Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 3

[jackfan2]

Consciousness seemed to return quicker this time. Though he found out just as quickly that it had its drawbacks; returning awareness brought with it the pain. Acute, reverberating, pounding pain that felt heavy and at once sharp and shattering.

Dean groaned. The pain in his head sent a jolt of agony down his spine and ended in his stomach like a burning lance. There, it set off waves of nausea and he brought his head up far faster than was wise.

The movement set off waves of nausea churning in his gut, forcing acid up to burn his throat, but moving was bad, something screamed in his head, so he dared not throw up. Stomach and head battled and all he could do was resist the urge to surrender to the darkness once again.

Winchesters weren't quitters, however, and he gritted his teeth, determined not to give in.

The after-effects of concussions weren't something new. He could do this. One step at a time.

First, ride it out, give it a minute, but never give in. Give his head a chance to quit sending riotous messages to his stomach. Don't wait too long, but don't think too much about time. Don't think too much, period. Thinking hurt like hell.

Second. When you're nearly there, breathe. Dean blew a determined gust of air between clenched teeth. Felt the bile settle seconds later. He ran his eyes beneath his lids, preparing to try again, licked his lips and struggled upward.

It took far more effort than it should have to lift his head and when he did, it wobbled unsteadily. But it was a step and he'd taken it. So long as he could keep it there, it was a small victory.

The next part was harder.

Like swimming in thick sand as he struggled to push past the muzzy feeling in his mind. Scooping past the grains of memories that only made his head ache more. Another forced breath and he slowly opened his eyes again. Wasn't much, just slits, but it was a start.

The little men, who’d been viciously whacking at the inside of his skull earlier, stepped up the torment. Groaning in misery, he promised swift retribution to the fucking midgets.

It took several minutes but the pounding subsided and this time Dean opened his eyes all the way. Numerous blinks later, the not-a-hotel room finally swam into focus. Head wobbling unsteadily on its axis, he gazed bleary-eyed around the room.

"Right. Barn." The recollection of his first return to consciousness struggled upward in his mind. Dean forced his eyes wider and blinked as he looked around; hay everywhere, dirt everywhere, and a… a cow?

Dean blinked several more times. Yup, a cow. "Huh," he huffed.

Hadn't seen that before. Then again, Dean hadn’t seen all that much before.

This felt like starting over. God, if every return to consciousness was this bad, he'd been clobbered pretty hard. It was the same, and yet, different. The cow, for one, was a pretty weird addition. Or maybe it was a mirage, some illusion of his severely concussed mind. If he ignored it, it would probably go away.

Coughing against the dry air, dirt and overwhelming thirst, Dean's gaze traveled the room blearily.

Farming implements, rusted and outdated, hung from the rotted wood-planked walls. A pitchfork stood against one stall, an anvil, straight out of some Saturday morning cartoon and- Jesus, it was still there. The cow. What he'd first considered a figment of his addled imagination, stood in a dilapidated stall, head down, chomping lazily at a pile of hay.

Somewhere behind him, a door opened. The sound of rusty hinges squealed against the metal and the door dragged against the dirt floor as it was forced to move.

Dean couldn't think what to do next. Not that he had a lot of choices to make, but his mind warred against helplessness, stymied by the hammering pain and sluggishness of his concussed mind.

He heard the unmistakable sound of a bolt locking. Wait. Dean suddenly realized. Who the hell bolted a door from the inside?

Fuck. Dean slammed his eyes shut. Memories careening back into place. The street. The guy in the gray coveralls. The boy. The chase. Then, Dean getting his clock cleaned...

Ah yes, he remembered. Perverted monsters that snatched kids from the middle of the street in broad daylight, and then grabbed hunters dumb enough to let themselves get grabbed. That's what locked doors from the inside.

Fuck. Dean closed his eyes and dropped his head. Feigning unconsciousness. In effort to maybe buy some time, get his head clear, get a better look around...

Dean felt like a dumb-ass. Because unless this thing was a fucking moron, no way it would buy his unconscious act. Far as Dean knew, unconscious people didn't usually keep their back's arched to avoid contact with a barbed pole. They were usually too busy being... unconscious.

Still, like a kid faking sleep to get out of having to go to school, Dean gave it a shot and let his head drop down.

Footfalls approached, muffled by the dirt floor.

The sound of the door slamming shut still bounced around in his head, making him wince. Committed to his course, Dean feigned unconsciousness.

The footsteps stopped close by. There was rustling. The sound of something rusty creaked in front of him. Dean was just starting to wonder....

A cold, wet slap that hit him from head to knees cut off all thought.

The shock of the cold fluid nearly sent him reeling back, against the spikes.

“What the…,” he choked out, gasping. Water, icy cold, cascaded down his face and chest, seeping into the waistband of his jeans.

It left a coppery tang in his mouth.

After a quick shake of his head that sent water droplets flying, Dean’s vision swam slowly back into focus.

The room still tipped a little, but his vision fixed on a pair of work boots, then traveled up to a pair of legs encased in gray coveralls and then to a set of slim shoulders. The visual ended with possibly the most non-scary monster he'd ever seen.

Back on the street, in the heat of pursuit, in the hurry to capture, he hadn't gotten close enough to really see its features clearly, except for the clothing and the pair of glasses on the guy’s face. Now, however, up close, even in the harsh, single-bulb light of the barn, Dean was dumbfounded.

The thing couldn't have been more than five feet, five inches tall. It stood, legs apart, looking menacingly down at him through horn-rimmed glasses, head topped with gleaming, jet-black hair that, even in the dimly lit room, gave off a dark blue sheen. The hair was slicked back and receding.

On one side of his chest, in the pocket was… a plastic pocket protector. Dean licked his lips; a slow tug began on one side of his mouth.

Admittedly, it probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, being trussed up and all, but Dean couldn't help it. First thing he did... was chuckle.

The guy looked like a harmless, dull, geeky librarian, though the barbed wire and Dean's bound position suggested otherwise. In his mid thirties, Dean guessed, with thinning hair and deep wrinkles on his face. Had to be the lamest choice in monster-look Dean had ever seen.

The thing stared quietly, dispassionately back at Dean.

In the protracted silence, Dean couldn’t help but stare. It was more than the cliche librarian look. He’d seen this guy somewhere else before. But when the silence became too much and the thing seemed unwilling to offer more, Dean made his own noise.

"Man, you have got to be kidding me," Dean smirked up at the thing, his eyes sparkling with equal parts mirth and trepidation. "Revenge of the Nerds? Really?" Nerd-guy responded with a confused dark look. "Well,” Dean shook his head. “I guess it makes you real easy to underestimate, so props to you."

It was a good disguise. After all, how many people had ever heard of killer librarians?

Dean looked closer at its clothes. Something like a janitor would wear. Maybe one of the schools, or one of the city workers he'd- Jesus, he dropped his chin to his chest. Head pounding, it hurt just trying to dig out of all the images dancing through his mind. Faces he'd seen. People he'd talked to.

Mouth drawn in a stern line, nerd-guy angled his head right, then left, studying his captive. Dark eyes moved from the top of the post where Dean's hands were bound and traveled down, gliding over Dean’s arms and shoulders, then to his chest. Lower still and Dean found himself struggling not to shift under the heated examination.

"Like what you see?" Dean taunted, eager to relieve the uncomfortable silence. The intensity of nerd-guy's gaze was unnerving, but Dean refused to recoil from his inspection.

Nerd-guy's gaze latched onto Dean's, held a moment before he sidestepped his prisoner and moved to stand beside him.

Dean faced straight ahead, swallowing his discomfort and fear, refusing to give the thing the satisfaction of following its every move.

Judging by the look in the thing’s eyes, it wasn't real likely that it was moving around to check the bindings, to make sure his legs were still tightly trussed to the spikes in the ground. No, judging by the heated gaze, it was more likely he was checking out Dean's ass.

Dean swallowed. The idea of this thing checking him out made Dean’s skin recoil and tingle with a intense need to punch the thing’s eyes out. Only the ladies were allowed to admire his physical qualities, not some psychotic, kid-raping, sick-o perverted creature that shed skin for a living. Fucking perv...

Certainly made sense, though considering what this thing did for fun, Dean's mind screamed, Oh, hell no.... He tamped down on any outward show of fear and said, "Not to be a buzz-kill or anything but, aren't I just a bit too old for you?"

That wasn't true. He totally wanted to be a buzz-kill, kill any idea this thing had of giving him the same treatment he’d given those kids. Actually, Dean was eager for the bastard to try, just so Dean could teach it a lesson in dating-manners. Dean fisted his hands; kill this thing, that's exactly what he wanted to do.

Perv either wasn't listening or just didn't care to comment. He was quiet. Too quiet. Dean hated quiet.

"What are you, mute?" Dean asked, the uncomfortable silence making him antsy. In his stubborn resolve to stare straight ahead, he missed the moment Perv drew back one booted foot... "Great. All the fucked up, whack-job monsters in this word and I-"

The boot kicked out. The steel tip slammed painfully into the side of Dean’s ankle. Pain exploded up his leg as the impact made him jerk against his bindings.

"Shit," Dean hissed. Teeth gritted against the pain, he fought against a larger outcry. Back arched to keep it from making contact with the barbed wire, he rode out the pain, wondering if the sound of bone breaking had been in his mind or in his leg.

Riding the fresh haze of agony, the pain lancing up his leg, Dean was sure he heard Perv let lose a mirthless chuckle. Fucking bastard.

“You know,” Perv said icily, “you really ought to learn when to keep your mouth shut.” His voice was thin, nasal and eerie in the thick cold air.

Dean groaned and rolled his head, slating his eyes open to stare at his tormentor. “Quiet’s...," he began, grinding his teeth so hard he was sure they'd shatter, "not really one of my strengths.”

"Your," Perv sent a quick glance at Dean's ankle, "Achilles heel, as it were."

"Ah." Teeth gritted in pain, Dean glared. "You're a funny perverted monster; just my luck."

Even with restricted circulation of his position and numbing cold, his ankle continued to pulse angrily. Stopped from visually assessing the damage when the barbs wrapped around his torso dug viciously into his chest, Dean held still. On blind assessment, the pain level left him fairly certain that his ankle was either broken or at the very least, sporting an enormous bruise.

"Trust me," Perv's voice oozed, his breath visible in the cold. "You'll lament the absence of silence very soon."

Dean knew that between the way he was bound and the frigid temperature in the barn, he needed to keep circulation to his bound extremities. Movement, even small ones, hurt like a bitch but he knew it would help so he persisted.

It was a slow process, starting with his fingers. He flexed them, felt the slow trickle of blood down his wrists, but he kept at it. They were bound high overhead and when he tried to flex his elbows he had to be careful. The movement forced him back and that was not where he wanted to be. The barbs on the pole were a constant reminder of that.

It was when he got to his feet that Dean paused. Thanks to Perv's kick, there was enough sensation in his feet for him to know it was dirt that he felt. The loose-packed earth moved freely beneath and between his toes.

"The fuck...?" Dean muttered.

Curiosity pushed past his better judgment and he forced himself to turn. The pain was instantaneous; metal barbs at his chest dug in deep. But he saw enough of his dirt-covered bare feet before he whipped back around and glared angrily at Perv.

"Dude," Dean gasped, breathless from the pain as the movement had driven the barbs deeper into his chest. Still he managed to glare at Perv. "The hell are my boots?" he demanded as fresh blood dripped down his torso.

"Your boots. Now there's a conversation starter. See, it's been my experience that Feds don't wear biker boots." Perv leaned in close. "You, Dean, are not a Fed."

Pain focused his mind and Dean thought furiously. Fed. Dean had been posing as a fed for the last three days, as he’d talked to everyone and their mothers about the missing kids. It meant this thing had at some point over that time, brushed elbows with him. But where? When? How?

Dean decided not to give away how little he knew. "Yeah?" he said, notching up his chin defiantly. "Well, in my experience nerdy janitors don't go around kidnapping and molesting little kids. So, this little cloak and dagger thing? It goes both ways, you son of a bitch."

Perv leaned in and tapped Dean on the forehead. "Guess we both have a lot to learn from each other then.” Straightening he smirked and moved in a wide circle around behind him. "You're not going anywhere any time soon. So get comfy."

"Comfy?" Dean huffed. "I’d hate to see what you considered not-comfy, 'cause this is pretty damn far from comfy."

"It's relative," Perv said, his voice was slightly strained, then his breathing became labored, as if he were breathless from exertion. "Look around you. Comfy and not-comfy aren't really an issue, unless you're livestock."

Not being able to see what Perv was doing kept Dean's overactive imagination on edge. Given the things Dean had seen over the years, the information he had on this monster's conquests, the images were beyond horrific. A cold shiver snaked down his back.

“So, what next?” Dean asked, trying to play it cool even though everything in him wanted to track where this guy was, but that would show fear and uncertainty. "Oh, I know, why don't you start by telling me what you are, huh? So I know what to use to kill you, you know, when I get free."

No response, just more muffled footsteps in the dirt. Of course, Dean being bound and completely at this pervert's mercy was fucking petrifying so he'd much rather focus on this. This nothingness.

“You know, never mind," Dean said, having reached the conclusion that if Perv wasn't going to talk... “How about you cut me loose and we go at this one-on-one. Man to man -er - monster? I could totally take you."

"Actually, we're going to have us a little talk, you and I." Perv's voice sounded all business-like, almost clinical. Creepily calm.

Dean had been in awkward, terrifying, helpless positions before, so he just did what came naturally and held on to two constants in his life: resourcefulness and Sam. Because, one, Dean was a resourceful kind of guy who’d gotten out of many a tight spot on his own, thankyouverymuch. And two, if Sam wasn't trapped with him, he was out there somewhere and he wouldn’t stop looking until he found Dean.

Whichever of those happened first, all Dean had to do was hold on. Keep his cool. And, never let the bad guys know how over a barrel they really have you.

"Talk? Oh sure," Dean tried for a casual tone but it was hard when he was caught between two sets of barbs and exhaustion was closing in. "But it'd be a lot easier to talk if you cut me loose. See, it's a bit uncomfortable and-"

There was a rush of air, so sudden it cut off Dean's thoughts. Unwanted warmth pressed in close to his back.

“You're not getting this, so let me spell it out for you,” Perv said, his proximity evident when he spoke right next to Dean's ear. Definitely too close; his hot breath clouded the air in front of Dean. “Your comfort is the least of my concerns."

Light caught on something and glinted in Dean’s periphery. Warning bells went off in his head. He jerked his head around to get a look.

A syringe.

Before Dean could react, Perv reached around with his free hand and slammed his captive's head back against the pole. The impact set off stars behind Dean’s closed eyes.

Mouth lax, Dean didn’t get a chance to catch his breath when something rough was forced between his lips and into his mouth. It was shoved past his teeth and over his tongue, pulling so tightly against the corners of his mouth that Dean could feel the skin there split.

“Ngh...” Dean tried too late to protest. Too late to move because his spine was forced back against the barbs, adding to the pain in his head. To the pain of the cloth that was secured around his jaw.

“Nice and tight for me." Perv tugged on the knot that secured Dean's head to the pole. "Can’t have you moving around, can I?”

Dean forced his eyes open. Things swam in and out of focus but he could still see the syringe. Could see Perv grinning.

“Now, hold still. Don’t want to spoil my aim 'cause if I jab this in your tongue rather than under," the threat left Dean uncertain as to whether to move or not, "our conversation will have ended before it's begun.” Then the syringe was lowered toward Dean’s face.

Dean's eyes widened with panic.

It renewed his efforts and he bucked, heedless of the barbs ripping at the skin on his back. Against the suffocating closeness of Perv as he crowded in, squeezing his head like a vise to keep him still. The limited air flowing with the gag in his mouth. Perv's hand clamped on his throat, purposefully cutting off his air.

Dean’s eyes crossed over his nose as he tried to follow the progress of the sharp instrument. He couldn’t sense it past his lips, but he could certainly feel its cold touch as it nudge the edge of his trapped tongue, wedging itself underneath. Entering slowly.

Just as the needle breached the soft pocket of skin beneath his tongue, the choke hold released. Nothing had prepared him for the pain as the needle sunk in deep. Nothing had prepared him for the dizzying agony. Nothing.

It was excruciating. It would have held him in place even if he hadn’t been bound tightly.

Dean heard himself scream in his head. Couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to.

Even with his eyes screwed shut he still knew the moment the plunger was depressed; felt the rush of liquid and a metallic taste flooding his mouth. Dean exhaled heavily through his nose. Something wet trailed down the sides of his mouth.

The needle hurt just as badly coming out. But it didn’t matter. Dean’s head and mouth were released from the cloth and he lurched forward, stopped by the barbed wire securing his chest to the pole.

“You son…” The taste of copper filled Dean’s mouth and he spat; blood-tinged saliva landed on the ground next to him. More coated his lips. “…Son of a bitch.”

Even as he spoke Dean felt it. The sensation, cold and foreign. It fanned out rapidly. He felt it as it slithered under his flesh. It coursed and rode the channels of his blood stream.

Dean tried to focus. Tried to glare at Perv. The drug was taking him fast. Hard. Shifting his vision. Making his skin spark and crawl.

Perv was squatting directly in front of him and already the bastard’s face started to contort and pulse, slowly. Dean knew it was the drugs, but it was like riding on a choppy sea and his stomach rolled with the undulating waves.

The pain in his back notched up tenfold. Head too. Everything. The pain was nearly unbearable and Dean struggled with the weight of it all.

Get it under control, Dean, he murmured to himself.

Leaning into the wire wrapped around his chest he panted, head hanging. Something fisted in his hair and his head was lifted. Dean slowly opened his eyes. Perv was close. Too close.

"Control?" Perv leaned in closer. "That's the last thing you'll ever have again, Dean. See, between what that drug's doing to you and what I'm going to do to you, by the time we're done, you'll tell me whatever I want to know."

Dean blinked rapidly. Realizing he'd spoke that inner mantra aloud.

"Keep dreamin'..." Dean panted, glaring at Perv. "'M not tellin' you shit."

"Ah, but you will, you will," he assured. Perv's face went serious. He twisted Dean's head left, then right, examining his eyes. “Perfect,” he nodded with a self-satisfied smirk.

Releasing Dean's head, Perv seemed disinclined to move very far away. Still too close and it was all Dean could do to hold still, to not move back and impale himself again on the prongs.

Briefly, a part of him considered it might be worth the pain to distance himself from Perv’s intense, dead eyes. The creep was so close Dean could feel the weight of them ooze across his skin. The heat of his breath too, it made his flesh burn-

Dean shook his head. Whatever drug Perv had given him was making him way too sensitive.

Fact was, Dean never ducked from a fight. Never.

"What'd you give me?" Dean panted, blinking furiously to keep his sights even and his thoughts in line. "Some kind of mind fuck drug? A truth serum?"

Perv leaned further into Dean's personal space, something he’d have sworn was impossible. When Dean flinched, Perv chuckled. "More the first than the second, but the truth is the eventual outcome."

The bastard breathed into Dean's face, and this time, he was able to control his reaction with nothing more than a grimace. "Really? I have one truth right here for you, sick-o… your halitosis is killing me."

"Hmm..." Perv nodded. It was like he was trying to test Dean's reactions. "That drug was just a little something to make you a bit more... receptive to my powers of persuasion," he said distractedly. "To my presence."

Then, to make his point, Perv leaned to one side and blew a long gush of hot air across Dean's right shoulder. Unprepared, Dean jerked away, as if he'd been struck.

"Dammit," Dean muttered and looked away. Angry with himself for his momentary loss of control. For revealing that something so simple as Perv's breath ghosting across his flesh left a trail of fire in its wake. Left him jumpy, his heart racing.

"Now… where were we?" Perv said after a brief pause. "Ah yes, that conversation." There was a length of cloth in his hand, a blue ratty piece that the man was distractingly twirling around in his fingers. "You see, I don't like puzzles."

"Couldn't 'gree with you more," he nodded. "Ya' see, I'm a," he cleared his throat, "I’m more of a... a maze-man m'self. You like mazes?"

"You think this is a joke," Perv said flatly. It wasn't a question. It was a statement, level and dangerous.

“Oh, right, right," Dean muttered, nodding. "Almost forgot, you… things don't have a sense of humor, though in that outfit?" He shook his head, "'s kinda surprising."

Perv stood abruptly and gazed down at his captive. "Allow me to elucidate," he said, then turned and strode away.

"No need to ask for my permission," Dean called to Perv's retreating back. "Just remember to wash your hands after, just like momma taught you." Too busy smirking at his own joke, he missed the slight flinch in Perv's shoulders.

Instead, Dean gazed lazily at the cow, watching as its jaw sawed back and forth on a pile of hay in its stall. A rustling sound drew his gaze back to Perv, who'd removed a bag from a hook in the adjoining stall and walked back.

Stopping only a few feet from Dean, Perv reached in and removed a small stack of billfolds. "Look familiar, Dean?" Perv said as he took one off the top and held it up.

Recognition was immediate, but Dean thought it best to remain quiet. It was one of his fake IDs; he'd carried four with him on this job, not really sure which he'd need in some of the areas he'd hit.

Perv opened it and glanced at the inside. "Dean Tyler, is it?” he asked, then tossed it to the ground and opened another. “Or is it Dean Perry?" He repeated the move and opened the next. "Or Dean Bonham?” Each name was punctuated with the flash of a different fake ID until they lay in a heap on the dirt floor.

All but one made it to the pile on the dirt floor.

Dean swallowed, noting how the edges of his vision had crystallized. "What can I say?" He grinned and since he couldn't move much, bobbed his eyebrows. "I'm a chameleon."

"You're so much more than that." Perv squatted down. "You're a dead man."

"Wait." Dean blinked, hoping to cover his growing weakness. "Thought you said I was a puzzle." It was no use, his eyes still refused to focus. "Dude, make up your mind. Things are getting very confusing."

It came out cocky, but it held more truth than not. Along with his sight, his mind too seemed to lack focus. It seemed to be a step behind on everything. Though, the last billfold he tracked perfectly, watching as Perv tapped it to one open palm idly.

"There are a lot of interesting fake IDs here Dean,” Perv continued, ignoring Dean's comment. “Though, this one," he said waving the last one in his hand. "This is the one I've seen you flash most."

Dean swallowed. He knew which ID that was, and Perv was right. It had become his primary cover in town. That meant so much more than he’d realized before. Not only had he attracted this guy's attention; he'd probably been stalking him.

Dean was suddenly glad their motel was so far outside of town. It was very unlikely that this monster had followed him that far from its feeding ground. Sam would be safe.

The last wallet open, Perv read, "Dean Barrett, Federal Bureau of Investigation." Then added looking at his prisoner, "Now, since the first name’s the only common denominator in that pile of crap I'll just assume that much is true."

Riding his lack of focus, an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and defenselessness swamped Dean's thoughts. This feeling was one he'd usually associated with having his brains pushed around inside his head by blunt force. Or with too much liquor.

But this was different. This left his skin crawling. Left every physical discomfort magnified and intensified. What the hell had this guy doped him with?

"Give the man - er... thing a cookie," Dean murmured.

"So, Dean," Perv continued, walking around the pole, around his bound captive, "in fourteen years, no one has ever put the pieces together... no one's taken an interest in me..."

Bad-guy monologues were usually a pain in the ass, but this one Dean welcomed. Maybe the guy’s endless rant would bring some of the answers that Dean was so sorely fresh out of.

"I was careful to cover my tracks." Perv said, stopping in front of him again. "But now, you've come along. Far too close to connecting the pieces, further than anyone else- well, except for one, but I took care of him, just as I will take care of you."

"Take care of me?" Dean blinked rapidly. Needed to clear the little halos from the images surrounding him. "Well, you're real sweet 'an all, but you’re just not my type. 'Fraid I draw the line at dudes and monsters. You just happen to be both, so… sucks to be you."

Just for a second, the barest hint of time, Perv's face held an odd look. A chink in the armor.

"I've worked carefully to stay under the radar," Perv continued. "Kept my victims selective and planned. My cover perfect. The evidence minimal. And now, here you are."

"Yup," Dean grinned cockily. "Here to kick your ass. That I haven't forgotten. Looking forward to it."

"Ah, you see," Perv bounced a finger in Dean's direction. "There’s my problem. Given how completely screwed your ass is, you are far too confident. Especially for a man in your predicament, Dean.”

“I’m just a naturally confident person.” Dean tried a disarming smile.

It failed miserably. Perv's eyes remained flat, unimpressed but constantly appraising. A clear sign he was still trying to figure him out. And most importantly, that he hadn't bought any of Dean's bullshit.

"In your situation," Perv finally said, "confidence usually means you have hope. Looking at you? Hope," he shook his head, "hope is the last thing you should have."

Dean tried to look bored. "Guess you could say I'm a...," he licked his lips, "glass-half-full kinda guy." His skin was crawling. The cuts and tears at his back were screaming in pain.

A smile that looked more like a grimace creased Perv's face. "Which leads me to believe someone's going to be missing you, Dean. When that happens, it means someone is going to come looking for you."

Shit. That had hit too close to home. If Dean let it slip that he had a brother... the stakes had suddenly become far too high. The drugs seemed far more threatening now. If he couldn't keep his head in the game, if he couldn't keep his mouth shut...

...This thing would go after Sam next.

"Me?" Dean huffed. "Buddy, take a good look and tell if I look like someone who shares his ‘toys’." Dean figured he could stick to some of the truth, maybe embellish it a little bit. "My mom died when I was a kid and dad exchanged me for a bottle of Jack even before I knew how to tie my own shoelaces. Learned to make do, dude. Not gonna start answering to nobody now. I'm all alone."

Perv appraised his prisoner. "Then you're someone’s daddy...."

Dean rolled his eyes in thought. "Nope. I'm careful."

"Or maybe someone’s uncle," Perv glossed past the reply. "With an upset sibling, angry or distraught over a missing nephew and an inept police department. A vigilante.”

Dean laughed mockingly. "Man, have you got the wrong guy."

"I don't think so." Perv moved around his prisoner, back where Dean couldn't see him. "You chased me down. You showed up at my job, snooping around."

His job? Dean had been all over the damn city, talked to lots of people. Where had he bumped into this guy?

Dean turned his head to the side but otherwise held still. "Mind being a bit more specific? It’s been a long week, and, ya' know, you drugged me and I have this really bad headache, also thanks to you, by the way. I just can't place where I might've seen your ugly mug before."

Something squeaked behind him and this time Dean controlled his need to satisfy his curiosity. To maintain his carefully constructed look of nonchalance and boredom.

"I wouldn't exactly say we 'met' per se," Perv's voice came from a small distance behind him. The squeaking sound was getting nearer too, louder. "But I would say you've gotten very close. Too close."

The source of the squeak moved around him and Dean realized the sound belonged to a set of wheels, badly in need of oiling. And the wheels belonged to a three-tiered metal cart that Perv maneuvered to stop a few feet in front of his prisoner.

It looked like one of those carts used in hotels that actually had room service. Like that one he and his dad had stayed in during that job in Chicago. Ghost in the old hotel building. Even got paid for that job.

"Ah, thank god, I'm starved," Dean said. Sweat was pouring down his face, neck and chest. Salt water stinging as it hit the torn flesh on his chest. It didn't fit with the fact that he could see his own breath. "Room service. Steaks medium rare, just like I like 'm."

The bottom shelf held something long and narrow with a cord, but it disappeared under the shadowy confines of the other shelves above. The bad lighting didn't help either.

The center tier held several small plastic receptacles and whatever was in them was kept hidden by the hard plastic sides. While from his position Dean couldn't see what was on the top shelf, he'd heard the sound of something metallic rattling as the thing rolled on the bumpy surface.

"You look warm, Dean," Perv observed from where he stood behind the cart. He eyed his prisoner, gaze trailing down Dean's torso, watching the sweat snake its way down to the top of his jeans.

Truth was, Dean was hot. Not a good hot either, a bad hot. Too hot. And, given how his and Perv's every breath was visible in the badly lit barn, Dean knew how bad the heat beneath his skin was.

"Dude," Dean licked his lips, "I'm always smokin' hot."

The look on Perv's face came and went so fast Dean was uncertain he'd even seen it. It hadn't been that same look of disgust and loathing he'd been getting since he'd regained consciousness. This was almost appraising, admiring.

Dean was really beginning to worry.

"Strange," Perv added as he stepped to the side of the cart and stared down at the metal surface. The move blocked whatever extended view Dean thought he might get of the contents. "Considering the temperature's nearly below freezing."

"Really?" Dean tried a nonchalant smile. "Hadn't noticed."

Perv didn't comment, not that Dean had expected him to. Engrossed in the contents of the cart he remained silent until... "Ah."

In the hazy light of the room Perv picked something off the surface and turned to the side. It was metallic and shiny enough to glint in the dim lighting. "Thought I'd lost it."

Dean tried to see what it was. It shouldn't have been that hard to focus; the thing was only a few feet away. Squinting against the suddenly bright light he stared.

The single bulb, it cast halos off everything, especially the thing in Perv's hand.

Dean finally got his vision clear and froze.

Perv held a three-inch blade. Dean'd seen the likes of it before. They weren't for killing fast; they were for shallow cuts and slow blood letting. Torture. This did not bode well in his plan to buy enough time for Sam to find him… and even worse for his plans of escaping.

Fuck.

Perv angled his head and studied him. "My, my, my, you don't look at all well, Dean." Mock concern laced his voice. "So, let’s start with an easy one, shall we? Your real last name. What is it?"

Dean blinked frantically, desperate to clear his sight. Find his train of thought, his bearings. Something was wrong with this picture. It was a struggle to piece it together.

Perv stared at him with that dead gaze, clutching the three-inch knife in his bare hand, twisting it idly, carelessly. It was mesmerizing they way the light caught on the shiny metal on occasion. And it was wrong. Winchester wrong.

"I'm not a patient man, Dean," Perv reminded, gazing at the knife. Dean was really beginning to hate the way this thing said his name.

Slowly the incongruity of the scene slid into place. If Dean hadn't known better, he'd have sworn that thing was pure silver. No way a shapeshifter would be holding the very thing that could kill it. Didn't make sense. Suddenly, nothing did.

Dean pretended to think a moment. "Well, see I can’t afford to be at any more of a disadvantage than I already am, so, tell you what," he feigned an affable tone, "I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours-"

Perv rushed at him. Dean blinked, jerked his head back. One of Perv's hands shot out, grabbed the base of Dean's skull, checking his retreat. The one with the knife held the blade's edge pressed just under Dean's lower lip.

"Disadvantage?" Perv hissed, his face close, red with barely controlled rage. "You don't get to ask questions, Dean," he said between gritted teeth. The edge of the blade trailed along Dean's jaw. "This is my time. My rules. My house."

"House? You live here?" Dean's eyes rolled, taking in the room. "You should have a talk with your interior decorat-"

The blade dipped down and pressed hard at the base of Dean's neck.

"Don't," Perv spit. "Fuck. With me."

Anger welled up inside Dean. The helplessness. The fear he'd accidentally let slip something about Sam. Give something up. The wrongness of how drugs made him feel. All of it just rankled him to the core.

Dean didn't do helpless. The need to fight back overwhelmed him.

"Right back at'cha, shithead!" Dean snapped back. The angry, pissed, fed-up voice he’d been going for came out hoarse and gravelly. It had an edge, though and that was pretty much all he had at the moment.

Perv flared in surprise, but the heat and anger intensified. The knife pressed harder. Just splitting the skin. "Shut up," he hissed in warning.

"Fuck you!" Dean shot back. "What’d you do with the kid, huh?"

Dean was just too angry to care; he ignored the threatening blade that pressed deeper at each word. If Perv had just wanted him dead he wouldn't have gone to the trouble of dragging him here.

"He is none of your concern."

"The hell he isn’t! I’m makin’ him my concern. And every other kid you… fu-” Dean couldn’t bring himself to say the word. The thought of it drove bile from his stomach to his mouth. “You touched; every one you killed is my concern!"

“You should be more concerned about yourself. Here. Now.”

“Fine. Let’s start here,” Dean growled. He leveled Perv with a calculating stare, squinting against the haloing light. “What are you? Ogre? Shapeshifter? Or just some fuckin' nutjob who's keeping an aswang as a pet? If that's true, lemme tell you pal, those things will turn-”

The blade swooped down. Faster than Dean could blink.

A deep gash lay open and bleeding along his collarbone. The agony was instantaneous. A pained hissed escaped from between his teeth but he ground them together.

Perv was in his face. "You don't listen very well, do you?" he snarled, spit coating his lips. "You don't ask questions. I do."

Dean had him. He was frazzled. Off-balance.

And far more dangerous than Dean realized.

The wound on Dean's collarbone pulsed in radiant pain. Deep enough to bleed, it wasn't enough to kill and shouldn't be causing him that much pain....

"My teachers always said I had an attention deficit."

"Well, pay attention to this." Perv leaned in closer. "You're gonna die, and it's not a matter of if, but when. All you get to decide is how bad it’s gonna get." The tip of the blade ghosted over his flesh, moved down his chest; Perv's eyes followed its trek. "How bad is it gonna hurt? How long is it gonna last?"

Dean blinked. Concussions, drunks, even morphine highs - Dean was no stranger to those. The disorientation and hazy mental states were nothing new. This… This was different. Never had he had so much trouble thinking. Focusing. This drug was doing a number on him and he'd better get his head on straight or this would go south fast.

"So lemme get this straight." God, it was a challenge just to think the right words into a simple sentence, let alone push them out his mouth. "I talk, I die. I don't talk, I die. Dude, tha's not much incentive to do anything you wan' me to do."

The kid Perv had taken from the city was likely here somewhere; Dean had to keep it together for him. And for Sam. Keep him off Perv's radar.

Dean glared back at Perv defiantly.

It was a struggle to stay still and let this thing play out. Let it spill its end-game. But, when he felt the business end of the blade press into his navel, Dean froze.

"You have to ask yourself," Perv's eyes locked on his, leaning closer, flush with Dean's jaw. Studying it. "Just how much blood can you stand to lose before I'm done?" Suddenly his warm breath wafted across Dean's ear. "I'm good at pain, Dean, make no mistake. You'll shout yourself hoarse before I'm done bleeding you out."

"Dude, is that your tongue in my ear?" The need to gain back some control was overwhelming and Dean shoved his head aside. He smirked at Perv. "You know, I met a dog like you once... all bark, no bite... a slobbering mess too."

The silence was heavy. Perv's face darkened.

The expected blow didn't come. The blade at his gut didn't advance. Instead, Perv went still. His eyes went flat. Cold. Uncaring.

Funny. Until that moment, he hadn't realized it but there had actually been some warmth in them. Twisted and psychotic, but warmth nonetheless.

Dean shivered. His smirk faltered when a sharp pain cut into his facade. Left thigh screaming in discomfort. Then, the discomfort increased, agonizingly, slowly.

It wasn't a stab, it was a press. It was the knife. Perv shifted again and another centimeter buried itself beneath the flesh. "Told you," Perv said, the blade advancing slowly. An inch and a half now buried beneath the flesh of his thigh.

Dean stiffened. Pain receptors firing and he sucked in a breath.

"I'm very good at pain," Perv whispered in his ear, breath too hot, scorching. The knife moved deeper. Two inches now, blood flowing freely, filling the knee of his jeans.

It was on the tip of Dean's tongue to fire something back but the pain sharpened acutely. It wracked his brain and robbed him of thought. Perv didn't so much move as he did shift. The tip pressed slowly, agonizingly into his flesh.

Unable to control himself, the pain left Dean shaking. He fought to stay still. Two and a half inches of the blade now buried into his thigh, and more to come. The thing might as well have been eight inches long.

Not for the first time that day, Dean gritted his teeth and thought, 'Fuck!'




Sam made to step off the curb, but a car horn, far too close, too loud, blared and he quickly pulled back.

The breeze tugged at Sam's hair as the car blew past. Sam watched, adrenaline surging at the near miss. The echo of the horn as the sound bounced off the high city walls, filtering off into the distance, labeled him a reckless jackass.

Around him, Sam saw the effects were fleeting. People who'd stopped to watch, checking for the possibility of a gory and bloody show, lost interest over the aborted crisis and quickly lowered their gazes, going back to their own self-absorbed lives.

Sam exhaled a breath, equal parts frustration and relief, and took a moment. He looked up and down the busy street. He needed to calm down; he’d be no use to Dean if he were dead, or laid up in a hospital somewhere.

After a steadying breath, he waited for the light to change. Whatever gridlock had kept traffic backed up before, was gone. Over-eager drivers, stuck for too long behind the wheel and delayed from their destinations, were moving by fast.

Waiting with the rest of the pedestrians to cross, a standout amongst the crowd in height alone, Sam's fists kept opening and closing of their own accord, foot tapping impatiently. The internal patience pep-talk died the second the light changed. The light had barely turned green and Sam was off, moving easily in the foot traffic, eyes scanning the direction he would head, cell phone in his hand.

While he moved in long strides on the walk, Sam’s eyes never stopped roving the buildings, the area around him. The odd smells that constantly swirled in the air, trapped between the buildings tickled his senses. The further he got, the more he noticed how new buildings seemed to mix with old, abandoned structures.

This area of town was older. No longer the shiny new architecture, these buildings had character, spires, gables and columns marking their pre- and post-Depression Era construction. Many had seen their time come and go while others stood proud, face-lifted, having gone through some sort of renewal work.

It was a common malady of cities that over time, some areas would simply deteriorate. New city management oftentimes spurred re-growth and reclamation of those sections and this area seemed to be in full swing of such a trend. Construction workers moved about one building, city crews hammered away at old cement walks, framing in what would be a new surface, a new beginning.

College and commerce kept the city in constant flux and along with it, came the odd mixture of high-rise business buildings and affordable flats. Interspersed with the old was new construction or revival of older buildings, the latter waiting for their time to shine again.

It was noisy, busy, constantly moving and undulating. And a bit like finding a needle in a haystack but he had to find Dean, had to think. Had to get his bearings, but where to begin? It was all so confusing, so...

Sam suddenly stopped and sighed.

Eyes closed, he carded fingers through his hair and thought. Everything he’d learned about hunting, every lesson his dad had drilled into his head, and into Dean’s, was easily applied to random people, places and events. But this wasn’t easy; this was complicated. This was family.

Now, he needed to funnel out the emotion and all that went with it and focus on applying those principles to finding his brother. Focus on what he did know. He was armed with a vague street direction, the notion that Dean was after something that looked like a someone, and the awareness that Dean might have walked straight into a trap.

It was time to think like the predator that Dean had chased.

Mind devoid of all concern, all fear, he scanned the buildings again. This area of town was too busy, too populated, too high-profile. Sam moved again, this time with more purpose.

An alley. It was the only place in a city to hide illicit deeds or wrongdoings.

In passing, he quickly assessed the first alley. It was narrow, maybe five feet wide, sparse. Flanked by high-rent buildings, if the outside was anything to go by, with lots of people moving in and out, even at the side doors leading to the alley. Too visible. He discarded it almost immediately.

His long steps quickly ate up the next block and he came to another alley. This one, while it looked more promising, was still too busy. The area still too high-brow. Sparing it barely a glance, he moved faster. Every city had its cheap side, its low-rent district. Like Cabrini Green in Chicago with rat-infested tenements, projects and poverty hand-in-hand.

Sam hitched up his jacket, the chill of the deepening shadows lowering the temperature more. The smells, those rich sweet scents from earlier, he realized were now growing more sickly sweet, then pungent, almost nauseating as he progressed, easily discarding several other alleys along the way.

A sound emerged from the rest of the cacophony mainly because it had a sense of order in the middle of the remaining chaos. Music, drifting softly on the breeze. So wrapped up in the hunt, Sam hadn’t noticed the street performer until he was nearly on top of him.

Dark sunglasses blacked out his eyes and deft fingers moved lithely over the pads of his saxophone. The tune he played held a hauntingly sad quality to it, one that left Sam oddly bereft. Then, an idea came and he halted in front of the musician and waited for him to finish. It seemed to take forever but Sam just attributed that to his own impatience.

“Excuse me.” Sam tried to sound apologetic, but knew he’d failed. He was in too much of a hurry.

The tune died a horrid death, the last note falling to the ground with an almost painful screech. “Jesus.” The musician rested the bell of the instrument against his stomach. “What the hell?”

Sam barely glanced at the guy, still looking around. “Have you seen a man pass by here? Short, light-colored hair, about yea tall,” he gestured. “Late twenties, wearing a brown leather jacket. He might’ve been in a hurry, maybe," Sam glanced at his watch, “four hours ago?”

The guy sighed. “Boy, I don’t wear these glasses 'cause’ the sun hurts my eyes.” He lifted the frames and Sam swallowed. Where the cornea should be was white-nothing but white-then he resettled them. “Now, if you’re done making fun of the blind, you can tell whatever frat that sent you here to make fun of old blind Joe-”

“Oh… shit, I’m sorry,” Sam interjected. Producing a twenty, he dropped it into the instrument case. “I’m really, really sorry. I’m not from the college; I’m just new in town. I’m looking for my brother. Sorry to have bothered you.” With that he turned to leave.

“Hang on there, kid,” the musician called out. Sam was no more than three steps away when he stopped and turned. “Get over here.” When Sam was close, Joe twisted his mouth into a wry grin. “Were that a Jackson you dropped in my case?”

Puzzled at how the street musician could possibly have known….

“Boy, I may be blind, but I can hear, and money sings mighty loud in ol’ Joe’s ears.”

Sam looked down at the twenty and nodded, then cursed himself. “Yeah. It was a twenty.”

The musician knelt down, his hand searching then finding the slightly crumpled bill. “Well, then,” he shoved it in his pocket. “I think you just bought yourself some information.”

“That’s not what I… Wait, but you said…”

Joe scoffed. “Man's got two ears and only one mouth, reckon it means we should listen twice as much as we talk. Now, you gonna shut up and do that, stand there babbling all day?”

“Um… yeah, please, whatever you can tell me.” Sam couldn’t help the desperation that leached into this voice. He glanced at his watch and realized his calculations before had been off. It had been six since he'd lost contact with Dean.

A lot could happen in six hours. Too much...

“You hearin' me kid?”

Sam jerked his head around sharply. “I'm sorry. Yes. I..." his voice trailed off. He had no idea what the old man had said.

Joe sighed. “I said, look across the street and tell me what you see.”

Sam turned. Amidst the passersby, a man stood on the walk, behind a table, shuffling cards. Three older teens watched him, wild cheering rose occasionally, punctuated by animated gesticulations and the occasional clapping. A stack of bills lay at the center of the table, a rock keeping them in place.

“A man and it looks like he’s got a card game going, taking bets. Probably a shuffle game?”

“Yup,” Joe grinned. “That’d be Leon. If trouble’s what your brother run into and it happened in this area, he’d have either seen or heard 'bout it."

Sam watched Leon move the cards then take up his winnings. "Leon, huh?" he murmured to himself. The three gamblers gesticulated wildly.

"Man’s got to be the busiest body in these parts," Joe continued, "and that ain’t a healthy habit to get into on the streets. Likely to get him kilt’ one these days.” He licked the reed on the sax and added, “You go talk to him, tell him Joe sent ya. He owes me so don’t give him a damn dime.”

It didn’t seem like much but given how little Sam had now, something that didn’t seem like much still offered the possibility of being something. Sam shook his head at the twisted thoughts. No, he was not thinking like Dean, he’d just attribute it to his pounding headache.

This time he watched before crossing, but in a matter of minutes Sam dodged a few cars and stood behind the three boys who were now arguing with Leon.

“Fuckin’ crook,” one of them raged. “You cheated. I want my money back, pendejo!” In a combination of Spanish and English, epithets flew as the other two chorused their own indignation, also wanting their money.

“Fellas," Leon soothed, seemingly unfazed. "I don’t cheat, you just suck.”

Sam sighed in frustration. He didn’t have time for this; Dean was out there, likely hurt, or worse. Something had gone wrong and time was of the essence. He could feel it.

The sound of a click made Sam snap to attention. One of the teens had produced a switchblade and it hovered dangerously in front of Leon’s chin. Sam sprung quickly. The knife was kicked out of the boy’s hand and before the kid could retaliate, Sam stood between the youths and Leon, fake badge extended in front of him.

“That’s enough, guys.” Sam hoped his voice held enough authority to back his bluff. “Get lost or I’ll be forced to take you in.”

Two of the three hoods were off at a run before Sam even finished. The third followed but couldn’t resist a final nod at Leon, clearly indicating this wasn’t over for him, then turned and booked after his friends.

Sam lowered the badge then blinked when he realized for the first time that a small crowd had gathered. “It’s alright, folks.” He waved the badge around and demanded, “Everyone move along, back to your business.”

When the crowd had dissipated, Sam turned. Leon was gone.

It didn’t take him long to spot the con, slipping along with the crowd. He cast a backward glance at Sam before attempting to fade off into the masses heading in the opposite direction. With a muttered curse, Sam vaulted and managed to overtake the con in three long strides.

With a firm hold on Leon’s collar, he dragged the man forcibly into a narrow alley and slammed him against a wall. Sam got in the shorter man’s face. “You’re not going anywhere ‘til I say so. Now, Joe tells me you have a nose for trouble ‘round here. That right?”

Leon didn’t answer, for a long moment just studied Sam. A grin suddenly broke across his mouth. “Shit,” he exclaimed and his shove sent Sam stumbling back a bit. Scoffing, he smoothed out his ruffled shirt. “You ain’t no cop. ‘Sides, I know all the cops ‘round here, even the plainclothes ones. You look more like a Boy Scout.”

Frustration piqued and Sam quickly drew his gun. “Maybe,” it was inches from Leon’s face, “but how many Boy Scouts do you know carry guns?” That got Leon’s attention.

“Easy, man.” Leon’s eyes crossed as he stared down the barrel of the gun now resting on the bridge of his nose. “Ya had me at ‘Joe sent cha’ That’s enough for me. So, point that the other way and tell me what’ch wanna know?”

While he lowered the gun, Sam remained tense. “I wanna know if you saw anything…strange earlier today. A guy with short cropped hair, almost my height, wearing a brown leather jacket.” Their last words before losing contact prompted Sam further. “He might’ve been running, maybe following someone? With a kid?”

“Earlier you say? Like, late morning time?” Sam nodded and Leon rubbed at his chin, thinking. Then he grimaced. “Eh, I ain’t so good with faces ‘n all, but I seen a guy that, now that I think about it, he did have on a kinda long leather jacket. But that ain't what I noticed..."

"What did you notice?" Sam growled impatiently.

"I noticed the piece he carrying." Leon grinned. "Nice one too, shiny chrome, ivory handle. A real fancy piece of work.”

Dean had had his gun out? The fact that Dean had had it out in public in broad daylight... that meant things had gone south and badly. Shit.

Sam swallowed. “Yeah," he nodded. "That's my brother. That's Dean. Did you see which way he went?”

“Sure, sure,” Leon offered, but he darted several glances nervously around, then up over Sam’s shoulder before settling. Seemingly at ease that they weren’t being watched, he made a sudden, jerky movement toward the alley’s entrance.

Fearing Leon was about to bolt, Sam easily sidestepped, sufficiently blocking the shorter man's path. “Leon….” he said, grabbing up a handful of the con's shirt, voice low and full of warning.

“Woah," Leon shot his hands out, palms facing Sam in mock surrender, "easy does it. I ain't runnin'.” Pressing his point, Sam maintained his grasp on the con man's shirt. “Listen, I owe ya. You saved my bacon back there, right? I’m just going to show you which way he headed. Capice?”

Sam’s jaw twitched a bit, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. After a beat he slowly released the con’s shirt. “No more sudden moves," he advised before letting Leon move.

Leon nodded. “You got it. Hey,” the con tried a fake smile, “any friend of Joe’s, is a friend of mine.”

The man oozed sincerity about as well as a used car salesman swearing on a stack of Bibles, but Sam needed whatever this guy knew so he reluctantly stepped aside to let him pass.

Out on the street, Leon pointed. “Saw him run up that way, then he ducked into that alley over there.”

Sam nodded but he couldn’t help but ask, “And you’re sure it was the guy I described? Short hair, leather jacket?”

“Shit, he nearly run right into a game I had goin’. Besides,” he gave Sam a look up and down, “kinda hard to miss, you two. Big sons a bitches, you and your brother.”

“Thanks,” Sam answered, no longer paying attention to anything the con-man was saying. He started to move on when Leon grabbed him by the upper arm. Turning, Sam fixed the shorter man with a hard look.

“You know, if you and your brother are ever interested, I know where you two could make some good money bare-knuckle fighting. Kinda, underground, if you know what I mean.”

Sam gave the con a look that made him shrink. He couldn't help thinking how much Dean would probably love something like that. Fight Club style. If Sam knew his brother, he'd probably even throw out a couple of Brad Pitt lines too.

With Leon backing away, Sam turned again to look in the direction the con-man had pointed. It was maybe fifty yards off, but Sam felt hope surge in his chest, though it did little to quell his increasing fear.

Not bothering to look back or answer the conniving man’s previous offer, Sam shoved his gun in the waistband of his pants, hidden below his jacket and took off, with more direction than he’d had in hours.

“Hey!” Leon’s voice suddenly broke the cool air. “Wait up a sec.”

Sam stuttered to a halt and turned back to look at the con. “What now?”

“God, I almost forgot.” After a jittery glace around, Leon shuffled up to Sam. “You mentioned a kid, yeah?” At Sam’s nod, he continued, “Well, I seen a guy shovin’ some kid along the street. They ducked down that same alley not long before your brother and his shiny piece run up."

Sam looked back at the street, his eyes going immediately to the alley. "You sure?" he asked distractedly.

"Hey, would I lie to you?" Leon asked, hands out to his side.

Sam gave him a withering look. "You'd better not," he warned.

Leon blanched. "A-a-anyway's, as I was sayin," he shifted, pulled a piece of gum from his pocket and shoved it in his mouth. "The kid had blood on one side of his head. Guess he seemed kinda scared.” He shrugged.

"You guess?" Dumbfounded, Sam stalked back toward Leon, looming over him. “And you didn’t think to call the police?”

“Shit, mister,” Leon recoiled. “Folks got more important things t’ do than to worry 'bout some man gettin' on t' his kids. This ain’t exactly Mayberry, ya know.”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. Without answering he turned and headed off in the direction Leon had indicated.

Leon’s information synced up with the conversation he’d had with Dean just before he’d gone silent. And it wasn’t good. In fact, this was so much worse than he’d thought. Not only was Dean missing, but he’d likely been set up by a kidnapper, using the one bait that would surely make the elder Winchester act before thinking: a kid.

Legs churned, and Sam’s long stride carried him quickly to the alley Leon had indicated. During his race up the street, he quickly promised himself that if Leon had been lying, retribution Winchester-style would be something the flim-flam man would not soon forget.

God; he was channeling Dean.

Sam turned down the corridor, ran forward three steps then slowed. “Dean!” He tried, but there was no answer.

For the most part, this alley wasn’t much different than all the others, but for the volume of refuse scattered about; empty boxes, papers and bottles were so thick the pavement was nearly completely covered.

The floor was peppered with broken glass, old evidence left over from a number of broken windows in the tall, dilapidated building. The graffiti decorating the walls advertised that ‘Jesus is Savior’ and that ‘f-deedee was here’. Whoever that was.

Papers shifted to his left and Sam jumped, weapon out and ready. On cautious feet he moved toward the sound, a pile of boxes stacked precariously against the wall, plenty of room for someone to hide in.

He swept out with one leg and sent the boxes toppling to the ground. Rats. They scurried left and right, ducking for cover.

“Dammit.”

Spinning Sam moved forward once more. A large brick wall marked the end of the alley and he drew to a halt dead center. Panting loudly, he swallowed at the enormity of what faced him. Dean could be anywhere in all this crap, unconscious, bleeding, injured.

“C’mon Dean,” he said loudly. “Gimme some sign here!”

In a fit of fear, he bent and wildly started tossing the trash and empty boxes into the air, searching for the surface beneath, for his brother, for any hint of a clue. An anguished cry tore at his heart as his frantic thoughts vacillated between fear of what he’d find and the fear of finding nothing.

The dumpster was next. He vaulted the side and peered at the contents of the container. Nothing.

Frustrated, he dropped to the ground and leaned back, the dumpster’s metal surface cool against his skull. Gun tucked under one arm, he rubbed his palms into his eyes.

Then froze. “Shit.”

Standing straight, he dug for his cell and hit redial. The familiar sounds of 'Smoke on the Water’ echoed off the alley walls.

Sam followed the music and once again he was digging. The music reverberated, echoing off the concrete walls, sending him in different directions, frantic. “DEAN!”

Then, he found it. Dean’s phone. But when he saw the smudge of fresh blood next to it, his heart really stopped.



Chapter 2 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 4