Life is a Highway 2/3
Title: Life is a Highway
Pairing: none
Warnings: Mention of child prostitution and non-con
They cut the ropes and manhandle him out of the chair. For one brief, crazed moment Stevie considers making a break for it, but this isn't like last time, when it was just the gun tipping the precarious balance of power between him and a couple of scrawny kids.
"Look," he says again as Sam binds his hands tightly behind his back. "I'm sorry, okay? What I did, it was wrong. I'm in therapy."
"I bet," Dean says from the kitchenette. He's immersed in some bizarre ritual involving a box of salt, several empty buckshot shells, and another pistol-grip shotgun, the twin of the one Sam now has slung casually over one shoulder. "I'm sure those photos we found on your computer were just part of your self-actualization process, right?"
"We ransacked your apartment," Sam explains helpfully, with an extra-hard yank on the rope.
Stevie spent two weeks perfecting the protection on those files. These two can't have been in his apartment more than a couple of hours. This is looking less and less like revenge and more like--he doesn't even know what the hell it looks like. "Who are you people?"
"If I were you," Dean says, "I'd shut the hell up before we decide to shove another one of Sam's socks in your mouth. His feet can get pretty nasty."
"Toe-jam," Sam agrees solemnly, and Dean snorts.
"Coast clear?"
Sam twitches the curtain to one side and glances out. Over his shoulder, Stevie can see a parking lot dimly lit by yellow streetlamps. There's an old black muscle car parked right in front of the window, but other than that the lot is empty. "We're good. You done?"
Dean loads six shells into the shotgun and pockets the rest. "Yeah. Let's get out of here before King Pervert here decides to start making trouble."
His voice is rich with disgust, and so is the pointed glare he directs at Stevie as he holsters his gun. It makes Stevie want to say something snide. Like Dean's such a goddamn saint; bastard kidnaps him, breaks into his apartment and hacks into his computer and he still thinks he's got some kind of moral high ground. Fucking hypocrite.
He's a fucking hypocrite with a gun, though, so Stevie keeps his mouth shut as they haul him out to the car, doesn't even struggle when Dean shoves him into the backseat. It smells like old leather and burning plastic, and he can feel as much as hear the sound of the big V8 engine rumbling to life.
Sam's driving, and Dean fiddles with the tape deck, cranking up Metallica until Stevie's ears pop. He can still hear shreds of their conversation, but it might as well be code for all the sense he can make of it.
"--hunters, not police officers and I'm not doing the vigilante justice thing, okay?"
"Vigilante justice?" Dean's drumming his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, but the rest of his body is tense and still. "Dude, our whole job is vigilante justice. I can't believe we're actually having this conversation now."
Sam says something else to that, but a pothole jars Stevie's head against the window, and the world spins out like a tape on a loose reel. It's several minutes before his surroundings slide back into place again.
"--killed him in the first place," Dean is saying.
"We don't know that." There's a kind of long-suffering patience in Sam's voice that makes Stevie think that this is his usual role, running interference for Dean.
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
A snort. "Yeah. Whatever."
"Dean, I'm serious. Whatever he did to you--"
"You saw what he did to me."
"Not everything," Sam says in a subdued voice. "I didn't see everything."
"Jesus Christ," Dean explodes. "What do you need, the Oprah monologue?"
"All I'm saying is--"
"It was enough, okay? Shawn Fenton is dead, and this scumbag had something to do with it. I know it. And if anyone else dies over this, I swear to God--"
"...okay," Sam sighs. Stevie, blinking and groaning and clawing his way up to awareness, can hear the resignation in his voice.
Clearly, Dean can too. "Don't fucking humor me, Sammy."
Stevie pushes himself into a sitting position, and the grunt that escapes his teeth at the effort seems to remind the two of them of his presence. Dean stiffens, then tosses a sharp smirk over his shoulder.
"How you doing back there, Stevie? Comfy?"
A semi truck rushes by in the other lane, headlights turning the trees on either side of the road into tall, glowing phantoms silhouetted against the night. This is the same highway he drove down all those years ago with fourteen-year-old Dean holding a gun on him and little Sammy guzzling soda in the back seat. He hasn't been on this road in years. Not since--
He's not thinking about that. He never knew the boy's name, but he still remembers the smooth blond hair and delicate, fluting bones, the soft mouth and too-pretty eyes. Like Dean had, back when they first met and before adulthood fucked him up.
It was an accident. An accident. He never meant to hurt anybody, but the boy struggled, and then the boy choked, and there was nothing he could do. It's not his fault. It's not.
He buried the little body out on a lonely stretch of highway, not far from here.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," he whispers.
In the front seat, Dean laughs harshly. "Oh, now we get to it."
Sam slaps his leg, hard, and catches Stevie's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Where did you bury him, Steve?" he asks urgently. "Where's the body?"
"Why should I tell you? You're just gonna kill me anyway."
"We're not going to kill you," Sam says in that same earnest, trust-me voice.
"That's debatable," Dean mutters.
"Dean, shut up."
"If I tell you, will you let me go?" He knows it's a desperate ploy, but if he can get them to let him out of the car, maybe he can get back to town before they call the police. Maybe call the police on them instead. He's a good, upstanding citizen; the sheriff will take his word over that of a couple of filthy drifters.
Dean twists in his seat to face Stevie. The dull glow of the dashboard lights carves deep shadows under his cheekbones and into the cleft of his chin. He looks like the flawed, fucked-up older ghost of the boy Stevie picked up in a roadside diner all those years ago, right down to the incredulous smile twisting his mouth. "Just how stupid do you think we are?"
Stevie licks his lips. "I didn't mean to hurt that kid. Shawn Fenton, right? It was an accident, okay? I don't want any trouble--"
"Sucks to be you, Stevie, because you got a shitload of trouble right now."
"He choked," Stevie says desperately. "I swear to God, it was an accident. I never hurt anybody else--"
"Funny, that's not how I remember it."
"I wasn't going to hurt you. I was going to pay--"
He doesn't even see Dean move, but suddenly the muzzle of the .45 is resting on the bridge of his nose. The barrel looks huge from this angle, and the rest of his sentence dies in his throat.
"You are one sick son of a bitch." Dean sounds almost amazed, but his grip on the gun is steady. "You have any idea how many accidents that kid has caused because of what you did?"
What the hell are you talking about, Stevie wants to say, but his mouth might as well be locked shut. Dean stares at him for several more seconds, then shakes his head, lowers the gun, and turns back around. Sam murmurs something that Stevie can't hear, and for the next several miles there's silence.
And then the boy appears.
Part 1
Part 3
Pairing: none
Warnings: Mention of child prostitution and non-con
They cut the ropes and manhandle him out of the chair. For one brief, crazed moment Stevie considers making a break for it, but this isn't like last time, when it was just the gun tipping the precarious balance of power between him and a couple of scrawny kids.
"Look," he says again as Sam binds his hands tightly behind his back. "I'm sorry, okay? What I did, it was wrong. I'm in therapy."
"I bet," Dean says from the kitchenette. He's immersed in some bizarre ritual involving a box of salt, several empty buckshot shells, and another pistol-grip shotgun, the twin of the one Sam now has slung casually over one shoulder. "I'm sure those photos we found on your computer were just part of your self-actualization process, right?"
"We ransacked your apartment," Sam explains helpfully, with an extra-hard yank on the rope.
Stevie spent two weeks perfecting the protection on those files. These two can't have been in his apartment more than a couple of hours. This is looking less and less like revenge and more like--he doesn't even know what the hell it looks like. "Who are you people?"
"If I were you," Dean says, "I'd shut the hell up before we decide to shove another one of Sam's socks in your mouth. His feet can get pretty nasty."
"Toe-jam," Sam agrees solemnly, and Dean snorts.
"Coast clear?"
Sam twitches the curtain to one side and glances out. Over his shoulder, Stevie can see a parking lot dimly lit by yellow streetlamps. There's an old black muscle car parked right in front of the window, but other than that the lot is empty. "We're good. You done?"
Dean loads six shells into the shotgun and pockets the rest. "Yeah. Let's get out of here before King Pervert here decides to start making trouble."
His voice is rich with disgust, and so is the pointed glare he directs at Stevie as he holsters his gun. It makes Stevie want to say something snide. Like Dean's such a goddamn saint; bastard kidnaps him, breaks into his apartment and hacks into his computer and he still thinks he's got some kind of moral high ground. Fucking hypocrite.
He's a fucking hypocrite with a gun, though, so Stevie keeps his mouth shut as they haul him out to the car, doesn't even struggle when Dean shoves him into the backseat. It smells like old leather and burning plastic, and he can feel as much as hear the sound of the big V8 engine rumbling to life.
Sam's driving, and Dean fiddles with the tape deck, cranking up Metallica until Stevie's ears pop. He can still hear shreds of their conversation, but it might as well be code for all the sense he can make of it.
"--hunters, not police officers and I'm not doing the vigilante justice thing, okay?"
"Vigilante justice?" Dean's drumming his fingers rhythmically against the armrest, but the rest of his body is tense and still. "Dude, our whole job is vigilante justice. I can't believe we're actually having this conversation now."
Sam says something else to that, but a pothole jars Stevie's head against the window, and the world spins out like a tape on a loose reel. It's several minutes before his surroundings slide back into place again.
"--killed him in the first place," Dean is saying.
"We don't know that." There's a kind of long-suffering patience in Sam's voice that makes Stevie think that this is his usual role, running interference for Dean.
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you."
A snort. "Yeah. Whatever."
"Dean, I'm serious. Whatever he did to you--"
"You saw what he did to me."
"Not everything," Sam says in a subdued voice. "I didn't see everything."
"Jesus Christ," Dean explodes. "What do you need, the Oprah monologue?"
"All I'm saying is--"
"It was enough, okay? Shawn Fenton is dead, and this scumbag had something to do with it. I know it. And if anyone else dies over this, I swear to God--"
"...okay," Sam sighs. Stevie, blinking and groaning and clawing his way up to awareness, can hear the resignation in his voice.
Clearly, Dean can too. "Don't fucking humor me, Sammy."
Stevie pushes himself into a sitting position, and the grunt that escapes his teeth at the effort seems to remind the two of them of his presence. Dean stiffens, then tosses a sharp smirk over his shoulder.
"How you doing back there, Stevie? Comfy?"
A semi truck rushes by in the other lane, headlights turning the trees on either side of the road into tall, glowing phantoms silhouetted against the night. This is the same highway he drove down all those years ago with fourteen-year-old Dean holding a gun on him and little Sammy guzzling soda in the back seat. He hasn't been on this road in years. Not since--
He's not thinking about that. He never knew the boy's name, but he still remembers the smooth blond hair and delicate, fluting bones, the soft mouth and too-pretty eyes. Like Dean had, back when they first met and before adulthood fucked him up.
It was an accident. An accident. He never meant to hurt anybody, but the boy struggled, and then the boy choked, and there was nothing he could do. It's not his fault. It's not.
He buried the little body out on a lonely stretch of highway, not far from here.
"I didn't mean to hurt him," he whispers.
In the front seat, Dean laughs harshly. "Oh, now we get to it."
Sam slaps his leg, hard, and catches Stevie's eyes in the rearview mirror. "Where did you bury him, Steve?" he asks urgently. "Where's the body?"
"Why should I tell you? You're just gonna kill me anyway."
"We're not going to kill you," Sam says in that same earnest, trust-me voice.
"That's debatable," Dean mutters.
"Dean, shut up."
"If I tell you, will you let me go?" He knows it's a desperate ploy, but if he can get them to let him out of the car, maybe he can get back to town before they call the police. Maybe call the police on them instead. He's a good, upstanding citizen; the sheriff will take his word over that of a couple of filthy drifters.
Dean twists in his seat to face Stevie. The dull glow of the dashboard lights carves deep shadows under his cheekbones and into the cleft of his chin. He looks like the flawed, fucked-up older ghost of the boy Stevie picked up in a roadside diner all those years ago, right down to the incredulous smile twisting his mouth. "Just how stupid do you think we are?"
Stevie licks his lips. "I didn't mean to hurt that kid. Shawn Fenton, right? It was an accident, okay? I don't want any trouble--"
"Sucks to be you, Stevie, because you got a shitload of trouble right now."
"He choked," Stevie says desperately. "I swear to God, it was an accident. I never hurt anybody else--"
"Funny, that's not how I remember it."
"I wasn't going to hurt you. I was going to pay--"
He doesn't even see Dean move, but suddenly the muzzle of the .45 is resting on the bridge of his nose. The barrel looks huge from this angle, and the rest of his sentence dies in his throat.
"You are one sick son of a bitch." Dean sounds almost amazed, but his grip on the gun is steady. "You have any idea how many accidents that kid has caused because of what you did?"
What the hell are you talking about, Stevie wants to say, but his mouth might as well be locked shut. Dean stares at him for several more seconds, then shakes his head, lowers the gun, and turns back around. Sam murmurs something that Stevie can't hear, and for the next several miles there's silence.
And then the boy appears.
Part 1
Part 3