The Vision Giver: Chapter Four
He was on the floor.
That was the first thing Sam realized when he woke up. Carpet pressed against his shoulder blades. Not the plush kind, but the thin crap that only passed as carpet because it was warmer than no carpet at all.
He turned his head, struggling to open his eyes. A headache was raging just behind his forehead. The remains of a vision beat it by far, but he was exhausted enough to moan in protest. Enough pain. Uncle.
Opening his eyes, he gazed around. A motel room. Why he was there was another matter entirely.
Something clinked when he shifted. Blinking hard, he turned his attention to… handcuffs. Huh. He was handcuffed to a radiator. Okay.
Come on, brain, he mentally encouraged. Work.
Bits and pieces began coming back to him. He'd been driving with Dean, feeling like crap. They stopped for the night, and then-
Oh. The bikers.
For lack of a better term, their aggression infected him. He'd lashed out at Dean because he hadn't wanted to wear handcuffs. That had worked out great.
He gingerly sat up. New aches and pains were prevalent. His eye was swollen where Dean had sucker punched him. But it could have been worse. The lights were on. Dean was gone. And according to the digital clock on the nightstand, less than twenty minutes had passed since they'd arrived, which meant Dean wouldn't be coming back for a while.
Sam tugged on the handcuffs. The radiator was old, but that wasn't a good thing. It was built like a tank. He gave another tug, this time with more force. Nothing. He couldn't pick the lock, displace the radiator, or yell for help. It was time to stop overthinking this and just do what needed to be done. Before Dean returned.
He grimaced as he rested his cuffed hand on the floor. There was no other way. As he lined up his foot to dislocate his thumb, Sam couldn't help but realize that he didn't even hate Dean. This wasn't about Dean. The guy was rough around the edges, but he was better than half the owners Sam had served. No… this was about location and timing.
As soon as they'd crossed the California state line, Sam's thoughts had drifted to Stanford. To Jessica. He needed to see her. It had been years. Years of having visions for hunters and their mentors. And for what? Was Jessica even happy? If he didn't find out soon, he'd go batshit crazy.
Breathing heavily, Sam raised his heel and slammed it down onto his hand.
"Je-sus Christ," he cursed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut against the pain. His hand throbbed. He was out of practice. Completely missed the thumb.
A choked laugh escaped before he lined up his hand to try again. Aim was key.
This time, there was an audible crack when his foot made contact. Along with a clink as the handcuffs chain broke.
Sam held up his hand, staring dumbly at the cuff and broken link. Seriously?
He'd missed the thumb again, breaking at least one metacarpal. Pins and needles spread over the top of his hand. It was already starting to swell and his fingers were stiff. He should have counted himself lucky. At least it was his left hand.
Climbing to his feet, Sam was surprised when his knees almost gave out. The fight must have taken more out of him than he thought. He stared around the room, momentarily dazed to be free.
That is, until he saw the remains of the giant burrito Dean bought earlier, neatly wrapped on the side table. He dove for it, almost knocking the table over. His shaking hands make quick work of the wrapper. Then he was wolfing down mouthful after mouthful of beans, onions, cheese, and sauce. All wrapped in soft tortilla goodness. It should have been refrigerated hours ago, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. It was solid food and it was perfect.
And he was thirsty.
The burrito wrapper fell from his hands. He walked into the bathroom to discover cheap paper cups stacked beside the sink. With a scoff, he ignored them and stuck his mouth under the faucet. Cool, soothing water trickled down his throat. So simple. So vital.
Feeling his insides give a telltale shift, he made use of the toilet when he was done drinking. It was about freakin' time, too. Maybe he'd gotten a little too used to all the fiber in health food.
Basic needs taken care of, he shook off the wave of drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him. Dean could be back at any moment.
He crossed the room to the duffel bags. Surely Dean had a shaving kit of some sort. After digging around, he found a shopping bag of brand new toiletries. No doubt his own. There wasn't a razor, but he snatched one from Dean's kit before returning to the bathroom. The handcuff jingled around his wrist as he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. It was awkward with one hand, but he looked less like a raving lunatic when he was done. He could blend into a crowd now.
The nasty stuff came next. Ever so carefully, he removed the blades from the razor. His tracking chip needed to come out. There was no way Dean wouldn't find him and drag him back to the motel otherwise.
Bracing himself, Sam felt for the bump on the back of his neck. The chip was just below the skin, so he wouldn't need to cut too deep. With a shaky inhale, he yanked the razor to the right. The sharp pain wasn't a surprise, nor the blood trickling into his shirt collar. But he grit his teeth, breaths growing heavy when he was forced to worm his fingernails into the wound.
"Come on. Where are you?"
The chip was higher than he thought.
Bloody fingerprints lined the sink as time ticked on. He dragged the razor over his skin two, three, four more times. Finally, he was able to yank the device from his skin. It slipped from his fingers and pinged against the bathroom floor.
For all the pain it had caused him, it didn't look like anything special. It resembled a thin, square memory card. There were numbers stamped into it. Sam bent down to take a closer look. He'd been drugged when it was inserted, and as such, he'd never seen it before.
A sudden thump against the motel room door stole his attention. Head jerking up, Sam automatically took shelter against the bathroom wall, praying Dean hadn't returned. His heart pounded harder, legs tensed to run. When no further sound accompanied the thump, he chalked it up to unsteady drunks on their way back to their room.
The urgency of the situation struck him anew. He hurried over to the duffel and dumped it, choosing the warmest clothes he could find. His limbs were weak and uncooperative, especially his numb broken hand, but he managed to strip and put on the clothes without too much trouble. There was still the problem of shoes, however. He'd just need to wear dark wool socks for now, and hope no one noticed.
His toiletries went into the empty duffel. So did some extra clothes and juice boxes. Dean hadn't left any cash or weapons behind. The only logical place to keep weapons was in the car, but he hadn't left the Impala keys either. It didn't matter. Sam would fare well enough with what he had.
There was a map of local attractions on the table. It only detailed roads leading to things like the local history museum. Again, it was better than nothing. He wouldn't know which direction to walk if he didn't know where he was.
Hand tingling, neck bleeding, Sam zipped the duffel bag and stepped into the night.
Dean was feeling good as he sauntered across the parking lot. Sure, his ribs ached, but he'd had a couple beers - on the house, thanks to one babe of a bartender - and he'd come out a couple hundred bucks ahead in pool. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to buy Sam a cheap suit. Sam needed to dress professionally if he was to come along on this cursed mirror hunt.
Someone from the bar called out to him, praising him for his game. That didn't happen often enough. He briefly turned with a wave of acknowledgement, steps distancing him from the bar. Cold air seeped under his jacket and he pulled it tightly around himself.
The line of motel rooms was dark, except for the room he'd left Sam in. He was pissed with his attitude, but leaving him in the dark had seemed cruel. And anyway, the glow was a much-needed beacon when he was buzzed and flying high on victory.
He reached inside his pocket for the room key. As he approached the door, Dean felt the warmth of stale heat from within. Thank God. It was cold as balls outside.
The smile on his face died when he opened the door.
Shit, shit, shit…
His eyes darted around, taking in the handcuff attached to the radiator, the scattered pile of folded clothes, the pile of Sam's clothes… was that blood on the shirt? Dean's stomach dropped. He whipped out his gun, expression hardening. Had some disgruntled hunter or huntee broken into the room and abducted Sam? Perhaps someone who needed visions as badly as he did?
Call it instinct or training, but after hunting for most of his life, he knew when to heed the feeling of dread spreading through him. He was unprepared for the protectiveness it mingled with. Sam's previous owners had abused him. If one of them had him now…
Dean's footsteps were almost silent as he made his way to the bathroom. The lights were off, but that didn't mean shit. When he flipped on the light switch, the dread in his gut was replaced by anger.
Blood was everywhere. It pooled between tiles and dotted the counter. Bloody fingerprints lined the sink rim and faucet. His razor had been dismantled, blades splattered with crimson. He snatched up a white washcloth, now stained, struggling to absorb the scene. The blood could only be Sam's. If someone had harmed him, Dean would find them and offer some words of wisdom. Maybe he'd return the favor while he was at it.
Something glinted on the floor. What the hell?
He bent to retrieve a metal plate of some kind. Stamped with a serial number, it was partially bent, as if it had been pried…
His skin went cold. As if it had been pried from a body.
Dean was reaching for his cell phone even before he decided if Sam had done it himself, or if someone had done it for him. There was no way to know for sure. He hadn't received a voice message with any demands, and if Sam had run, he might have had the smarts to ditch his tracking chip first. But the handcuffs chain had been snapped in two. Sam didn't have that kind of strength. Did he?
Dean held the phone to his ear as he wandered back into the room. Clothes everywhere, what a mess-
A wrapper crinkled under his boot. He instantly recognized it as the burrito wrapper.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, tossing the gun onto the nearest bed. Unless Sam's abductors had a hankering for Mexican food, the wrapper could only mean one thing: Sam had escaped on his own. Anger sparked through him again. He was pissed at Sam, but if he was completely honest with himself, he was even more pissed at himself for leaving him alone. It was icy out there. Sam didn't even have shoes, damn it.
"What?" a gruff voice barked through the phone. "Someone better be missing or dead."
"Bobby, don't hang up."
"Dean? You have any idea what time it is? I ain't as young as I used to be. It's damned hard to fall asleep-"
"I need you to help me find someone. I've been working with someone new, and well-" He gripped the phone until his knuckles were white. Bobby didn't approve of hunters who purchased Givers. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the man who'd been like a father to him. Maybe he should leave the details out. At least until he figured out how to break the news. Preferably without being disowned.
"You got a partner?" Bobby yawned. Pages shifted in the background, like he'd fallen asleep at his desk again. "Didn't think you needed back up. You've been denying it for the last two months, even when I've had to personally rescue your ass."
"Yeah, um…" Dean ran a hand over his head. "I guess you could say I've got a partner. He's trying to locate a Giver who could help us, but all we've got is a number on an extracted tracking chip. Think you could help us?"
He could almost see Bobby's posture stiffen. "We talking about a stolen Giver or a runaway?"
"Runaway, we think."
"Now, son," Bobby warned, "I don't know who you're working with, but using a Giver - especially a claimed one - to help you solve a case is a slippery slope. One case becomes two, then three. Before you know it, you don't remember how to hunt without them. Usually around the time their owner shows up."
"Come on, give me a little credit." Dean closed his eyes, feeling like dirt. "I know most hunters who partner with Givers are bad news. I've got watch, all right?"
There was a sigh on the end of the line. It carried a weight that would have intrigued Dean at any other time. But time wasn't something he could afford to waste right now.
"Bobby," he prompted.
"Hold your horses, boy, I'm grabbing a pen." A drawer slammed. "Give me the number. I'll call in a few favors and trace it back to the Giver. It won't tell us where the Giver is, but it might tell us where they hail from. You never know. They might be bold enough to seek out old friends."
"Thanks, Bobby."
Dean snapped the phone shut without waiting for a response. The only thing he could do now was pack up the Impala. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found Sam. If someone had told him a couple months ago that he'd spend tonight searching the streets like a worried parent searching for their child, he might have laughed.
But he wasn't laughing now.
Back to Chapter Three On to Chapter Five
The Vision Giver Masterpost
That was the first thing Sam realized when he woke up. Carpet pressed against his shoulder blades. Not the plush kind, but the thin crap that only passed as carpet because it was warmer than no carpet at all.
He turned his head, struggling to open his eyes. A headache was raging just behind his forehead. The remains of a vision beat it by far, but he was exhausted enough to moan in protest. Enough pain. Uncle.
Opening his eyes, he gazed around. A motel room. Why he was there was another matter entirely.
Something clinked when he shifted. Blinking hard, he turned his attention to… handcuffs. Huh. He was handcuffed to a radiator. Okay.
Come on, brain, he mentally encouraged. Work.
Bits and pieces began coming back to him. He'd been driving with Dean, feeling like crap. They stopped for the night, and then-
Oh. The bikers.
For lack of a better term, their aggression infected him. He'd lashed out at Dean because he hadn't wanted to wear handcuffs. That had worked out great.
He gingerly sat up. New aches and pains were prevalent. His eye was swollen where Dean had sucker punched him. But it could have been worse. The lights were on. Dean was gone. And according to the digital clock on the nightstand, less than twenty minutes had passed since they'd arrived, which meant Dean wouldn't be coming back for a while.
Sam tugged on the handcuffs. The radiator was old, but that wasn't a good thing. It was built like a tank. He gave another tug, this time with more force. Nothing. He couldn't pick the lock, displace the radiator, or yell for help. It was time to stop overthinking this and just do what needed to be done. Before Dean returned.
He grimaced as he rested his cuffed hand on the floor. There was no other way. As he lined up his foot to dislocate his thumb, Sam couldn't help but realize that he didn't even hate Dean. This wasn't about Dean. The guy was rough around the edges, but he was better than half the owners Sam had served. No… this was about location and timing.
As soon as they'd crossed the California state line, Sam's thoughts had drifted to Stanford. To Jessica. He needed to see her. It had been years. Years of having visions for hunters and their mentors. And for what? Was Jessica even happy? If he didn't find out soon, he'd go batshit crazy.
Breathing heavily, Sam raised his heel and slammed it down onto his hand.
"Je-sus Christ," he cursed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut against the pain. His hand throbbed. He was out of practice. Completely missed the thumb.
A choked laugh escaped before he lined up his hand to try again. Aim was key.
This time, there was an audible crack when his foot made contact. Along with a clink as the handcuffs chain broke.
Sam held up his hand, staring dumbly at the cuff and broken link. Seriously?
He'd missed the thumb again, breaking at least one metacarpal. Pins and needles spread over the top of his hand. It was already starting to swell and his fingers were stiff. He should have counted himself lucky. At least it was his left hand.
Climbing to his feet, Sam was surprised when his knees almost gave out. The fight must have taken more out of him than he thought. He stared around the room, momentarily dazed to be free.
That is, until he saw the remains of the giant burrito Dean bought earlier, neatly wrapped on the side table. He dove for it, almost knocking the table over. His shaking hands make quick work of the wrapper. Then he was wolfing down mouthful after mouthful of beans, onions, cheese, and sauce. All wrapped in soft tortilla goodness. It should have been refrigerated hours ago, but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he discarded it. It was solid food and it was perfect.
And he was thirsty.
The burrito wrapper fell from his hands. He walked into the bathroom to discover cheap paper cups stacked beside the sink. With a scoff, he ignored them and stuck his mouth under the faucet. Cool, soothing water trickled down his throat. So simple. So vital.
Feeling his insides give a telltale shift, he made use of the toilet when he was done drinking. It was about freakin' time, too. Maybe he'd gotten a little too used to all the fiber in health food.
Basic needs taken care of, he shook off the wave of drowsiness that threatened to overwhelm him. Dean could be back at any moment.
He crossed the room to the duffel bags. Surely Dean had a shaving kit of some sort. After digging around, he found a shopping bag of brand new toiletries. No doubt his own. There wasn't a razor, but he snatched one from Dean's kit before returning to the bathroom. The handcuff jingled around his wrist as he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. It was awkward with one hand, but he looked less like a raving lunatic when he was done. He could blend into a crowd now.
The nasty stuff came next. Ever so carefully, he removed the blades from the razor. His tracking chip needed to come out. There was no way Dean wouldn't find him and drag him back to the motel otherwise.
Bracing himself, Sam felt for the bump on the back of his neck. The chip was just below the skin, so he wouldn't need to cut too deep. With a shaky inhale, he yanked the razor to the right. The sharp pain wasn't a surprise, nor the blood trickling into his shirt collar. But he grit his teeth, breaths growing heavy when he was forced to worm his fingernails into the wound.
"Come on. Where are you?"
The chip was higher than he thought.
Bloody fingerprints lined the sink as time ticked on. He dragged the razor over his skin two, three, four more times. Finally, he was able to yank the device from his skin. It slipped from his fingers and pinged against the bathroom floor.
For all the pain it had caused him, it didn't look like anything special. It resembled a thin, square memory card. There were numbers stamped into it. Sam bent down to take a closer look. He'd been drugged when it was inserted, and as such, he'd never seen it before.
A sudden thump against the motel room door stole his attention. Head jerking up, Sam automatically took shelter against the bathroom wall, praying Dean hadn't returned. His heart pounded harder, legs tensed to run. When no further sound accompanied the thump, he chalked it up to unsteady drunks on their way back to their room.
The urgency of the situation struck him anew. He hurried over to the duffel and dumped it, choosing the warmest clothes he could find. His limbs were weak and uncooperative, especially his numb broken hand, but he managed to strip and put on the clothes without too much trouble. There was still the problem of shoes, however. He'd just need to wear dark wool socks for now, and hope no one noticed.
His toiletries went into the empty duffel. So did some extra clothes and juice boxes. Dean hadn't left any cash or weapons behind. The only logical place to keep weapons was in the car, but he hadn't left the Impala keys either. It didn't matter. Sam would fare well enough with what he had.
There was a map of local attractions on the table. It only detailed roads leading to things like the local history museum. Again, it was better than nothing. He wouldn't know which direction to walk if he didn't know where he was.
Hand tingling, neck bleeding, Sam zipped the duffel bag and stepped into the night.
Dean was feeling good as he sauntered across the parking lot. Sure, his ribs ached, but he'd had a couple beers - on the house, thanks to one babe of a bartender - and he'd come out a couple hundred bucks ahead in pool. It wasn't a fortune, but it was enough to buy Sam a cheap suit. Sam needed to dress professionally if he was to come along on this cursed mirror hunt.
Someone from the bar called out to him, praising him for his game. That didn't happen often enough. He briefly turned with a wave of acknowledgement, steps distancing him from the bar. Cold air seeped under his jacket and he pulled it tightly around himself.
The line of motel rooms was dark, except for the room he'd left Sam in. He was pissed with his attitude, but leaving him in the dark had seemed cruel. And anyway, the glow was a much-needed beacon when he was buzzed and flying high on victory.
He reached inside his pocket for the room key. As he approached the door, Dean felt the warmth of stale heat from within. Thank God. It was cold as balls outside.
The smile on his face died when he opened the door.
Shit, shit, shit…
His eyes darted around, taking in the handcuff attached to the radiator, the scattered pile of folded clothes, the pile of Sam's clothes… was that blood on the shirt? Dean's stomach dropped. He whipped out his gun, expression hardening. Had some disgruntled hunter or huntee broken into the room and abducted Sam? Perhaps someone who needed visions as badly as he did?
Call it instinct or training, but after hunting for most of his life, he knew when to heed the feeling of dread spreading through him. He was unprepared for the protectiveness it mingled with. Sam's previous owners had abused him. If one of them had him now…
Dean's footsteps were almost silent as he made his way to the bathroom. The lights were off, but that didn't mean shit. When he flipped on the light switch, the dread in his gut was replaced by anger.
Blood was everywhere. It pooled between tiles and dotted the counter. Bloody fingerprints lined the sink rim and faucet. His razor had been dismantled, blades splattered with crimson. He snatched up a white washcloth, now stained, struggling to absorb the scene. The blood could only be Sam's. If someone had harmed him, Dean would find them and offer some words of wisdom. Maybe he'd return the favor while he was at it.
Something glinted on the floor. What the hell?
He bent to retrieve a metal plate of some kind. Stamped with a serial number, it was partially bent, as if it had been pried…
His skin went cold. As if it had been pried from a body.
Dean was reaching for his cell phone even before he decided if Sam had done it himself, or if someone had done it for him. There was no way to know for sure. He hadn't received a voice message with any demands, and if Sam had run, he might have had the smarts to ditch his tracking chip first. But the handcuffs chain had been snapped in two. Sam didn't have that kind of strength. Did he?
Dean held the phone to his ear as he wandered back into the room. Clothes everywhere, what a mess-
A wrapper crinkled under his boot. He instantly recognized it as the burrito wrapper.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, tossing the gun onto the nearest bed. Unless Sam's abductors had a hankering for Mexican food, the wrapper could only mean one thing: Sam had escaped on his own. Anger sparked through him again. He was pissed at Sam, but if he was completely honest with himself, he was even more pissed at himself for leaving him alone. It was icy out there. Sam didn't even have shoes, damn it.
"What?" a gruff voice barked through the phone. "Someone better be missing or dead."
"Bobby, don't hang up."
"Dean? You have any idea what time it is? I ain't as young as I used to be. It's damned hard to fall asleep-"
"I need you to help me find someone. I've been working with someone new, and well-" He gripped the phone until his knuckles were white. Bobby didn't approve of hunters who purchased Givers. The last thing he wanted was to disappoint the man who'd been like a father to him. Maybe he should leave the details out. At least until he figured out how to break the news. Preferably without being disowned.
"You got a partner?" Bobby yawned. Pages shifted in the background, like he'd fallen asleep at his desk again. "Didn't think you needed back up. You've been denying it for the last two months, even when I've had to personally rescue your ass."
"Yeah, um…" Dean ran a hand over his head. "I guess you could say I've got a partner. He's trying to locate a Giver who could help us, but all we've got is a number on an extracted tracking chip. Think you could help us?"
He could almost see Bobby's posture stiffen. "We talking about a stolen Giver or a runaway?"
"Runaway, we think."
"Now, son," Bobby warned, "I don't know who you're working with, but using a Giver - especially a claimed one - to help you solve a case is a slippery slope. One case becomes two, then three. Before you know it, you don't remember how to hunt without them. Usually around the time their owner shows up."
"Come on, give me a little credit." Dean closed his eyes, feeling like dirt. "I know most hunters who partner with Givers are bad news. I've got watch, all right?"
There was a sigh on the end of the line. It carried a weight that would have intrigued Dean at any other time. But time wasn't something he could afford to waste right now.
"Bobby," he prompted.
"Hold your horses, boy, I'm grabbing a pen." A drawer slammed. "Give me the number. I'll call in a few favors and trace it back to the Giver. It won't tell us where the Giver is, but it might tell us where they hail from. You never know. They might be bold enough to seek out old friends."
"Thanks, Bobby."
Dean snapped the phone shut without waiting for a response. The only thing he could do now was pack up the Impala. He wouldn't be able to sleep until he found Sam. If someone had told him a couple months ago that he'd spend tonight searching the streets like a worried parent searching for their child, he might have laughed.
But he wasn't laughing now.
Back to Chapter Three On to Chapter Five
The Vision Giver Masterpost