Big Bang 2010: LAST CHILD, Chapter 7

[jackfan2]

It took far too long to get from the campus library to Brimmer’s apartment building, even if they were on opposite ends of town.

It was just traffic and the goddamn one way streets that he had to maneuver to get where he needed. Sam had very nearly ditched the Impala and hoofed it. Only reasoning that he'd likely need the car and that it would likely get towed if he abandoned it, kept him in his seat.

Still, Sam seethed at the constant delays. It was a struggle to keep his temper and frustration in check.

The old building had an intercom entrance leaving Sam one of two options: press random buttons and hope for a tenant who’d open the door to a total stranger, or wait for someone coming or going out to be distracted enough to leave the door open for him.

Either way, he needed a cover, in case someone questioned him. After a quick glance around, Sam looked at the over-filled dumpster at the end of the street and quickly came up with an idea.

Holding an empty pizza box, Sam stood off to one side, pretending to talk on his cell, waiting for his chance.

When the door finally opened from the inside, Sam launched up the steps.

“Hey!" he shouted. "Hold that up for me!” Before it could latch closed, he grabbed for the knob. The exiting occupant tossed him a suspicious look and Sam shrugged. “If I miss one more delivery deadline, I’ll lose my job.”

Just like that, Sam was in the building and at the elevator, pressing the call button. Foot tapping he waited. Mind racing. Then he pressed the button again. Judging by the delay, he was sure it was coming from the bowels of Hell itself.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered and pushed on the call button… five more times.

The apartment was on the seventh floor and just like all old buildings, the ancient elevator was slow. Too slow and Sam couldn’t help but glance again at his watch, his gaze drawn toward the door to the stairwell.

Sam opened his eyes, realizing for the first time he’d closed them. Something rolled down his brow and he swiped at it, his hand coming back wet with sweat. Rubbery legs warbled and his stomach rolled and Sam took a moment, leaning back against the nearest wall.

A nagging thought surfaced. The constant running around so soon after being laid up for the last four days was driving him toward relapse. Drawing on every ounce of patience he did not feel, he exhaled and dropped his shoulders, resigning himself to wait for the elevator and the physical respite it would offer. It would do Dean no good if he keeled over in the middle of trying to find him.

When the doors to the stairwell opened and a middle-aged woman shuffled out tiredly, Sam met her gaze.

She sniffed disdainfully. “Damn thing’s broke half the time. If you’re expectin’ a tip for a delivered hot pizza, you’d best take the stairs." She thumbed over her shoulder to the door she'd just exited.

“Thanks.” Sam actually felt a sense of relief. Tired as he was he didn’t want to stand still. Not for any length of time. He needed to find Dean. Now.

Taking the steps two, sometimes three at a time, he reached the seventh floor of the building and quickly located Brimmer’s door.

“Johnny Mack’s Pizza.” Sam knocked on the door. No answer. He offered the side of his fist and pounded this time, calling a bit louder this time, “Johnny Mack’s! Pizza delivery.” The same silence greeted him and he glanced quickly around before reaching into his inside pocket for the lock-picking tool he knew would be there.

“What you got there?”

Startled, it was all Sam could do to maintain his hold on the lock pick and the empty pizza box. Concealing the pick in his sleeve, Sam turned slowly, pretending the box weighed more than it did.

“Just making a delivery.” Sam nodded to the door, his best baffled look in place. “No one seems to be answering.”

The elderly woman stood in the doorway of the apartment adjacent, staring back at him through grimy bifocal glasses. Ratty gray hair slipped and curled all over her head and a large floral house coat, buttoned, thankfully, encased her ample frame.

“No one's home, kid," her gravelly voice grated back. "You got the wrong apartment.”

“Shit,” Sam huffed with dramatic indignation. Yanking his cell from his pocket, he punched randomly at some buttons and slammed the phone to his ear. With a nod to the neighbor, he stalked angrily toward the stairwell’s fire door.

As the door closed behind him, Sam was already talking loudly to his imaginary pizza place. “Hey!” he said to no one at all. “That delivery for Peterson, man you got the wrong address…”

Giving the illusion that he'd left, Sam allowed his voice to taper, his steps to lighten, instead pressing himself to the wall, hoping the neighbor bought it.

When enough time had passed he cracked the door and peered through a small opening. The neighbor was gone, thank God.

On the balls of his feet, Sam padded quietly out of the stairwell, careful to let the door close slowly behind him. After a beat, he moved toward the target once again, this time leaving the pizza box behind.

Lock pick in hand, he made quick work of the door to Brimmer's place and moved inside the apartment in no time at all.

Late evening light streamed through the curtain covered windows, but even in the faded rays, Sam could see enough to get the lay of the place. It was fairly neat and beyond clean and organized. The furniture was dated, but well kept, and the room was sparsely decorated with only a calendar and a few plastic plants. It was small too, he guessed it couldn't be more than 400 square feet.

Standing in the combination kitchenette and living area, the linoleum floor squeaked under his feet as he turned in a circle, looking for anything out of place or that might catch his eye. It did, in the form of a crooked bookshelf at the back of the room. Completely out of place given how fastidious the rest of the apartment was.

Curious, Sam drew closer, moving from the squeaky floor to thinned out carpeted area. Within a few feet he knew why the thing seemed ready to fall forward; a row of boxes, each consistent in size, took up two shelves. Each box had a title card, but he couldn't quite make out the print.

They were...photo boxes. Each box was labeled with a year, the first one starting with 1991, and up to the present, 2005.

In no particular order, Sam pulled a box from the shelf, noted the date 1995 in neat handwriting on the front and lifted the lid. Pictures, and while it was too dark to make out details, the bulge beneath the pile indicated there might be something more, so Sam shook the box lightly. The pictures shifted revealing a small spiral notebook.

Wanting a better look, Sam moved to the dining room area and set the box down on top of a counter that served as a divider between the two spaces. Dropping the lid down, he pulled out his flashlight, thumbed the switch and stared down at the contents.

A single look and Sam felt his stomach twist. Forcing wooden fingers to cooperate, he picked up the picture for a closer look. "Jesus," he whispered, then picked up the next, and another after that...

The photos were of all of the same man. Tied to a pole, bloody and torn nearly to pieces. Each one was of a different angle but the images were all the same, a strangers misery and pain captured for something's sick memory. In a few it appeared the man had been alive, mouth down-turned and open. Crying.

Sam picked up one of the closeups and by far the bloodiest; barbed wire, it was clearly tearing into the man’s throat. Sam dropped the photos to the table, like they'd burned him.

"Son of a...." Sam whispered. The pictures... the monster had taken them as souvenirs. Memories, like some kind of demented scrapbook of his victims pain and suffering.

Taking a deep breath, Sam shoved the pictures around, enough to see that each contained a different pose, same subject, each was more gory than that one before. On the back of each, written in the same neat handwriting that had been on the box labels, was a name and date; Brian, Summer, 1995.

In favor of keeping his already unsettled stomach somewhat settled, Sam dropped the macabre photos and grabbed the notebook instead.

The worn cover and edges of the pages were littered with dark splatters and spots. Blood, no doubt. He gingerly thumbed open the cover and noticed a name written on the left: Brian Chisolm. On the first page were columns of dates, places, and names.

Sam ran a finger over the data, mouth moving silently as he read. The handwriting was sloppy, hard to read. More chicken scratches than anything else, personal notations meant to be understood only by the person writing them. It bore no similarity at all to the carefully delineated letters and words on the backs of the photos.

The names in the notebook matched what Sam had seen on Dean's research. The dates, and even the sewer locations too....

"Dammit." Sam forced himself to scan the remaining pages, hoping there was something there that would fill in the blanks. Namely, where Dean was, because it was blatantly clear he wasn't being held here.

Finding nothing, he dropped the notebook back into the box and rushed back to the bookshelf. Grabbing the next box he returned to the table with the intent of rifling through the contents only to stutter to a stop. No adults this time. The photos were of kids. Lots of them. And they'd all been...

Sam sucked in a breath; skinned. Each one. "My God..." he struggled not to throw up. To get oxygen in and calm the nausea in his stomach.

Looking back at the rest of the boxes, he didn't have to see inside to know what they contained. He was pretty sure of what he'd find . Still, if there was any chance that the photos, or backgrounds in them would offer any clues as to where Brimmer might be. Where Dean might be, Sam had to force himself to look, make himself search each and every one for any details they might present.

And he did. And as bad as all this was, it assured him of one thing: Brimmer and the thing that had taken his brother were the same.

During his inspection of the photos of the kids, Sam had noticed a name and date written on the back of each. He grabbed the notebook and saw that while the information matched, perfectly, something else didn't. The handwriting.

Sam squinted, looking closer. The writing on the photos, even on the boxes, it was precise, neat, clean. Every letter, ever number straight and perfect. The notebook had been far less so. Jagged, more slanted, with far less care.

The notebook, Sam realized, definitely didn't belong to Brimmer. But who... Sam looked at the photos of the man. A hunter? Maybe the man in the pictures, the only adult Sam had found. Had he stumbled onto the same info Dean had? Had this Brian Chisolm met his end at the hand of this monster? The same monster that now had Dean? And was doing... Sam looked at the top picture of the man, that to Dean?

Sam swallowed. Hands practically shaking, he tumbled headlong into the pictures, eyeing each one under close inspection, studying each for background, looking for anything that might give him another clue.

By the time he’d finished, Sam felt sick to his stomach and tragically empty handed. The pictures were all extreme close ups, too close, invasive, real-time close-ups of this guy’s victims. There wasn’t enough room left in them to catch a surrounding building, a glimpse of wherever it was that he was committing these crimes. Because one thing was certain, it wasn’t in the pathetically small apartment with its too nosy neighbors.

Not only that, but shadows had given way to nightfall, chasing off the sparse natural light from earlier. Glancing at his watch he noted the time: 9:30 p.m. He cursed.

Regrouping, Sam shone his flashlight carefully around the room. Starting over. Getting a real lay of the land.

A living room, kitchen with eat-in space, and a small bedroom, the latter off to his right. It was quite evident that not only was no one around but no one had been around in a number of days- the pile of mail on the small entry table was evidence of that. And that someone was taking his mail in for him.

Tucking the light under his chin, Sam freed both hands to move through the envelopes and mailers faster. Speed increased as it became evident there was nothing there to tell him anything.

Sam cursed under his breath and turned to look around the room once more.

The cheap linoleum floor of the kitchen crackled underfoot as he moved into the small space. Trailing the beam of light slowly, noting the counters, the range, then the refrigerator-the light caught on something shiny and Sam stilled.

Moving purposefully toward the gleam, it soon took shape. There, stuck to the side of the fridge was a small, slanted wire basket. In it was a neat stack of envelopes, every one of them torn open carefully at the top.

Sam grabbed the stack and right away found just want he wanted. The return address read: St. Mary's Clinic, 32669 Broadham St., Duluth, MN.

Reaching inside Sam pulled a folded piece of paper out and shone his light on the content. It was a pay-stub. Bill was employed at the clinic and this was a recent pay-stub, dated only two weeks ago.

The clinic. That, Sam decided, was his next stop.




In their line of business, the brothers were always in tune with their surroundings, even when half conscious. Time and hunting left their senses always on alert, always aware when the silence cut a bit too deep, or seemed too perfect.

It wasn’t something John had trained; some things couldn’t be taught. This was experience. The constant war with darkness left them keen to the smallest noise, the too-still stillness or sound that seemed unintended. Overly cautious.

Even in his beaten, cut up, drug-hazed stupor, Dean knew this was one of those times; someone, or something, was watching him. More than watching.

Dean's hands stilled.

The distinct tell-tale sounds of a camera flash firing, filtered into his mind. One after another, they clicked, one after another. Snapping picture after picture.

Of him.

“Wh... the fuck?”

It somehow felt more invasive than all the torture, more grating than all the breaches in personal space that he’d suffered. A picture was something solid, something permanent. A proof of Dean’s impotent state.

The camera sounds stopped, and Dean waited for the photographer to come closer. He knew perfectly well who he was.

Dean’s fingers slid from the hidden nail. After the other man had left, Dean had focused on trying to get that nail loose, trying to assure himself of a way out of there. His body, however, had other priorities and Dean couldn’t really pinpoint the moment when he’d lost contact with his escape plan and slipped away into dream land.

There had been no grace of movement in his fingers, though, and the slow, painful movement of getting the nail out had been difficult. In truth he could barely move his fingers at all. They hurt like hell. Moving them just got the little fire ants of returned circulation moving again.

“Thought you were out,” Perv’s voice filtered through the shadows. “Seemed like the perfect time to get some... souvenirs.”

Head wobbling on its axis, Dean lifted it slowly to stare bleary-eyed at his captor. Was this guy serious? “Souvenirs? Why? You letting me go?”

Dean squinted. The single bulb light above left little halos in his vision, but it was Perv. Head bent, staring at him from across the barn. Palms together, fingers tapping contemplatively against one another. He rocked back and forth, heel to toe, camera armed with a scary big lens dangling from his fingers.

He almost looked…nervous. But that dark stare, it spoke volumes. No, he wasn’t getting ready to let Dean go. Not breathing, at least.

Dean swallowed. He knew an ominous gaze when he saw one. This was it then.

Well, it had been an… interesting life. Not that he’d go out without a fight, but any hope he had that Sam would make it in time was beyond faded.

While his mind seemed to accept the inevitable, his instincts saw something different in Perv's stance. It wasn't at all comfortable or confident, not as it had been all the other times.

This time he seemed... hesitant. Indecisive.

“What?” Dean tried, his voice gravelly and sick sounding. His throat burned like fire, but he figured that was from all the yelling. “You pick now to go all coy and shy on me?”

The movement was sudden, swift. Perv closed the distance between them and dropped to his knees on the ground. Face intense and determined, not far from Dean’s.

“You know,” Perv said, his voice slightly awe-struck. “When you sleep, you... you look like a little boy.” One hand came up and he lightly stroked one cold finger along Dean’s stubbled jaw. “All... innocent and vulnerable. Nearly angelic.”

“Angelic-me?” Dean coughed out a laugh. It felt rusty and painful. This had to be the strangest conversation starter he'd ever heard. “Dude, you don’t know me very well.”

“Don’t be so sure, Dean.” Perv reached out, then hesitated. After a moment, he extended one finger and skimmed the flesh just under Dean’s chin and then down, along his throat, lightly outlining every contour. “From what I’ve seen over the last several hours, I know enough.”

Dean grimaced, but didn't otherwise move. The intimacy of that touch made his skin crawl.

Every fiber in his being wanted him to turn away from the touch. Wanted to shrink from the very proximity and intensity of the look in his captor's eyes. But Dean didn't; he endured it. Held still. Met his gaze head on.

Dean had never physically retreated from anything or anyone. But, while angry-Perv burned, cut and electrocuted him, pervy-Perv freaked him out completely.

Dean was out of his depth here. But he had to change tactics or the next depth he reached would be from his own grave.

“Yeah? Well, ain’t I a little too old for your liking?”

“True, you’re not exactly to my normal tastes,” Perv continued moving his hand now to trace Dean’s collarbone, easily sliding across the sweat gathered there. His eyes studied Dean intently, waiting for a reaction. Wanting one. “But the boys I’ve picked, in death they have that same look; like sleeping angels. But they lack that inner strength, that fortitude.”

“Seriously?” Dean snapped, frustration and rage mixing in his voice. “They were just kids, man!”

Perv didn’t register the barb; just shrugged, his finger running down Dean’s sternum. “Wasn’t my fault they were beautiful. Like Frankie. Like you.” His eyes met Dean’s.

“God, you are nuts,” Dean murmured in disbelief. “How the hell does this have anything to do with me?”

“Simple. With you, I see more. More than just beauty. I see a child in a man’s body with eyes that burn with an intensity the likes of which I've never seen....”

“Well,” Dean continued, the purr in his voice not matching the venom in his eyes. “Why don’t you just let me go? I’ll show you burning.”

Perv went completely still. Face completely shuttered. Any semblance of emotion vanished and Dean swallowed at the confusion of the sudden shift.

It was, however, nothing compared to the frigid set of Perv’s shoulders as he rolled back onto his feet and stood. Under hooded eyes, Dean watched him turn his head and gaze out the barn door. Like some distant voice called to him.

Spinning on his heel Perv moved away from his captive, stalked away, hands balled in fists; angry and tense.

Dean used this moment. This could literally be his last chance. Clawing, he scraped the post, searching for the nail. It caught under his fingertips, fingers just this side of being completely numb and too swollen, but there was enough there. Enough feeling. With the head pinched tight as he could, he pulled.

It moved. Showed no resistance at all.

Dean swallowed the triumphant swell in his chest, the slight dip in his head and closed eyes his only outward show of his relief. He closed his fingers around the loose nail, tightly gripping his only hope.

Once again Dean’s jaw was grabbed viciously, his eyes flew open.

Like so many times before, Perv was in his face. Gripping it tightly in one hand. The content in his other hand was the only difference.

It was a large kitchen knife and the tip, cold and sharp, pressed frighteningly along Dean’s collarbone. The blade quickly skirted down, ghosting over the center of Dean’s chest. Dean braced for the moment it would pierce his heart.

"Hmm… I bet you were quite the handful when you were young." The knife's tip stopped just at the top of Dean's waistband, so did Perv's eyes. "And I bet, you're even more of a handful now."

“Untie me,” Dean snapped angrily, hiding his nerves at the location of the blade. “I’ll show you just how much of a handful I am.”

Perv grinned. “Maybe later,” he said licking his lips, choosing to misinterpret Dean’s threat for an offer. The knife’s edge tingled as it reversed its path and came to a stop at the edge of Dean’s chin. “Your lips…,” he said as he ran the tip of the blade slowly along Dean’s lower lip. “Of all the boys I've taken, none have ever had lips like yours. I’ve not seen anything like them before… well, except in movies and magazines.”

Dean’s insides churned with barely contained bile, his hands closing into fists, the bite of the nail in his palm reminding him that this would all soon be over. He needed to play his cards carefully now.

Time was what he needed. Time both conscious and alone, away from Perv’s watchful eye. Time now to stave off the bastard’s sick need to inflict pain, or he’d be under again. Lost.

“You know, I killed that cop right here in this very barn. Gutted him.” Perv’s face grew thoughtful. “Never realized there was so much blood in the adult human body.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s lips were cracked and dried and he desperately wanted to lick them, but he didn’t dare with Perv’s finger caressing them so sensually. “Kids make for easier cleanup, I guess.”

Perv laughed mirthlessly. “That they do.”

“You know, you can’t keep getting away with this forever. You killed a cop.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me... that’s what got him killed. I can still remember his screams,” Perv’s face took on a distant look, “when my knife dug into his flesh and, oh, oh how he begged and pleaded for his miserable, stinkin’ life.”

"What'd you do with his body?" Dean asked, trying to get some information, hoping to slow down this night's eminent conclusion.

"Oh, he's" Perv looked around casually, "around. Somewhere. In pieces... lots and lots of little pieces," he finished.

"Goddamn... " Dean murmured, shaking his head.

"He begged me to stop." Anger and warning quickly replaced the casual tone and Perv flashed Dean a warning glare. “I hate when they beg and cry," he continued. "Just like all the boys do just before I wrap my hands around their throats. Listening to the last sounds they make. The gurgling of their voices. They cry. I hate. Crying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dean said simply but his jaw ached to say more. It physically pained him not to tell this crazy fucker just how off his meds he truly was.

What the hell did this perverted freak expect? Of course the kids cried and begged. Kids, for Christ’s sake, just little kids who hadn’t deserved anything like this. Grown men would do exactly the same when faced with a murderous psychopath.

“I was nine when Momma first came into my room one late night, when she… touched me. I didn’t understand. Felt shame, fear, disgust. But no matter what, I didn't cry. Even when I asked her to stop, I never cried. Even when I asked my Daddy to stop her and he did nothing, I didn't cry.”

Dean felt his gut twist at the implication.

“I blame him as much as I blame her. Daddy was less than useless." The words were spoken without any emotion, dismissive. "Pathetic excuse for a man, all he did was sit there, drinking his Southern Comfort, begging me to go away, to not come to him.”

"Shit." Dean appreciated John more and more when he met people whose parents so blatantly let their children down. It was in those moments that he actually felt fortunate for all their missteps.

"I gave up after a while, but many times I caught him hiding, drowning in his tears. But I didn't cry. No matter how many times Momma… ‘cause I learned something." His eyes locked on Dean and he leaned next to his ear. “I learned that I liked boys, still do. She taught me that.”

“Lemme get this straight.” Dean canted his head away from Perv and stared at him. “You like men-well, technically boys but since you’re not exactly splitting hairs, why should I?-” Dean watched Perv, carefully but given the level of fucked-up this guy was, he was way beyond caring what might happen to him. “And yet... you kill them? Buddy, you got a sick way of showing your affection.”

This guy's level of fucked-up far exceeded Dean's expectations. No wonder he was a complete psychopath and Dean was now more determined than ever; no way this guy would learn of Sam. Not a snowball's chance in Hell.

Perv hooked a hand around the back of Dean’s head and pulled him toward him. “Oh, I know how to show affection, but I prefer control. That’s what Momma really taught me. In my youth, there was this one kid, Marty Perkins. He was three years older than me, a sixth grader, and yet he was still nice to me.” Perv’s finger was now outlining Dean’s ear.

“Eh, you keep doing this and you'll have to buy me dinner," Dean offered a tremulous grin, but otherwise held still, enduring the touch. Perv seemed undaunted by the comment. Dean cleared his throat. "So, you and this Marty kid…” he shivered. “You and him…?”

"No," Perv dismissed, "he was just my first crush. I drew pictures of him and me, what we’d do. I hid them in my room. Then she found them. After that, she came to my room every night. I never cried."

Dean blinked several times. Confused. Maybe it was the drugs. "Then who was Frankie?"

"He was my first. I was a fifth grader at the time. He was friends with Marty."

"Naturally."

"Momma was so angry when she found out about him."

“Guess the old lady wasn’t so much into love and peace all over, hum? Did she go all dark ages on your ass? Was that it?”

“No! You’re not getting it!” Perv ground out. The hand on Dean’s skull tightened until Dean felt it would burst. “She taught me how a man should be loved, Dean. I could show you.” The voice and the grip on his neck softened.

"Think I'd rather wait for the book," Dean ground out.

“I could Show you how much Mommy loved me," he continued. A hand was suddenly there, on Dean’s chest and Dean didn’t have to look down to know… it blazed a trail down his sweaty, blood covered flesh. “Did your mommy love you? Everyone should be loved, Dean.”

The hand suddenly wandered south of his waistband and Dean breathed out harshly. He was trapped in this psycho's embrace. Head swimming in panic.

“That was not a mother’s love, you sick fuck," Dean said in a rush of fast breaths, anger and fear. "I had a mom, too, and that’s not how a mother’s supposed to love her kids. Her idea of love wasn't love. It was sick."

“Think what you like, but it doesn’t matter.” Fingers skirted the top of Dean’s denim jeans. “See, this is a first for me, Dean. Never wanted a man before. But you're different. Strong. Brave, and when you sleep-"

"Pass out, you mean,” Dean spat back, breathing harshly, glaring. He wasn't sure how he'd managed, but he'd jerked free of Perv's hold. “Big difference."

Perv ignored the correction, eyes still flat and lustful. "You never cry when you're awake. Oh, you scream some, that's to be expected, but I haven’t yet seen a single tear. Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

Dean grimaced. “Well, your self-confidence doesn't seem to be suffering any."

Grabbing Dean’s hair, Perv shoved his head back roughly against the pole and leaned in close. Dean’s back scream at the abrasive touch of the barbed wire, but the man holding Dean’s head didn’t seem to notice the way his eyes glazed over in renewed pain.

"Don’t test me boy," Perv breathed into his captive's face. "You’ll soon experience how little my self-confidence is at issue. I’ll keep you on a drugged leash so short you won’t know if it’s been a day or a year since I took you from that alley. You’ll learn to be nothing more than my toy."

The hold continued. Painful. Sweat poured from Dean’s head, masking the tears that fled his eyes at the strain of keeping his back arched, neck screaming in pain.

"You... still don't know...," Dean gritted, "...if someone's going to come looking for me." It was a gamble but one he felt sure would work.

One side of Perv's mouth curved into a self-satisfied grin. "Oh, I think I know, alright."




Pulling up to St. Mary’s Community Clinic, Sam cut the engine and sat for a moment. Adrenaline and worry were fueling him, keeping him going, because inside, his body still recovering from his illness, and he was done in. Exhausted.

Sam had kind of scared himself earlier. Stopping at the library's restroom to splash water on his face, he’d taken a look at his face. The image staring back at him had been frightening. The fluorescent lights illuminated the too pale features and deep lines around his eyes.

Once he went inside the clinic, others would see it too.

Actually, he was counting on it. It would work nicely with the story he’d concocted in his head on the drive over.

There was usually what amounted to a Winchester-amount of decorum when posing as feds, but not tonight. Given what he’d seen in Brimmer’s apartment, there wasn’t time for that.

So, dressed in nothing but street clothes, disheveled and eyes red-rimmed from staring at written pages for far too long, Sam did what the Winchesters did best: let the truth play out. Sorta.

This will work, Sam thought as he looked at the sign above the clinic. It has to. Knowing what he did now, they were running out of time. More importantly, Dean was running out of time.

Sam looked at the sign above the clinic: St. Mary’s Community Clinic. Free to those in need.

The Impala’s driver’s side door creaked as he got out and spared a quick glance at oncoming traffic. The way was clear and he bounded eagerly, releasing the pent up walls he’d built around the truth in front of Sara and Angie, and let the images he had seen in Brimmer’s apartment fuel his wild-eyed appearance. It was almost a relief to let it all out.

According to Dean's note, he'd stopped at the clinic twice during his three days of recon and it was likely during one, or all of those visits, that Brimmer had caught wind that Dean was too close. Sam, having seen the evidence for himself of what this thing was capable of, what it had done to its victims, knowing that it was possibly doing the exact same thing to Dean...

Sam pushed down the bile and anxiety. Pushed away the images he'd seen. He needed to think clearly, keep his mind focused on the here and now.

Jerking open the door to the clinic, Sam paid little attention to anything else, fixing his eyes instead on the woman behind the counter. Dark hair streaked with gray, gathered at the nape of her neck, head bent over a stack of papers that she was methodically stamping.

Setting his jaw, Sam reached the counter in six long strides, eyes flicking to her name tag: Mildred. She didn’t so much as look up at his approach.

“Have a seat and fill this out,” she said, slapping a clipboard on the counter. Head still bent, pen still scratching furiously on paper, she added, “Set it up here when you’re done. We'll be with you soon as we can.”

Sam let her disinterest wash over him, fueling his irritation and raw emotions of fear and worry. In some bizarre way, this was just what he needed. He’d done nothing but hide it for the last several hours; letting out just some of the pent up urgency would feel pretty damn good.

Still he took a quick look around the waiting room, knowing just how much he’d have to temper his release. There were two drunks holding each other up on two corner seats and a guy twitching at regular intervals, apparently having a discussion with his reflection on one of the awareness billboards hanging on the wall.

Not one of them seemed to be sharing the same plane of reality as the rest of the world.

Sam flipped open the fold on his badge and tossed it to land in the dead center of her notes. Her pen froze. “Just so long as ‘soon as we can' means now.”

Mildred eyed the credentials. “What? The last guy didn’t do his job right or something?” She looked up then, her eyes taking in his appearance with the suspicion Sam had expected.

“’The last guy’ was my partner,” Sam barreled ahead; it wasn’t exactly difficult to convey the worry that was so deeply entrenched in his heart. “Were you here when he came in?”

“Agent Barrett.” She nodded. “I remember him. I spoke to him, as did a few others.” Her eyes continued to gaze at him with suspicion and doubt. “Why? What’s this all about?”

“It’s about this being the last place Agent Barrett stopped before I lost contact with him this morning. It’s about him being in danger and me needing to find him.” Sam leaned in menacingly, his voice lowered. “It’s about you telling me everything you know about his whereabouts and his business here.”

It amazed Sam how quickly, if he unleashed his full anger and worry, it seemed to consume him. Frightening her hadn’t been his objective, but it was clear from the look in her eyes and her body language as she took a step back from him that he had.

Sam straightened, adopted a contrite look. “Please, he’s my partner.”

“Your partner.” The disbelief in the flatness of her statement, the tone, it came through loud and clear. “No offense but you hardly look like a Fed.”

“I know, I-” Sam sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Look, we were a day outside of town when I came down with the flu. My partner took care of me through the worst of it, then once my fever broke and it became apparent all I was good for was sleeping, he began preliminary groundwork on our leads without me. I think he may have stumbled across the criminal we were investigating.”

“Oh.” The nurse’s eyes seemed to soften a bit as she looked down at the counter, like she was thinking about something. “Kinda makes sense now.”

“What does?”

“He looked rough, tired. I asked if he felt alright. Looked like he hadn’t slept in days.”

“Yeah.” Sam carded a hand through his hair, guilt over the time he’d been a burden to his brother warring with the push-back he’d given him over this whole case to begin with. “He’s one of a kind. Almost like a brother to me.”

“Well, your partner left here about nine-ish yesterday," Mildred continued, "and we’ve not seen him since. So, how can I help you?”

“I found his notes, abandoned with our car and after sifting through them, doing more recon on my own...” Sam leaned in once more, and this time Mildred didn’t shy away. “I strongly suspect the person he was inquiring about, the person we’re looking for, works at this clinic.”

Mildred was shaking her head in denial before Sam even finished. “No. Nothing but good people work here. We serve the poor and destitute, those without. No. I don’t believe that.”

Sam drew his eyes up, conveying sympathy and certainty. “Mildred, that person we’re looking for? I think he was here when my partner was asking questions. He has my partner now. I know it for a fact.”

“You can’t possibly be right. He was talking about missing kids, those kids who were…,” she blanched and whispered, “skinned. No one here would-”

“What better cover to build trust? What better place to seek out the victims this guy preys upon? I’ve got to find him and I’ve got to find my partner before it’s too late. I’m already aware of a newly reported missing person. A child. I think this boy was taken to lure my br-partner in.”

“But who would-”

“William Brimmer,” Sam interrupted. “He works here, does he not?”

Mildred stood straight now, the look on her face bordering on panic.

“Oh, my God, weird Bill?” another voice interjected. Sam watched as a woman rounded the corner of a glass brick wall. This one was wearing green scrubs, younger than Mildred, shorter and no doubt, college age. “I knew it. That guy’s always given me the creeps.”

“Kelsey,” Mildred admonished. “Enough.”

“C’mon,” Kelsey looked at her co-worker. “It totally makes sense. I told you how he was looking at that other Fed.” She scrunched her shoulders, an exaggerated shudder traveling her upper body. “Creep.”

Sam jumped in, hoping he’d read their shared expressions right. “Kelsey, you say he was eyeing my partner?”

“Oh, yeah, in a totally odd way too. Like he was angry with him, or something.”

“Listen,” Mildred interjected toward Sam. “I appreciate that you’re worried about your partner, but rumor mills are an awful thing and I don’t want one started here.” She tossed a pointed look at her coworker then turned back to Sam. “I will admit, Bill’s odd, but that doesn’t make him a killer.”

“The evidence I found is undeniable. William Brimmer has my partner and probably the boy who was just reported missing yesterday and I have to find them.”

Mildred’s face fell further, but still she balked. “Then go to the police over here, or other Feds.”

Sam slammed a hand on the counter. “There isn’t any time! Getting warrants and going through channels will take time that my partner and that kid do not have!” He took Mildred’s hands, his eyes imploring her. “Please. I need information and I need it fast.”

“I’m sorry, but,” Mildred carefully extracted her hands from Sam’s grasp, “but I'm not under any authority to-”

“I checked out Brimmer’s apartment. Not only is he not there, but according to neighbors he hasn’t been there in days. Has he been back here since yesterday? Do you have any idea where he might be? Any get-away place? A favorite spot? What am I missing here, Mildred?”

“He’s on vacation right now. Started yesterday, actually.” Mildred hesitated only a moment, then surrendered. “He-he usually takes this week off every year. Like clockwork. Goes out to his parents’ farm to…” The opportunity and means suddenly clicked in her mind and the same horrific conclusion widened her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

“Ew, it really is him doing all that stuff, isn’t it? Sicko!” Kelsey said from behind Mildred. “Like, the papers said those boys had been sexually assaulted….”

“Where is that farm? Do you have the address in his file?” Sam asked eagerly. He had them.

Mildred’s mouth opened and closed several times. “No, we only care about current addresses. When his mother worked here-”

“Wait.” Sam stopped her, feeling the possibility of a breakthrough coming closer. “If his mother worked here there would be an employee file. Something with her address.”

“No. Not here. They box them up after seven years and send them to storage.”

“Did anyone here know her on a friendly basis who might know wher-”

“Margret Brimmer?” Mildred huffed. “Ran this place well enough but kept to herself, up ‘til the time she died. Car wreck I heard. The new clinic manager gave Billy this job more out of pity I think. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen at the time.”

“Dammit,” Sam fumed. Scrubbing at his head in frustration, he tried to think. They needed to know where Brimmer was but didn’t necessarily need to let him know they knew who he was because chances were that wherever this farm was, Dean was there, and-

“You could try calling Bill,” Kelsey tossed out. Sam and Mildred both looked at her. “I mean, if you could get him here…”

“Right.” Sam smiled. An idea suddenly presented itself, just by one small suggestion. “Only, I can’t let him know I’m onto him. This all has to be done quietly. Can you reach him Mildred?”

“Yeah, he’s got a cell number on file.”

“Think he’ll come in if you need him to?”

Mildred huffed. “Oh, this place is like a second home to him. He’ll come runnin’, sure enough.”

“Good.” Sam felt a surge of triumph he didn't dare show. “Call him. Tell him you need something from him. Something the clinic needs.”

“What’ll you do when he gets here?” Mildred asked, but that question alone told Sam she was going to work with him on this. “Bad enough if he’s really that nut job they’ve been looking for all these years, but I don’t need something started here at the clinic.”

Sam canted his head in acquiescence. “Not a problem. All I need is for you and your staff to not tip him off when he gets here. Then, once he leaves I follow him. Hopefully back to wherever he’s keeping the prisoners.”

Mildred seemed satisfied and after a quick nod began clacking away at the computer resting on a desk behind the counter. The screen lit her face in green tones as she mumbled, “Now, I just got to think of something that will get him here.”

“Oh,” Kelsey snapped her fingers. “The overflow supplies in the basement storage locker! Tell him we came up short today, can’t find our key and need those supplies before we open tomorrow. That freak’s always got a full, spare set of keys on him.”

Mildred nodded at Kelsey and picked up the phone by the desk. After dialing she stood. And waited, biting at her lower lip, clearly nervous. Sam suddenly had to worry, not only about Dean, but the clinic staff. They had to be able to play it cool or this whole thing would blow up in his face and instead of two people in danger, he’d find himself with a handful.

“Billy?” The older woman gazed down at her desk, calling upon some kind of inner calm. “Mildred…”

While she spoke, Sam’s brow creased anxiously. A lot of what they were about to do rode on the backs of these strangers. Very nice strangers, but strangers all the same. And in the Winchesters’ world, you just didn’t put your life or the life of someone you loved, your family, in the hands of others.

That’s exactly what he was being forced to do, and Sam hated every minute of it.




It had been the constant rambling and movement in the barn that had woken Dean this time.

This time, unlike all the times before, he'd passed out from exhaustion. It'd been one hell of a day. Or two. The jury was still out on that one.

Seemingly at odds with himself, Perv was pacing the floor, mumbling, poking his own fingers at himself, jabbering unintelligibly. Intent for the time being on some internal struggle, he didn't seem to know of his captive’s return to consciousness.

He just… paced. Back and forth, rambling and pacing. It was... dizzying.

So much so that Dean found it hard to keep his eyes open. At one point his gaze drifted shut and he just rested, listening to the movement in the room, though every now and again he'd peek, to check up on things, feel the nail in his hand. He’d grabbed it so tightly that the tip of the nail had slipped beneath the skin of his palm. But that was good. That made sure that the nail wouldn’t fall down as Dean’s consciousness kept escaping his control.

It was Perv's abrupt return to what Dean had come to consider the 'cart of doom' that perked Dean right up.

It was almost comical the way Perv waved a finger like he'd just remembered something then moved intently up to the metal pushcart. This close Dean could hear his mutterings better, get at least the gist of his endless prattle.

It was a list. He was verbally going over things he had and would need. Like a shopping list.

Dean grinned. "Eggs, milk, sugar,” he said, head wobbled to one side, eyes sliding shut. Sleep felt damn good right now. “Oh... and could you get a fan? Fucking hot in here.” He was already dreaming of air-conditioned rooms.

It was a short lived respite. Something sharp jabbed into his thigh and his head shot up.

"The... hell?" Dean slurred and glanced down at the hypodermic in his leg. Compared to everything else he'd been through, it was less than a bee sting but still... the hell?

"Relax," Perv husked as he leaned in to speak next to Dean's ear, "it’s an antibiotic and a tetanus shot. My own little cocktail." Once the medicine was emptied from the syringe he pulled it out.

Dean coughed. “Gee,” he bit back sarcastically, “you’re all heart.”

“Well,” Perv said matter-of-factly, “can’t have you dying on me before we've had our fun, can we?”

"We? 'S gonna be a very one-sided relationship you perverted fuck. One-sided as in me kickin' your ass and you..." Dean coughed, "getting your ass kicked."

Perv gave no indicator that he was listing, or that he cared for Dean's threats, he only moved in closer, eyes searching impassively. “I’m afraid the barbed wire isn’t without a fair amount of rust," he said, carefully inspecting the barbs that were still deeply seated in Dean’s chest.

Dean felt more than heard Perv move away. Caving in to fatigue, he let his head rest on one shoulder. Listened to the sounds of his own rasping breaths. Felt the pull of sleep, almost more than he could resist.

Almost. It was the too-near presence, the too-quiet of the room, the sounds of someone else breathing harshly that drew Dean back to the surface.

Dean lazily opened his eyes. "You’re just gonna stand there and watch me slee-"

Eyes wide, Perv was frozen to spot. Gaze fixed on something, mouth open.

Dean felt his own internal alarms going off because if something could freak this guy out, Dean was doubly freaked out. So he jerked his head around in his limited range of motion. Looking for whatever...

“What?” Dean blinked rapidly, staring confused at Perv. “You see a rat or something?” He looked around, trying to catch sight of the long tailed rodent. Rats were not on high on Dean's list of things he loved. Probably a real close second to Perv.

Seeing nothing Dean noticed Perv had resumed his anxious pacing. The rambling mumble followed though it was louder this time, the words more distinct and enunciated and Dean could make out every word. He was arguing, undoubtedly with whatever or whoever haunted his lunatic’s mind.

"Dude," Dean relaxed when he realized there was no immediate threat, "you are giving me the heebiejeebies."

The argument continued. Perv didn't look at Dean, didn't respond to him. Only talked anxiously to the voices in his head.

"I'm keeping him," he argued decisively. "Only... Momma will be so very angry." He shook his head. Then suddenly he spun and paced in the other direction. "Tough, though! It’s not like it’s her decision to make," he shot back, "my catch, my toy, my decision. Mine!" and spun again. "She’ll scream... I know she’ll scream at me... Maybe I should just kill him now. She'll be very disappointed if I don't... I don’t like seeing her disappointed."

"Great," Dean muttered quietly, "schizoid and a psychopath."

Perv continued apparently all but forgetting about the presence of anyone else in the barn. And ‘Momma’, apparently, wanted Dean six feet under. Nice family.

Fascinating as all this was, Dean was losing his own internal battle. The struggle for consciousness was fading fast.

While part of him wanted to give into the exhaustion and let the bliss of unconsciousness ease his pain, the other part of him, the brother part of him-the protector-the part that needed to get back to Sam, was more powerful.

Still, he needed to pace himself, give himself a chance to regroup, rest so that when the time for escape arrived, he’d be able. So, he slowly lowered his head, resting his chin to his chest, and waited.

"Alright there, Sybil," Dean's eyes were already half closed. "I'm just gonna l... let you and, um, you talk. 'M gonna take a nap... ‘kay?"

Dean didn't sleep. Just let himself drift just below the surface, but no further. Just far enough under where he could hear. Where his senses could still reach him.

An odd, out of place chirping sound pulled him back and he rolled his head to the side in order to gaze up inconspicuously. Perv drew his cell from one pocket and stared at the caller ID before opening it even as he walked outside. “This is Billy…”

The lack of activity, attention and stimulation all worked to lull Dean’s senses. He couldn’t make out what Perv was saying, just the drone of his voice.

Whatever had been in that shot, it was more. More than what Perv'd said it was. He knew the feeling. The sense of fluidity of time. The deeper pull that was stronger than exhaustion. Stronger than gravity. More like a press.

A sedative of some kind. It beckoned Dean further, deeper. But he fought it, swam the tide that wanted nothing more than to drag him beneath and into the undertow.

Time lost all meaning in that hazy, relaxed moment. Lost all pace and attachment to his situation. It felt good to just float, for a moment.

Then, the haze receded and once again Dean's head was lifted and pressed back. This time, though, it wasn't painful.

Heated puffs crashed against his skin, skin that seemed to be having a hard time discerning between heat and cold. Perv's voice followed, slick and creepy. “I'm going to have to leave for awhile.” The grip in his hair loosened but not enough to allow him movement.

Dean didn’t open his eyes until he heard the snip of wire being cut. The pressure around his torso lessened and the barbs shifted in his flesh. Dean didn't have to look to know; Perv had cut the wire around his chest.

Blinking into the fuzzy light, Dean watched Perv as he strode back to the table and placed the wire cutters down. There was something different...

Several rapid blinks and Dean's vision was back to clear. Mind slower to follow, he gazed curiously at Perv.

Then it clicked.

Instead of the jeans and flannel shirt from earlier, Perv was now wearing the same damn gray coveralls Dean had first seen him in. A uniform. Neatly pressed and clean.

Dean squinted at the writing on what he now realized was some kind of employee identification badge. He could make out a logo and the larger lettering beneath: William Brimmer, Janitor.

“Time for your day job, hum?” Dean coughed, his voice rough and gravelly. “Bringing home the bacon, when you’re not busy torturing people?”

"Told you, Dean," Perv ignored the dig, "I fly under the radar. No one ever notices me."

"Right. You only talk to the kids. And no one talks to them, so long as they fit your profile." Dean shook his head.

“I’ve got to leave for awhile,” Perv repeated. “Since you and me are going to get to know one another better, I’m gonna grab some extra supplies. My medical leash lacks a few links to be complete.”

Dean huffed. “You lack a lot of links, pal.”

“Call me Billy."

"No way," Dean muttered. 'Billy' sounded too young. Too innocent. No, Dean would call him Bill.

"When I get back,” Bill fussed with some hay that had attached itself to his sleeve and brushed it off. Then his eyes met Dean’s, cold and cruel. “When you’re more… pliable… we can spend some quality time together.”

“Terrific,” Dean gritted out unenthusiastically. No doubt it would mean loads more pain, more drugs and then, given how Perv was looking at him-

Bill’s hand dipped down and Dean knew a moment of panic. "Um," he straightened, fear jerking him upward, "Thought you had to go somewhere." Perv grabbed the wire around Dean's chest. The same wire he'd cut earlier. "Wh-"

The word was sucked away on a wave of unmitigated pain.

In one vicious pull, the wire was jerked from Dean's body. Pain sent sparks flying behind his eyes and intensified as the imbedded barbs ripped viciously out of his chest. Eyes squeezed shut, he threw his head back but didn't cry out.

The agony was driving him under again.

The next words seemed to come from far away, even as they were spoken next to his ear. Even as the warm breath ghosted over his flesh. Even as he felt the heat of Perv's body close. “When I get back, we’ll be together Dean. Forever.”




Chapter 6 x * * * >X< * * * x Chapter 8