be able to remember the delicious taste of fresh, black coffee, but as soon as he smelled the beverage brewing in the pot, it was as if he was already drinking it.
“You want anything to eat?”
Dean shook his head: his stomach was knotted; he didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything any time soon.
Jarod poured the coffee into two mugs and passed one to Dean. He took a sip and felt himself relax as soon as his taste buds arose to the flavor. He took another careful sip, then put the mug down.
“You said we’d talk,” he blurted out, without further introduction. His eyes were locked on his hands, throat dry, feeling like he was back in that room, under the gaze of the sweepers.
Jarod cleared his throat, and sat down in front of Dean.
“Okay. Hum… why don’t you tell me what you know, and I’ll fill in the blanks?”
Dean considered the question. How much did he know? The Centre had been keen on keeping him in the dark, never really telling him why he was there, how he’d gotten there, how they’d known.
“I remember a bar, in Minnesota.” The memories were still pretty vivid in his mind. He’d forgotten a lot from the outside: impressions, feelings, but his brain was still there, and the events hadn’t been erased.
“I was getting some money at the pool table. Then I head out to my car and next thing I know, I’m getting mauled by these four big guys, except it’s not a mauling, and they put me down with a needle.” He paused, shuddering. The panic of that day was still there, deeply embedded in his bones. It had never left him. He’d never felt safe after that night.
“I woke up at the Centre, in a cold cell. Spent the rest of it being tortured and forced to do these things for them,” he spat. “They didn’t tell me much, only that I was a pretender, and that they wanted to use my simulations.”
Both men were staring at their respective cups, letting the silence calm Dean down. Reviving such trauma was pretty intense, and Dean was grateful for the time Jarod was giving him. He didn’t even know where to start, what to ask first.
“How long as it been?” he finally asked, dreading the answer.
“When were you in Minnesota?”
“March 2005. I think.”
Jarod looked him straight in the eyes, the sympathy on his face clear.
“Today’s October 28th,” he said. “I’m sorry…”
“Seven months?” Dean swallowed, blood rushing out of his face. “Seven?”
It felt longer. And shorter. Dean didn’t really know how he was supposed to feel. It was strange, being able to put some time value to the months of torture and abuse. It was weird, to be able to finally tell WHEN he was.
He nodded, licked his lips. “Alright. What can you tell me? Where’s my dad? What do you know about Sam? Fuck, where’s my car?”
Jarod smiled at the last part. “The car is fine. I found it in Minnesota, right where you left it. It’s safe, in an underground parking lot, not too far from here.”
The relief Dean felt at the mention of his car being safe was short-lived, his mind directly going to the other part of the question. “Dad?” he just asked, his chest tight and his breathing laborious.
“Your dad is okay… as far as I know.”
“What do you mean, as far as you know? What’s going on?”
“Maybe I should tell you the whole story first…”
Dean didn’t reply, motioning with his hand for Jarod to continue.
“Right.” Jarod cleared his throat and took a deep breath. His hands were cupped around the coffee mug, and he was staring at the black liquid, as if he was reading the proper response in it. “As you know, you disappeared in March. The Centre was very discreet about it, and even checking up on their goings-on regularly, it took me a while to realize something was going on.”
Dawn was breaking outside, and the sky was red, the clouds stretching the colors infinitely. The remnants of a hot summer Dean hadn’t seen pass by were still hanging low in the atmosphere, making the early day already hot and promising more heat to come.
The sun was breaking in the room, awaking Dean’s skin to something he hadn’t felt in seven months. Birds were singing outside, starting their busy day. Garbage men were loading trash in a truck, not too far away, the sound of the machine echoing through the alley. The world had still been rolling without Dean; hadn’t waited for him to come back.
Jarod took a break, sipping his coffee.
“By June, though, I hacked into the Centre’s system, and looking at their current account, I realized something was off. A quick call to Sydney was all I needed to know they’d gotten their hands on you. I learned as much as I could hacking into the Centre, but it seemed like nobody knew your last name.”
Dean frowned, remembering he’d never been addressed as “Winchester”, and thought Lyle might have been the only one to know his full name. Thinking back at the people he’d met in the Centre, there wasn’t a single person in there that ever had a full name. Odd.
“It took me one month to get your last name and trace it back to your dad; two more months to find your father, and get him to trust me enough to help him get you back. At the end of August, we knew as much as we could: security was tight, and there was no breaking you out until we knew Sam was safe.”
Dean raised his head at the mention of his brother, and looked at Jarod inquisitively. Jarod nodded, confirming what he’d already promised earlier: Sam was safe.
“However, we still didn’t know who was watching Sam, nor did we know how to get you out. We worked on both fronts for a couple of weeks, but couldn’t get anywhere. Your dad started taking off for days at a time, coming back to the house we’d set up bloody and tired.”
Dean knew some kind of explanation was expected, but he would give none. Hearing that his father had kept hunting while he was rotting in the Centre hurt at first, but he quickly pushed the feelings aside, knowing they’d only make him weak. Rationalizing, he told himself that it had been the best strategy: there was no point in letting innocent people die and monsters live if his father and Jarod were running in circles, chasing dead ends.
“Finally, I managed to make a breakthrough in the Centre’s system again, this time unnoticed, and learned more about your location. At about the same time, Angelo sent me a mail to tell me about the person watching Sam. At that time, your dad had taken off again, told me he’d gone to Jericho, California, not telling me what he was going to do over there.”
Jarod swallowed and brushed his forehead, looking embarrassed and preoccupied.
“Then what?” Dean pressed.
“I tried to call your dad back, but he wouldn’t answer his phone. I left him a dozen messages, but he wouldn’t answer.”
Dean’s eyes widened, his hand turning into a fist on his thigh.
“Relax, Dean,” Jarod urged as he saw his reaction. “I think your dad is fine. Even after the twelve or something messages I left him, his voicemail was still registering them, which meant your dad listened to them and erased the new ones. For some reason, he decided to cut contact, but I knew he was okay.”
Dean’s heartbeat slowed down again, but his mind was raging. How could Jarod have taken such chances? What if his dad had not been okay, and Jarod had broken free without being sure Sammy would be safe? Was Sammy safe?
“So I sent him all the information I had on your brother’s situation, and told him exactly when to strike; I knew he’d take care of it his own way. I knew he was a very competent man and wouldn’t fail his sons. I made my way to the east coast and set down two safe houses: the one we’re in, and a closer one I used the night before I broke you out, and that we would have used if either of us had been injured and unable to make the long trip without some rest.”
Dean closed his eyes, trying to imagine his dad, having lost his two sons. Even when they were both hunting solo, they could still rely on each other for support, council and, even if they wouldn’t admit it, comfort. Even knowing the other one was out there was sometimes still enough. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for his Dad to live in the dark like that.
“While you were out, in the car, I tried calling for him again. I didn’t get an answer, but shortly after that I got a message confirming that Sam was safe and his threat taken care of.”
Dean rubbed the stubble that was irritating his skin, trying to sort out all the information. Why would his dad go to ground like that, and cut all contact? Was he really okay? Was he in trouble?
Dean, frustrated and bothered, quickly jerked out of his seat, starting to pace across the small kitchen.
“Did Dad tell you anything? Did he give you any clue at all? I need to know!”
Jarod shook his head, eyes following Dean’s movements.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I ran every possible scenario in my head, I have no clue. I just told you everything I know.”
“What did my dad look like, aside from bloody? When he came back?”
“Your dad was worried, but that’s understandable: both his sons were in danger. And…”
“And what?” Dean pressed again.
“He seemed kind of paranoid. But so was I. The Centre has ties everywhere in the US, and out of it. We had to be careful… I figured your Dad just knew his business, had been trained well by the Marines…”
“How paranoid exactly?”
“He was checking things all the time; in his bag, in his journal… He was sleeping with a gun in his hand and a knife behind his pillow… Wouldn’t trust a stranger, would eye everyone warily.”
Dean frowned. What was he afraid of? Had a job gone wrong? Was he afraid of having been followed? Did he cut off contact with Jarod to protect him from something that was after him? What was in Jericho?
“Look, Dean… I think you should get some rest, sleep through this…”
“No,” Dean cut. “I gotta get going. I gotta get Sam somewhere safe.”
“Now hold on, Dean. You’re in no state to drive across the country, and Sam will be fine for a while.”
Dean violently put both his hands on the table, looking Jarod dead in the eye.
“Safe? The Centre wants me, and these bastards won’t hesitate to hurt him to get to me. You think he’s safe?”
Jarod smiled, malice shining in his eyes.
“Trust me when I tell you Sam is the last thing they have on their minds. Not with the ruckus I caused in their system.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean frowned.
“The Centre will probably be more concerned with securing their assets and saving their asses than thinking about you or your family for a while.”
“What about Lyle?”
“Lyle just lost you. The Centre is not forgiving, Dean. He’s going to have one hell of a day, trust me. I don’t think he’ll have time to think about anything else than saving his own ass for a while. Lyle is a coward. He won’t face danger, he’ll fly; without resources, without any way to get his hands on Sam.”
Dean nodded, breathing out deeply. Okay. He could do this. He could trust Jarod’s words. And he was right, he did feel tired and mentally drained out.
“The bedroom is the next door to your right” Jarod said, as if reading his mind. “You go and get some sleep, I’ll find us some food and check on things.”
Dean nodded. “Jarod, I…”
“Don’t mention it.”
***
His target barely struggled when he saw him come out of the shadow. Didn’t have the time to. He swooped down on him, his free hand covering the victim’s mouth, silencing him.
He pointed the gun into the man’s chest, right above the heart. He wished he had the time to actually make the man suffer, to shoot him in the guts and let him bleed slowly, in agonizing pain for hours. But he had places to go, and he needed to know his sons could be safe before he could undertake his last journey.
He plunged his gaze into the man’s eyes, smiling at the fear he read in them.
“I have to hand it to you, Professor. You were good. You covered your tracks well. But you made one mistake.”
He adjusted his grip on the gun, his finger gently covering the trigger and his smile faded.
“You don’t mess with a Winchester.”
The gun went off.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10