Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 4

[jackfan2]

Jeremy had been labeled a trouble-maker most of his short life. However, before today, his definition of trouble had been simple, child-like. Bordering on innocent.

Trouble wasn’t new to Jeremy. He'd been knee-deep in shit plenty of times. Brought most of it on himself - he realized that, though he'd never admitted it. Realized too he wasn't nearly so proud of it as he let on...

Jeremy had a track record of offenses and the list was long and varied.

Got caught shoplifting by the cops twice; nabbed for vandalizing a building once. Broke some windows on an abandoned building, where he'd only been caught after being ID'd by a neighboring business owner. Set fire to some garbage in a dumpster. Then the local Barney Fife at school had busted him once for putting a smoke bomb in the school bathroom. Another time for slashing a teacher's tires. There was more, but he'd managed to escape getting caught those times.

It was harmless shit, really. But enough for Jeremy to know most of the cops by name, and they his.

God, what Jeremy wouldn’t give for a cop now. Even that dick-cop who'd popped him upside the head once.

Then there was his most recent run-in with trouble; ditching school. It had seemed like a good idea at the time last week, but his badly forged note and a suspicious office worker had earned him a fact-check call to his Mom.

Next? A slow ride to Hell.

The little stunt had earned him a two-week sentence at home, grounded. The rules: straight home after school, no friends over. No going out, not even on weekends, just clean the apartment every day, read a book, no computer, no video games. Nothing.

“You’re just lucky your dad’s not around!” Mom had yelled at him as he stormed off to his room and slammed the door. That had been day one of his sentence.

Lucky? Hell, Jeremy wished his father were around. Wished it every day. It's not like Ken was even his real dad, but he'd been real enough for Jeremy.

Then, without a word, he just left them. Just like that. No explanation or anything and worst thing was, Jeremy had no clue why. Well, that wasn't exactly true, he had some idea. Mom. Even on her best days, she just seemed a little... off.

Parents in general, Jeremy knew, were always off, if his friends' constant complaints were anything to go by. Then again, if Jeremy was honest with himself, he would have seen the difference; even on her best days, his mother's version of 'off' was more extreme. Cheryl Dubois's self-destruct button always hit when things seemed just a bit too close to perfect, and that was never more evident to Jeremy than when Ken Dubois came into their lives.

It was eight years ago, almost to the date, when Ken Dubois met his mother and only a few months later asked her to marry him. Even before they had married, Ken had been a kind, decent man, and one who had treated them both with love and respect. Quickly he'd become the friend Jeremy had needed; a kind heart and listening ear, yet he was no pushover either. He could read Jeremy's bullshit a mile away, but knew when to be heavy-handed and when to give it a soft touch.

Jeremy couldn't be sure just when things had changed, but they had. It seemed only shortly after the weekend when things grew tense between his parents. There were heated conversations. Awkward silences and glances that refused to meet. They drifted apart, or rather, Mom had pushed him away.

A truck driver by trade, Ken was often gone for days at a time, but when he came back, he was always attentive, loving and intent on making up for lost time. He even took them to Chicago once, to see a Cubs game. That had been sweet. That had been Jeremy's eighth birthday.

Then, with things deteriorating to the point he could no longer find a solution, Ken took a truck driving job that he explained would mean longer hours on the road. The longer route to Mexico meant more money for all of them and he'd send them half of each check.

Taking it in her normal stride, Mom had yelled at him to keep his money and just get out. Stay out. And he did, though Jeremy had seen the envelopes come in the mail, each one in Ken's handwriting. Jeremy had even managed to hold one up to the light, once. There was no letter, just a check.

Each time, Mom had marked them 'Return To Sender'. Ken had finally given up.

The day he'd realized Ken was never coming back, Jeremy had cried himself to sleep. It was in those waning hours that the longing and pain squeezed his heart like a vise. With every fiber of his being, he wished his father were there. Wished it fervently every night, until he was exhausted, emotions laid bare, and he’d finally fallen sleep.

Even now, years later, Jeremy still found himself unable to hold back the tears of pain and loneliness.

Then, just like every day, when the sun came up and Mom left for work, Jeremy put on his mask of indifference and rebellion and went looking for trouble. Or, what he thought of as trouble.

Busy keeping their heads above water, Mom worked two jobs just to make ends meet. She slung fast food at one joint, then pushed papers for some uptight accountant in an office, part-time. The guy was a prick and he leered at his mother. Mom was too afraid of losing her job to say anything. It made Jeremy sick.

"I'll get a paper-route, something. You don't need to work for that asshole," Jeremy had pleaded.

"Watch your mouth!" she'd reprimanded. "No, you'll stay in school. You'll get an education. That's the only way you'll rise above this, Jeremy."

Well, the hell with that. They'd been living like this for five years and now, Ken was gone, she was too busy, hell, the world was too busy to deal with him. So, Jeremy found ways to make them deal.

At the tender age of nine, Jeremy discovered that he wasn’t actually Superman and, therefore, indestructible. After one of many fights he’d gotten into, Jeremy had needed stitches, so Mom had dragged him to the free clinic, because their insurance sucked. That was when he'd met Bill and for the first time in a long time, an adult male, this total stranger, had taken an interest in him. Bill had treated him like a person, instead of a burden. Just like Ken had.

"You can call me Billy," he'd said with a smile, half hidden by his thick framed glasses. "That's what all my friends call me."

So Jeremy had, just like all his friends had. They'd called him Billy.

Billy was the nice janitor at the free clinic near his apartment. Billy, who’d given him that cool skateboard for his tenth birthday. Billy, who hadn’t ratted on him when he'd caught him smoking with his friends in the alley behind the clinic. Billy, who had even let him taste his beer once.

It never crossed Jeremy’s mind that Ken would never have done any of those things. And Ken would've been right not to. Now it was too late for hindsight.

Most of the boys on that block knew Billy, as it turned out. When his name came up in conversation it was always Cool Billy. Nice Billy. Nerdy Billy. Geeky Looking Billy. And now, Jeremy could add a new one, one that no one else would likely ever know: Serial Killer Bill.

The name 'Billy' was just too nice for the monster Jeremy had come to realize he was.

Before, when he was still Billy, it had become a daily thing to meet Cool Billy outside the clinic. Once he got off work, they'd go out, do stuff together. Fun stuff. Stuff that Jeremy had no business doing. Stuff Ken never would've allowed.

But Ken wasn't there. Mom had seen to that.

Today had been different, though. Billy had called him. Billy never called him.

Things got stranger after that. Billy had asked Jeremy to meet him at a different place, the busy street with all the coffee shops and that nice smell of fresh baked goods that Jeremy always stayed clear of. Why bother? Didn't have the money to buy the cookies anyway.

When Bill had arrived the news had broken: Jeremy was busted. Mom had found out that he wasn’t at home. That he'd skipped school. Again. Jeremy's friends, also truant, had scattered. Worried for their own asses.

Jeremy had figured then that he knew what it meant to be in trouble. Still, he hadn't scratched the surface.

Bill had insisted he come with him. Face the music. Show some respect for his mom. Jeremy had balked at that, at first. Argued stubbornly that he had the right to do whatever the hell he wanted. No one, least of all her, cared about him anyway.

Then Bill had taken his arm. Pulled him in close. Whispered angrily.

“She showed up at the clinic," Billy had said, "worried sick, asking about you. Her boss wouldn't let her leave, said she should play babysitter in her own damn time,” he'd added. “I think she lost her job, Jeremy. Because of you.”

The words had been harsh, but Jeremy knew he had deserved them.

Today was her restaurant job. The one with Al, her boss. One of the few nice bosses she had. Jeremy had dropped his head to his chest. He hadn’t wanted Mom to lose her job over him, but she had. All because she’d had to hunt down her trouble-making, delinquent son. Again.

So with Billy close behind him, Jeremy had sunk deep into his self-deprecating thoughts and they’d headed to the clinic, where according to Bill, Mom waited. He’d stubbornly held back the tears.

In hindsight, if he hadn't been so lost in his morose mood, Jeremy might have been more aware of Bill’s odd behavior: nervous, anxious, constantly twitching and turning around from time to time, like someone was following them.

Finally, when he'd determined Jeremy wasn't going fast enough, Billy had poked him, insisted he pick up the pace. When Jeremy had cast him a questioning look, Bill’s response had only left him more anxious...

“Sooner we get there, less mad she’ll be,” Billy had said looking straight ahead, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Jeremy got the strangest sense that Billy wasn't even talking to him. Well, it was Billy talking, just not to Jeremy. But he had no reason to think differently of Billy, so Jeremy had done as he’d asked and picked up the pace, as best his short legs could. Besides, he was worried about his mother.

Too late he realized, it looked more like they were running from someone, rather than walking to somewhere.

Nothing he did seemed good enough and Billy grew impatient and… angry. And when Jeremy finally complained, Billy grabbed up Jeremy’s shirt atop one shoulder, fisted the material and before he knew it, Jeremy was being dragged along in a tide of people.

“Stop it, Bill, you’re... you’re hurting me.” And it did hurt. Turned out, half the skin on his left shoulder was trapped in that material, pinched and twisted in Bill's grasp.

The grasp remained tight and bruising. Didn't slow him down either. Instead, he changed directions, swiftly. Jeremy found himself being dragged down some lower basement stairs, hidden in shadows, hidden from the crowd.

Next thing he knew, he was lifted and slammed against a wall, Bill's face menacingly inches from his. “You listen to me, you little prick. If you love your momma you’ll do exactly as I say, you hear?”

“B-Bill…what?” Dammit. Jeremy couldn’t stop the tears that fell down his face. Bill had always been so understanding, so gentle with him. The guy digging his fingers into him now, he didn’t know this guy. This guy scared the hell outta him.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” Bill shook him, then slammed his head harder against the brick. Jeremy saw stars. “Just know I will kill your Momma if you utter so much as a peep. Hear me?”

Bleary-eyed and in pain, Jeremy only nodded, too stunned to do more.

After a beat, when Billy was sure no one was paying attention, he'd dragged Jeremy back up the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Hesitating only a moment, Billy looked around, gave a satisfied grunt and then they were off again. Jeremy’s heart raced, his stomach flipped and rolled.

They’d gone about a block when Billy stopped and they turned as one. Billy tightened his grip on Jeremy's arm.

The crowd shifted around them and a guy suddenly materialized, unmoving, maybe fifty feet away, staring at Jeremy with wide, angry eyes. But the anger wasn’t at him, it was at Billy. And Jeremy felt his heart surge, just for a moment.

Someone had noticed. They had been running away from someone. Him. But the man didn’t look scary at all, at least not to Jeremy.

Momma had always said that Jeremy shouldn't give his guardian angel so much grief. "'Else one day, son, the poor thing just might give up on you."

For now, it looked like his guardian angel was still on call.

Jeremy had opened his mouth, but the grip had tightened and words hadn’t surfaced. Instead he’d pleaded silently for the guy standing tall and fierce against the crowd, looking like fire might start spitting out of his eyes, pleaded with him not to give up on Jeremy now.

Then the crowds had converged again and the guy was gone, swallowed by the human tidal wave. It was so fast that Jeremy wondered if he had been just an illusion. Jeremy had felt his heart sink. Whoever this guy was, he prayed he wouldn’t give up, prayed he’d keep following. Not that he could be sure, but it sure seemed that he was chasing them.

Chasing Billy. Please God-please God-please God.

Another direction change and Billy dragged him forcefully down an alley, kicking at the trash that littered their path. They moved deeper into the shadows, the cool autumn air sitting heavily where the sun couldn’t reach. Deeper and darker down the narrow corridor until Billy finally drew them to a halt near a massive pile of boxes.

Eyes wide in panic, Jeremy only looked around, head still woozy from being slammed into the bricks. He noticed for the first time that something sticky trailed down his neck.

Turned, wrestled and shoved, he was spun about, fingers bruising against his skin. A cloth was placed over his mouth and the smell of something sickly-sweet clouded his already panic-stricken mind. The world spun, then grayed…

Then nothing.

When he awoke, he quickly discovered where trouble had led him. Hell.

And, contrary to popular belief, Hell was not some fiery pit, but a frozen, inky black room.

Trembling as much from fear as from the cold, Jeremy huddled in on himself. Arms wrapped around his legs trying to maintain what little body heat he had, he cried. It was freezing and the only sound in the room was his teeth chattering loudly.

Now, for the first time in his life, Jeremy was in real trouble.




Dean Winchester knew about pain, had experienced more than his fair share first-hand. Hazards of the job.

In all his years as a hunter, he’d been shot, stabbed, beaten, clawed, bitten and thrown against more hard surfaces than he could count. He'd been thrown against a couple of soft surfaces, too, that had still hurt like hell.

Over the years, as a result of all those experiences, he’d learned how to manage his pain, how to contain it, give it shape and form, make it disposable. Learned to put it somewhere deep and hidden in his mind, not let it surface until he said so. Not let it bend his will. Not let it break him. Not let it show.

So, he wasn’t overly concerned about dick-shit’s earlier threat: I’m good at pain Dean, make no mistake.

Yeah? Well I'm better, fuckwad! Only, Dean had never gotten the chance to issue that rejoinder. The breath had barely filled his lungs to speak when the promised pain had swallowed him whole.

Now, he was covered in painful cuts. Save for the puncture on his thigh, the rest were shallow and bleeding and sizzling under his skin. They were in his chest, sides, arms and neck. Perv had wielded that knife like a pro. Like a man well practiced.

It hadn’t left him unconscious. No. Dean had held out. Held on. Grabbed hold. Though just with his fingertips.

Now, he was somewhere floating between awareness of his existence and denial of reality. He drifted in the twilight of consciousness. Caught in the too-heavy weight of his own eyelids, but hurting too much to do more.

Hurting. The barbed wire pushed and cut into his chest. Still, he couldn’t find it in him to shift. Wouldn't matter. They were imbedded and moving back wouldn’t change that.

Then, something shoved up against him, pushed him upright. It was almost gentle. The relieved weight of his body as it was lifted away from the wire made him gasp. Then sigh.

Sam.

Thank God. Sam. He made it. Thank God, Dean murmured, or maybe he'd just thought it, but either way, he felt it. Felt it to his bones. Felt relief and panic because if Sam was there, Dean had to get him out of there. Away from there.

While Sam held him upright, probably to cut the wires, Dean waited, eyes closed, conserving any strength he'd surely need to get them out of there. Waited patiently because time seemed to bend in his mind.

Instead of the wires snapping and releasing from his body. Instead of his hands being cut free and the plastic being tugged from his torn wrists, something pressed under his chin, lifted his head. Dean furrowed his brow. But nothing more. He wasn’t ready for more.

It was confusing. Dean’s jaw hurt and part of him couldn’t remember why; most of him didn’t want to remember why. The pressure against his chin grew more insistent. Sammy must’ve been having trouble with the bindings, with holding him up.

The handling became rougher. Pressure on his arms tighter. But his head was jockeyed, and tilted and when something settled around his neck to lay loose on his shoulders, the little voice of alarm screamed at him to open his eyes.

“C’mon Dean,” a familiar voice cajoled. “You don’t wanna sleep through this.”

Perv. That was Perv’s voice.

Sam! Sam run!

The thing around his neck tightened. It itched. The fuck…?

“Open your eyes, Dean.” Perv tapped him on the face. Hard. “Trust me, you’ll be very sorry if you relax now.”

Instead of obeying, Dean’s head drooped again, chin landing firmly on his chest. The thing around his neck pulled against his Adam’s apple.

Lacking the strength to do more than listen, unable to comprehend, Dean sagged.

“Oh, well,” Perv continued smoothly. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The support was gone and Dean’s body fell forward. It was a short drop and the thing around his neck tightened. It constricted around his throat. Dug into the tender flesh. Choked off his air.

Panicked, his eyes flew open even if he couldn’t really focus on anything. Dean gasped. His head shot up.

Instinct left him eager, anxious to pull at whatever was cutting off his breath. Dean jerked, hands twisting, pulling. It was useless. The effort sent the bindings cutting deeper into his wrists, sending more blood flowing freely down his arms.

Dean wheezed, in a desperate attempt to draw a breath. The rope around his neck was too tight. He couldn't... get enough. Oh, God… he was dying and he couldn’t even take his last breath…

The pressure suddenly lessened. Dean felt air surge back through his lungs.

Dizzy, he let himself drop. His eyes slid closed.

“Ah-ah-ah,” Perv warned. “If you don’t want a repeat, I strongly suggest you stay exactly where you are.”

Dean obeyed this time. Held still in that place between the wires in his chest and those at his back, where the rope didn’t strangle, didn't cut off his air; the loop around his neck was loose now, but not near as lax as he wanted it.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Dean felt like a country dog in the city: stand still and he'd get screwed. Run, and he'd get bit in the ass. An old cowboy in Odessa had given him that line, right about the time his eyes had turned black and he'd left Dean in that desert gulch with three angry rattlesnakes.

“You… son-,” Dean coughed, choked on the pain in his lungs and neck. Head bent, body gasping.

“Yes, yes, I’m a son of a bitch," he agreed casually. "Believe me, I know my lineage. Better than you realize.”

"Well," Dean coughed and lifted his eyes, staring as venomously as he could at his captor. “Never let it be said,” he ground out, voice rasping, “I didn’t overstate the obvious.”

The smug look on Perv’s face told him the dig meant nothing. What meant everything was the rope he held, swinging it casually back and forth. Dean’s eyes followed where it trailed upward and looped over a beam in the rafters of the barn. That was as far as he could see it go, even if he could guess the rest. He could certainly feel exactly where it ended, circled around his neck.

“Well, what should be obvious is that you’ve yet to answer my question.”

Dean nearly choked on the ball of relief that welled in his throat. He was sure he’d let Sam’s name out, earlier on when he’d been caught in that freaking semi-dozing, sort-of-hallucination with his brother. He hadn’t though. Thank God he hadn’t.

“So what...," Dean coughed painfully, "you’re just going to hang me? Gotta say, pretty boring way to kill someone.”

“Ah, see that's the beauty of it, Dean.” Perv swung the end of the rope, it twirled and whistled. “All I’ve done is put this rope around your neck. The rest is up to you. You move too far forward you hang yourself. You move too far back, you impale yourself.” He pulled the end of the rope in his hand. “I get to keep you on the edge the entire time.”

“Control freak,” Dean muttered.

“Exactly.” Perv knelt next to his captive and pulled the knife out again. He moved it playfully in front of Dean’s eyes.

This close, Dean eyed it curiously. “That real silver?” he asked, couldn’t help himself.

“It is,” Perv said proudly. “Nought but the best for you, Dean. Also, it’s easier to clean and it’s sharp. Very, very sharp, but then again… you know that.” He moved the edge down and ghosted it across one of the bleeding cuts in Dean’s chest.

Dean would kill for a camera right now. Not that he wanted to save this moment for later, but he wanted, he needed to see this guy’s eyes under a camera lens. It made no sense. His crimes had shapeshifter M.O. all over them, with the missing skin and the bodies in the sewer. And yet… here he was, playing carelessly with the one metal that could kill him dead. It made absolutely no sense.

The suspicion that he might have gotten this one terribly wrong was beginning to take root in Dean’s brain. It spelled nothing but 'screwed to hell' to him.

“Yeah,” Dean swallowed. “I got that part. Loud and clear.”

“See, Dean, I am in control, however, any time you want, I will stop. All you need to do is answer my questions.” The blade stilled over his ribs. It pressed in slowly. “Tell me if someone will come looking for you. Tell me your real name.”

“I'm Moby Dick and you're Captain Ahab...," Dean growled. "Guess which of us dies first?”

Perv didn't react, he just sliced. Again. And again.

Every touch of the blade scorched as it dipped and sliced time and again, taking with it a little bit more of Dean's senses. Whittling away at the ground beneath him; his very strength and resolve. Short of Dean's own grunts and groans, however, he didn't let on and all sound was muffled. Only the hum of blade dancing across flesh and Perv's harsh, lascivious breathing filled the room.

Dean tasted blood in his mouth but he couldn't focus his eyes. He could smell copper and acrid sweat in the air, but could no longer tell which part of his skin was being cut. It was like an elaborate conspiracy, where all of his senses plotted against his desire to slip away and stop feeling miserable.

Blood and torment flowed freely and Dean felt his pain threshold crumbling.

The drugs. They'd exacerbated the pain, he was sure of it. There was no way this was normal.

Dean was made of stronger stuff than this and lacking concentration he couldn't seem to push this down and deep enough to escape it mentally. Though thinking about what was wrong seemed to occupy his need for release. For now.

Every incision and puncture, Dean knew, was strategic; never deep enough to hit arteries or bleed too much. Like being flayed alive; it hurt just enough to make him think he was dying. The drugs just added definition.

Given the carefully delivered method and measure, whatever this thing’s end game was, he wanted Dean’s pain to last. You'll shout yourself raw before I'm finished with you.

So far he hadn’t done much more than groan and grunt, but this thing was good, Dean admitted. So good, that for once in his life, Dean wondered how much more he could take.

"You are stubborn, I'll grant you that," Perv said near the cart. He picked up a filthy blood-covered rag, the same one he'd used a dozen times already, and began cleaning off the knife’s blade. "Though, that trait doesn't gain you much, especially not here."

“Really?” Dean panted, staring bleary-eyed at his captor. “I was always told… that was one of my b-best qualities.”

It was harder than before to keep his eyes open. He was there, but at the same time he wasn't. Keep thinking, Dean, keep him talking…

"So what’s with the outfit, huh?" Dean slurred. It looked familiar. Like something a janitor wore, but he couldn't place it. "That the best you could find? Must've been slim pickins' when you hit town. They’d run out of clown outfits? 'Cause dude, the geeky, nerd-guy thing? Lame, man; I gotta be honest with you, you look like a salesman for Microsoft. It's scary, really."

Perv ignored him. Placing the blade on the cart he methodically pulled on a pair of large, black, thick rubber gloves. It was slow and theatrical and Dean was sure the show was for his benefit.

“Have you ever seen a cow branded, Dean? Ever smelt its hide burn?”

Dean stared a second, struggling for clarity as he worked to process the question. "Can’t say I have," he finally responded.

“My grandfather told me that the cows didn’t feel a thing, but you know, when the hot metal rod touches their flanks and they scream? I guess you could say I didn’t much buy that.”

Grandfather? Since when did shapeshifters, or any other monster for that matter, have... relatives?

Perv walked around the cart and came to stand before a thick tarp in one corner of the room. It was hung from a section with a low ceiling, like a ragged, dirt-stained drape. He pulled hard at the cloth and the thing fell heavily to the ground. Dust, dirt and hay kicked up around it, settling slowly in a slow dissipating cloud.

Dean hadn't noticed it before. Then again, it wasn't like he hadn't had other things on his mind. And the drugs didn’t exactly help either, in keeping him focused and sharp.

In full view now was a thick, half wall of stone on two sides, tucked into the corner and almost reaching the low ceiling. The ceiling wasn't a ceiling at all, Dean realized, it was more like a vent, also made of some kind of stone or mortar.

No wonder the other man seemed unaffected by the cold in the room, even with the added clothes that Dean was sorely lacking. Smoke wafted upward where coals obviously sat, waiting to be brought to life. Perv did just that, lifting a lever and pumping it, coaxing lazy flames and more smoke to quickly shoot up, erupting like a volcano. This wasn't a volcano. It was a forge. Like the kind they used to heat metal and make horseshoes.

The flames flared up and Dean squinted into the bright light, the surge of intense white leaving spots in his eyes. And, he noticed, no light flared in Perv’s, just normal reflections. Normal, human reflections. Fuck!

Somehow, the fact was that this thing was not a 'thing' at all, and that just made it all so much worse. Much scarier.

Well. Hell.

Perv grabbed a flat-shaped shovel and looked into the flames. "He even made me brand one of the animals, a small calf." Sweat trickled down his brow and Perv dug into the cavern of heat and started loading something hot into a metal bucket that sat on a wheelbarrow.

Dean cut his eyes over at Bessie. She looked on disinterested with the entire ordeal. "Sucks being you, huh?"

The barrow squelched and grated against the load and rust covering its wheel as it was pushed closer to the cart, closer to Dean. Smoke rose from the contents of the metal tub where several metal rods protruded.

When he was close enough, when Dean could feel the heat radiating form the rods in the bucket, many of which still glowed hot, Perv carefully set the barrow to rest on the back stands and released the handles.

"I didn’t want to," Perv continued. "Oh, how I begged him not to make me do it." He adjusted his gloves. "I cried and pleaded, but he didn’t care much for what I wanted. No... he just placed that red-hot iron in my gloved, ten-year-old hand and said that if I didn’t do it, he’d slit that animal's throat."

Dean swallowed. "What a bastard," he sympathized.

Perv stared off into the distance, like he was seeing an old memory. "We were just kids, you know, that calf and me. I knew I couldn’t carry the weight of its death with me, so I pushed forward and pressed that iron to its skin. The calf howled like there was no tomorrow, big brown eyes looking at me like I had betrayed it.”

With one gloved hand, Perv pulled one of the metal rods from the metal bucket and approached. Even through his clouded vision, Dean could see the red glow of hot metal. Fuck.

This had gone from out of hand to seriously fucked up far too quickly.

Perv squatted next to Dean. “You know?" he said as he studied the hot metal a moment. "I could actually ‘feel’ that calf’s pain, the trembling spasms in its flesh, as that heated rod sunk deeper and deeper into its skin, agony traveling up the metal and straight into my hand… The stench of burning flesh has stuck with me to this day.”

Bad as all this sounded, there was absolutely no remorse in Perv's voice. None.

“So, what?” Dean’s voice croaked. Dammit. He swallowed, tried again, hoping for a nice, mocking tone. “You’re taking kids 'cause your granddaddy made you brand a cow? Wow, Dude, your life was pretty fucked up. You should give Oprah a call.” Dean was proud of himself, even managed a smirk for good measure.

'Pride goeth before a fall,' or some such nonsense Dean had heard somewhere and he got the distinct impression, judging by the way Perv's head canted and the way his eyes went flat and angry, that he'd pushed a bit too far. Pride was a pretty useless commodity when you were dead.

Dean stilled. On reflex, his hands balled into fists. His body tensed. He forgot to breathe.

Just like the knife from before, the rod dropped. When the metal made contact with the skin of his shoulder, Dean couldn't think about much else.

Shock delayed the pain. He could hear what sounded like the crackle of fire and smelled something burning. It took a bit for his brain to admit that the smell was his own flesh cooking.

Head back, he scampered mentally away from the pain. Divided his mind... looked for someplace else.

An old war vet had told him once, over one too many shots of Johnnie Walker, that he'd seen napalm in action. Scary shit; once ignited, skin melted like butter. That may well be, Dean decided as the heated metal dug ruthlessly into his flesh, but this wasn't napalm.

This felt like ice, so intense and extreme that he couldn’t even classify it as hot or cold.

Then, when the rod moved from his shoulder to his side with the sickening feeling of peeling skin, all rational thought left Dean's mind.

There was nothing but pain in its all-consuming glory... searing this time. Burning with a heat that clouded Dean’s mind. Fogged it in a coat of agony. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move.

It went on far too long before the cooled rod was removed and dropped to the ground. Dean's stomach rolled, whether from the pain or the smell of his own charred flesh, he wasn't sure. Didn't matter, he was no longer able to discern one pain from another. The burns. The cuts. The barbs. Nothing mattered. Just the need to make it all stop.

Perv strode purposefully back to the metal bucket and pulled another rod from the coals. Fresh from the flames, it glowed red. His mind still too full of pain, Dean barely noticed he’d returned and once again squatted next to him.

A hand twisted in his hair and lifted his head cruelly up. "Yeah," Perv cooed, his face close. "It felt just like that, I'm thinking."

Dean's eyes drifted shut. Oh, to be unconscious. Perfect.

"Oh, no. Not allowed." A hand clamped down on his skull and shook. The motion rattled Dean's already scrambled mind.

All the insistent shaking did no good; Dean's eyes closed. Now, if he could just get his mind to join the rest of him. Close up and hide.

Close. He was so close to the oblivion he wanted. Just one more second of peace and quiet...

He never heard Perv rustle around him. Didn't hear him return until his head was pulled viciously up once again. His whole body followed the motion, propelled back.

Leaning back was bad. Back was sharp and barbed.

Shit.

Dean’s body tensed, back arching as far as it could go. He tried opening his eyes in a desperate need to understand what was happening. An irrational demand to know why his small bubble of rest was being so cruelly disrupted.

"That’s it... open those pretty green eyes of yours, Dean," Perv oozed. "You'll wanna see this one comin'."

And, God help him, that's just what he did. Wasn't much, just slits, the barest peek. It was enough to see the smiling sneer on the face of the man hovering over him and the string of tape, dangling from his fingers.

Then he struck.

Grabbing his head, Perv quickly thumbed one of Dean's eyes, pulling it open. Wide and painful.

A piece of white medical tape floated into Dean's view. It was pinched between two of Perv's fingers and held still, gloatingly in front of Dean.

Perv grinned. "I could do this with drugs, naturally, but," his hold tightened when Dean found a little room to wiggle, "but I don't want you dying too soon." The strip descended before Dean could flinch. It was pressed securely over the rim of his eyelid and brow, then pulled upward, securing the other end to Dean's forehead.

The other eye was done fast, efficiently.

The reaction was immediate. Dean fought to blink, skin tugging and pulling against the adhesive. Uselessly. The eye watering against the dry air. The way Perv smoothed the end of the tape to Dean’s forehead was almost tender and increasingly creepy.

When his head was finally released, Dean's chin hit his chest, panting. Holy shit! His eyes! He couldn’t fucking close his eyes! The fucker had taped them wide open.

Now, Dean couldn't flinch - couldn't look away - the thought of passing out with his eyes open... wasn't gonna happen. He'd never felt more vulnerable in his life. More naked.

"You," Dean struggled to think, "son of a bitch." He looked up, hoped he could convey some sort of angry death glare.

Perv ignored the comment. “Again, Dean. I want your real first and last name.”

"When I get free-"

"When?" Perv mocked. "Pipe dream, Dean. Only way you're getting free is when you're dead, or I am."

"Well," Dean shot back, "call me an optimist." The inability to blink was making thought more difficult than before. Eye muscles tugged and pulled against the unyielding tape.

"Yes, too optimistic for someone with no reason to fight. So," he leaned in close, another stick of hot metal between them, close to Dean's eye. The waves of heat made Dean's eyes, already dry and painful, water. "Name."

Tears mixed with the sting of sweat that he couldn't blink away. They tumbled down his flushed face.

Anger was a powerful tool and Dean used it to push down the sense of helplessness. The feeling of being completely exposed and trapped. It cleared away the webs of confusion that clouded Dean's mind. Focused him. Revived his will to live.

“Sure. I got a name," Dean said, teeth grinding. "Santa-gonnafuckyouup-Claus!” he managed angrily.

The new rod was quickly pressed against his chest. Dean found his voice that time. Head back. Eyes bulging. He screamed.

The rod was removed. “Why have you been following me?” Perv asked again. "Tell me who you are?"

Dean gasped, struggling to find his voice back from the pain. “Gonna find... out who’s naughty and nice… And you’re definitely... not nice.”

The hot metal found his right shoulder this time and Dean gagged on the stench of his burning flesh. Eyes staring helplessly at the bubbling surface.

After what seemed like an eternity it was removed.

Perv was next to his head. “When you die," he whispered, "when I cut you up into little pieces and bury you along with all the others in my field, will anyone come looking for you?”

“Yeah,” Dean said hoarsely. Eyes burning, sweat trickled down his face. Hot. His whole body felt like it was burning. It conflicted with the uncontrollable shivers that wracked his every muscle. He swallowed or tried to around the sticky feeling in his parched throat. "Yeah, someone’ll be coming."

"That's better Dean." Perv leaned back. "Tell me who."

Pivoting his head, Dean met the man's eager gaze and leaned in close. Perv mirrored his movement until there was scarcely a hair's breadth between them.

"My elves, you sick fuck.” Anger kept Dean conscious, lent him a reserve of strength. “And my reindeer? They aren’t gonna like that you branded their boss, dick-shit. Rudolf's nose'll be so far up your ass your throat's gonna light up!”

Dean thought he'd screamed before. He was mistaken.




Sam stood at the traffic light, impatiently tapping his foot. The coffee shop was just across the street and it was all he could do to display a calmness that he didn’t feel. At all.

Traffic was heavy and the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings were lengthening, as the end-of-the-work-day crowd pushed in around him. Sam held fast to his spot at the front, ready to be the first to step from the curb when the light changed.

The onset of dusk made the inside lights of the Java Loft bright enough for him to see the occupants inside, and he clearly made out Angie and Sara sitting at a table, talking. Sam had a plan.

Really, he’d rather just run in, grab his stuff and go, but the unwanted attention he’d already drawn from two cops three blocks back made him realize that he’d best get his shit together.

After discovering Dean’s cell, and what he was sure was Dean’s blood decorating it, and after at least one person swore up and down that he'd seen a light-colored late-model car leave the alley in a hurry, Sam was more than certain Dean was in trouble. The task of finding him in a large city, however, overwhelmed his thoughts; the words needle and haystack, somehow, didn’t seem to do it justice.

Not that Sam would give up on his brother, but even with Dean’s research, which he’d yet to see, there was no guarantee it would be of any use. Everyone else he’d talked to around the area, naturally, knew nothing. Typical of city folk, no one wanted to get involved.

Standing at the entrance to the alley, after running up and down the sidewalk spending hours questioning as many people as he could, Sam was ready to turn and head back to the coffee shop. Dean’s research, now, was all he had to go on.

Then he saw it: the city traffic cams. All over the street.

They'd escaped his detection earlier. Planted atop a light pole that was actually a cell tower as well, it was lost amongst the oddly shaped spires at the top, and Sam had failed to realize that one of the items was actually a camera.

Armed with what he hoped would prove a greater resource, Sam glanced at his watch and cursed hotly. Nearly eight hours since Dean had stopped answering his cell. Sam spun and took off, abandoning the search of local occupants and headed back to the coffee shop.

The evening light that rapidly veiled the city just made Sam move faster. The knowledge of how crucial time was in missing persons cases and the victims’ survival, only served to send panic to his legs and he broke into a run.

Their type of playmates demanded stealth and in his haste to recover Dean's research, Sam had put from his mind, in favor of swiftness, one vital element when moving about the general populace. Something Dad had worked hard to impress up on them.

On a flat run he'd just managed to avoid smashing into a woman and her two kids. The crying children and screaming woman had set him straight, though it was the two cops sitting in their parked cruiser who'd seen the near mishap who'd been the wake up call he'd needed. They'd pulled him aside for a brief chat, though not brief enough for Sam, and Sam had heard the little voice in his head warning him that he was calling too much attention to himself.

Thinking fast, Sam had quickly offered a lame, “I left my bag with my laptop at the coffee shop. Didn’t realize it until I got nearly all the way home. I’m sorry, I was just in a hurry to get it before someone takes it,” excuse and crossed his fingers.

The lie had been simple enough, considering it had some element of truth woven into it. Coupled with the fact that he still looked the college type, the cops merely eyed him a few minutes, warned him to watch where he was going and sent him on his way.

Forcing himself to take calm breaths, he walked at a leisurely pace across the crosswalk, like all the other good little pedestrians. Rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants, he walked up the stoop and opened the door to the coffee shop.

“Well.” Sam pushed the door open, quickly fastening on a chagrined look. “I found ’im.”

In unison, both girls’ heads popped up and their mouths opened in mute surprise. They stood up as Sam approached.

Naturally, Angie was first to recover her voice. “And?”

Sam’s arms flapped out at his side helplessly, then he dropped them. “You wouldn’t believe me if I… well, it’s a little embarrassing to be honest.”

“He’s alright then?” Sara asked, her large blue eyes looking more relieved.

“Uh, yeah…,” Sam sighed. It sounded forced and false even to his own ears. Playing the part was the hardest thing he’d done in a long while; he wanted nothing more than to snatch up the laptop and run. “I was on the verge of calling the police when he called me.”

“Huh,” Angie arched her left brow and the piercing waggled almost comically. “Sara and I were about to do the same thing.”

“Good thing none of us did.” Sam felt more than a little vindicated for making up this story. Police were the last thing he and Dean needed right now.

While Sam gathered up the laptop and papers, Angie asked, “So... he shot out of here like a maniac leaving a very expensive laptop behind because...?"

“Oh, that.” Sam cleared his throat. “Typical Dean, I’m afraid.” He shuffled the computer and papers under one arm, straightened and deadpanned. “He saw a girl.”

“He saw a girl.” It was a statement, one Angie issued complete with crossed arms and dark disbelieving eyes.

Sam grinned patiently at her. “The laptop’s mine, not his and when my brother’s thinking with his downstairs brain, pretty much all else goes out the window. Like leaving my computer behind and forgetting to call his brother to let him know where he is.”

That seemed to turn the tide of suspicion a little bit, at least enough for Angie to huff in sympathy, “Tell me about it. I have three brothers. But if one of them did this to me, he’d be shy one set of balls.”

"God, Angie, really...," Sara reprimanded her friend, her face flushed with embarrassment. Turning back to Sam, “So he finally called you?”

“He did, well, when he remembered his precious car was sitting parked out in front of your shop, likely to be towed.” Sam relaxed when disbelieving Angie grinned. She and Dean apparently shared an affinity for classic cars. “When he caught up with her they went out for lunch, had a few drinks, then she invited him over to her place. Didn’t realize his cell was dead. He called from her house.”

“Yeah, well, sounds like a little payback’s in order.” Angie smiled mischievously.

“Definitely,” Sam nodded, answering her grin as best he could. “Well, since my sorry-ass brother dragged his recovering brother downtown and scared him half to death, I might as well blow off this energy by catching up on some research for our book. Is the campus library far?”

“Oh!" Sara chimed in excitedly. "Angie told me about your road trip to research American universities for a book. Exciting. Never met a real author before." The blonde was practically salivating.

“Down girl.” Angie elbowed her in the ribs. The blonde colored and dropped her eyes. “Library’s not far at all.” The dark-haired girl pointed out the window. “Just keep heading up the main street there, then go right at the first light. It’s the enormous old building on your right. Can’t miss it.”

“Got it," Sam nodded. "And thanks for giving Dean's panicking little brother a ride.” He was backing toward the door. His skin crawled with the very real danger he knew his brother was in, and how the longer he delayed, the colder his trail would become. “And Sara? Thanks for hanging onto this for me."

When his backside met with the solid glass on the door, his shoulders nearly sagged visibly with relief. The door opened and after a half-smile, Sam slid the rest of the way out of the shop and nearly vaulted over to the Impala. It was all he could do to slow himself down.

Sam didn’t have to look to know the girls were watching from the shop windows. Rounding the black Chevrolet, he kept at an easy lope, reminding himself he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Unwarranted attention wasn’t good.

Using their emergency key, Sam popped the lock on the driver's side door. Before getting in he looked up and smiled, offering another casual wave good-bye to the girls. Angie’s gaze, he noted, still seemed a mite suspicious, while Sara seemed… smitten? Putting them out of his mind, he got in and brought the engine rumbling to life.

It wasn’t until the Java Loft shrunk into a barely visible dot in his rear-view mirror that he allowed himself a breath. But even then, it was only by half; there was still much to do. Find Dean.

For that, he needed a good Internet connection and some privacy because he had a city traffic cam system to hack into, some research to sift through and a brother to find. The latter he hoped would prove a successful endeavor; successful in that he’d find him in one piece.

It wasn’t long before Sam spotted the library. It was just as Angie had said, big and well-marked. The thing had to be six stories, and that didn't include the likelihood of a basement. A basement. Someplace that Sam hoped to access right away. Someplace quiet and secluded where he hoped to discover something, anything that might help him discover what had happened to Dean and hopefully, where he was.

Sam knew, with an utter certainty, that he was running out of time. And, if Dean hadn't already, he was likely running short too.




Chapter 3 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 5