Fic: Vengeance (2/9)

[jedisapphire]

Chapter I: Pretending

Chapter II: Awakening

"Dean, please, call me."

Sam didn't bother saying more than that. Dean would know he was worried, and if that wasn't enough to make his big brother call him back, nothing would be.

Sam tried not to think about what would happen then.

He heard a sharp rapping that made him jump out of his skin. He felt silly a second later when he realized it was just someone knocking on the door.

Maybe it was Dean back early.

Sam almost ran to the door. He flung it open, just managing to suppress the disappointed exclamation when he saw that the man who was standing outside most definitely wasn't Dean. He was even shorter than Dean, to begin with. He had blond hair and startlingly blue eyes.

"Sam Winchester?" The man asked.

"Yeah. May I help you?"

"Mr. Winchester, may I come in? My name is Owen Ford."

Sam sighed. "Christo." The man's eyes stayed blue, although they now looked a little startled.

"I'm sorry, Christo? Is that a code word?"

"Wait here."

Sam shut the door, padded to his duffel, and pulled out a flask of holy water. He went back to the door and opened it again. "Here. Drink some."

"Is it -"

"Just water. Drink."

The startled expression on the man's face gave way to suspicion. He took the flask, sniffed it, shook it, and finally sipped tentatively. When nothing happened to him, he took a longer drink.

Sam took the flask back. "Wait here." He shut the door.

He grabbed a stick of chalk and, from memory, drew some symbols and runes in front of the door. If the man was some species of monster, he wouldn't be able to cross the threshold.

He opened the door, fully this time. "OK. Come in, Mr. Ford."

Owen Ford stepped inside, blue eyes darting around the room. He didn't react to anything, although the muzzle of a shotgun was poking out of the weapons bag and Sam's Taurus was in plain sight on his bed.

"So Jacob wasn't lying about this hunter thing," he said.

"I'm sorry, Jacob? You mean - the kid? Jacob? You know him?"

"You don't know? I thought he'd spoken to you," the man said. "You - I understand that you knew his mother. Amy." Sam nodded. The man went on, "Jacob is my son."

Sam stared. "Your son?"

"I thought you knew Amy had a son."

"Yeah, but I thought…" Sam trailed off. What had he thought? He'd known that Jacob had to have a father, obviously. He'd just, somehow, never thought about the guy specifically. "Never mind. How can I help you?"

"Mr. Winchester - may I call you Sam?" Sam nodded, and Owen went on, "I'm sure you've guessed that Amy and I weren't living together. We weren't estranged, you understand. We loved each other very much. It was just… I didn't know what she was, in the beginning, and she never told me. We were… careless. Amy didn't think that it mattered; she thought she couldn't get pregnant from… well, from a human."

Sam nodded again, encouraging the man to go on.

"When she realized she was pregnant - I can't describe how horrified she was. She'd never intended to bring a child of her own kind into the world. She didn't want to burden me with that. She told me everything. She wanted to leave, but I - I couldn't bear the idea. Monster or no monster, I loved her, and I would love our child. I told her it would be all right. We'd manage. She'd learnt to get by. She wasn't killing people. The child wouldn't kill people either. We'd live."

"But you weren't living together."

"No. When Jacob was born and Amy actually saw that he… that he wasn't human, she left. She said she couldn't… She didn't want to force me to live the life of a monster. I tried to stop her, Sam - I did. But she insisted. She didn't cut herself out of my life completely; she stayed in touch and she made sure Jacob knew me. She knew that with what she was, there was a good chance that hunters would come after her. She wanted Jacob to have someone to turn to if that happened."

"Owen -"

"I don't blame your brother. I… I don't think I'll ever be able to be friends with him or even like him, but I understand. I… freaked… when Amy told me the truth. That might be why she felt she had to leave when she realized Jacob was… different. By then I'd realized it was stupid - panicking - because I knew Amy."

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "I know what you mean. Amy wasn't human, but she wasn't a killer."

"She wasn't. And I knew that. Just like I know it about Jacob. My son isn't a killer, Sam."

"I understand."

"And I'm trying to help him. One of my friends specializes in arcane lore. Your kind of lore. She found something that might help. It might make Jacob normal. I was going to do it, but when I asked around for… for the materials, I wound up drawing the attention of some hunters. They came after us, figured out what Jacob was. I've tried to explain it to them, but they won't listen to me. Jacob's never killed anyone, and I've never killed anyone for him. We're not murderers. I have a friend who works in the coroner's office."

"Which hunters are after you?" Sam asked. "Do you know their names?"

"I don't know - they use fake names. But I do know they're nearby. Sam, we need your help. I need your help to save my son."

"Jacob spoke to me. I understand - believe me, I do. I want to help you. I just need -"

"Dean. Yes. He told me you wanted to speak to your brother first. Sam, just - look, I can bring Jacob here. You don't have to leave this room. I'll have him here in ten minutes. Just talk to him."

"Bring - wait." Sam frowned. "Jacob said he was in Boston. How are you going to have him here in ten minutes?"

Owen stared at him in silence for a moment before he shrugged. "You got me."

Sam was already reacting, getting to his feet and grabbing the Taurus, when Owen waved his arm. Evidently that was a signal, and evidently someone was watching for it, because less than a minute later the door had burst open and men were spilling into the room.

Big men. Armed men. More men than Sam could take out on his own.

Dean blinked his eyes open, squinting in the light that poured in through the French windows. The sun was doing horrible things to his aching head.

It had been an… exciting… night. Jasmine was experienced, and she didn't expect anything more than a one-night stand. She'd promised him pancakes for breakfast. Dean planned to eat, and then they could part ways amicably. He'd noticed a fancy bakery down the street where he could probably get something for a peace-offering for Sam.

Sam.

Dean rubbed his forehead, trying to think through the hangover. He really, really hoped Sam wasn't there when he got back to the motel room. It would make it a lot easier if Sam had gone for coffee or one of his morning runs and Dean could get cleaned up and have his excuses ready before he had to face his brother.

He could hear Jasmine moving around - probably getting those pancakes ready.

He got to his feet and staggered into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later he stumbled out. His head still hurt and his mouth still felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton, but he could at least see straight.

Something was nagging at him, though, and he couldn't tell what. Something was wrong - very wrong. He tried to figure it out, but his brain refused to process anything beyond the desire for coffee.

All that whiskey had been a bad idea.

Jasmine was flipping the first pancake when Dean entered the kitchen. She smiled at him, although with that unnamed something nagging at him, it didn't seem quite as brilliant as it had yesterday.

Dean smiled politely back at her.

"Sleep well?" Jasmine asked.

"Yeah. Hey, do you have any coffee?"

"Second cabinet from the left. The percolator's there, too."

"Thanks. You want any?"

"Sure. You any good at making coffee?"

"My brother says I'm awesome." Dean grinned at her, but it was forced, and the nagging feeling was stronger than ever. He pushed it down - he'd deal with it when he could actually think again - and opened the cabinet. Eight different boxes of coffee stared at him from the shelf. "Huh. So you like coffee." He examined the boxes. "Javan blend? My brother would love this place."

Again the nagging feeling; again Dean pushed it down as Jasmine said, "Use the Italian roast."

"Yes, ma'am."

By the time he'd figured out the fancy percolator (seriously, Sam would love this place), the pancakes were done. He and Jasmine sat down to breakfast.

"You worried about something?" Jasmine asked as she passed him the syrup. "You look worried."

"Nothing, it's just… I didn't tell my brother I'd be out all night."

"You have a big brother?"

"Little brother." Dean smiled, sipping at his coffee. "He's a nagging little bitch. And he worries. And I usually call him when I'm not planning to come home, so he won't wait up for me. I… kind of forgot, last night."

Dean felt himself redden, even though it wasn't entirely a lie. He had been planning to let Sam know he'd be late - the kid might be a whiny brat, but Dean didn't want to make him actually worry, especially not with what he was dealing with already.

But Jasmine had tired him out, and he'd shut his eyes, meaning to rest a few minutes before he called Sam, and…

Yeah.

"Take him some pancakes," Jasmine offered. "I made extra. That might cheer him up."

Dean drank some more coffee.

It was clearing his head - and the nagging feeling, instead of going away, was stronger than ever.

But now, he could identify it.

It was his big-brother radar going off - the awful, numbing, terrifying certainty that Sam was away from him and in trouble.

Sam had been calling him.

Dean's hands tightened around his mug.

Sam was whiny and bitchy enough for ten people, but it wasn't like him to keep at it long after he'd realized Dean wasn't going to answer. He'd be likelier to leave Dean a snarky message telling him about the diseases he was going to catch and then sulk until Dean got him a new book.

If Sam had kept trying him that incessantly, that desperately, then he'd needed Dean.

He'd needed Dean. And Dean hadn't picked up the phone. Dean, after yelling at Sam, hurting Sam, implying he didn't trust Sam, had walked out and not answered when Sam had called.

"Dean?" Jasmine asked. "Something wrong?"

"My phone." Dean was feeling frantically in his pockets. He had to talk to Sam. He had to hear Sam's voice. He had to know Sam was OK. Sam would be mad as hell, of course, but it didn't matter. He could deal with that. As long as Sam was OK, he could deal with anything. "Where is it?"

"I think you left it on the table in the bedroom. Do you need to make a call?"

Dean didn't bother to answer. He flung himself across the hall into the bedroom and grabbed his phone.

It was flashing.

Voicemail.

Sammy had been trying to contact him. Sammy had needed him.

The clawing in his gut intensified until he felt nauseated. Sammy had needed him, and he'd ignored his phone because they'd fought and he'd been worried about what his little brother might have to say about his drinking habits.

Please be OK. Dean's fingers were trembling as he pressed the keys to access his voicemail. Please be OK. You can bitch at me all you want, just please be OK.

He put the phone to his ear.

You can listen to your girly music forever. Just be OK.

"Dean," Sam's voice said in his ear. "I need to talk to you, man. Call me."

Fine. That was normal. Not a sign of trouble.

Dean went on to the next message.

"Why the hell aren't you answering your phone, moron? I need to talk to you. It's important."

Sam had sounded pissed, and a little worried, but not like he was in trouble. That was OK. Pissed and worried Dean could deal with.

"Dean, what the hell? Are you planning to sulk all night? Call me!"

A little more pissed and a lot more worried, but still not in trouble.

Still not in trouble.

"Dean, are you freaking insane? I don't care how drunk you are, you answer your damn phone when I call you."

A lot more pissed. And something else. Something Dean couldn't identify but that sent a tendril of fear curling through his gut.

Fingers trembling, Dean pressed the button again.

"Dean." Sam's voice was shaking now. "Call me back. I just need to know you're OK. Please."

Dean pressed the button for the last time.

"Dean, please. Call me."

Dean swallowed. He could brush off the first few messages as Sam being bitchy, but the last two? That had been naked pleading in Sam's voice.

Sam had needed him.

Then he glanced at the time of the last message.

11:23

Over eight hours ago.

Sam had last contacted him over eight hours ago, begging Dean to call, and there'd been nothing since then. No voicemail, no missed call, no pissy text calling Dean a man-whore who hadn't used his upstairs brain since 1992.

Nothing.

The bad feeling in his gut intensified to full-blown panic.

"No," Dean breathed, hand shaking so much that it took three tries before he could press Speed Dial 1. "No, come on. You're OK, Sam. You have to be OK. You don't get to do this to me. Be OK."

Dean couldn't hold back a bitter laugh at the irony of the situation when the call rolled to voicemail.

Chapter III: Desperation