Hands and Feet part 2
As so promised I present part 2! Yay! Thanks so much for the response to the first chapter, it really helped when I worked on part three, which may be broken into two parts due to length or if more is demanded ;) This chapter is a bit heart breaking and I had a difficult time being so mean to Sammy. But, alas, it had to be done. Happy reading! P.S. remember I said Dean would redeem himself, keep that in mind for this part lol…
-punkin
Part two:
As my vision clears, I find myself face to face with a huge, strapping man equipped with muscles practically bursting through his thread bare sleeves and whose moustache took a wrong turn right around ‘horseshoe’. He’s exactly the type Dean would peg to be a hell’s angel wannabe. Unfortunately, he’s also the type my darling older brother appears to get a kick out of enraging by means of cheating them out of their hard earned, and no doubt as equally as swindled, money.
He’s smiling at me, beady eyes akin to black pits and teeth stained from years of beer and coffee consumption. Or at least I smell as much on his breath. After all, you don’t get this close to someone without consequently acquainting one’s self with their more ‘unappealing’ qualities. Pssh, please, is this guy serious? I’m going to knock him on his ass…
Movement from behind him catches my attention. I inwardly groan as I realize that my ‘attacker’ now must be upgraded to ‘attackers’. Plural. Multiple. In other words, my odds of escaping this without serious injury just plummeted to slim to none. There are two more men, slightly smaller than the one currently pinning me, but formidable foes nonetheless. Especially considering the fact that I am weaponless, sleep deprived and now quite possibly suffering from a concussion thanks to the crow bar the guy farthest to my right is tossing from one hand to the other (really? A crow bar?) Isn’t that just my luck? Dean has to go and piss off an entire gang, yet somehow I am the one being punished for it.
Suddenly, it’s not the fact that I can’t deal with a violent, drag out fist fight…it’s the fact that I’m so god damn tired.
Blood trickles down my neck. I can feel it matting in my hair, snaking its way across my skin and soaking into my coat collar. The deep and all consuming iron scent fills my mouth, but before I can gag, ‘muscle boy number one’ presses his arm callously against my throat, effectively rendering me dependent on his every move just for a proper breath of air. I struggle in vain for a few moments, vaguely aware of the minute but cold, steel press of a menacing knife against my side.
The man is grinning at this point, and I can see out of the corner of my eye as he jerks his knife wielding arm, pushing the sharp edge with just enough force to bite into the skin along my protruding ribs. I gasp, water rising in my eyes unbidden. “L-listen…” I gasp out, “I don’t know what my brother d-did, but he’s really not himself right now. If he hustled you, I’ll give you whatever the amount he took…honest.”
The man abruptly jams his elbow deeper against my throat, cutting off my words. My lungs scream for air and the heat in my cheeks increases as I claw desperately on his unrelenting grip. My gaze strays for a second to the facial expressions of the two men in the background. They’re both grinning. What smug bastards! That’s certainly the Dean in me talking…if only I could be more like him. He’d know what to do right now, he’d know what to say. He wouldn’t be taking this kind of crap. It’s my own damn fault that I seem to walk straight into my own undoing.
“We don’t want your money, Sammy.” He hisses into my ear, his words drenched with malice and a foreboding promise of pain. If it sends a shiver down my spine, it’s only because it is kind of chilly outside for the middle of the afternoon, not because it genuinely gives me the creeps.
At last, ‘muscles’ lets up a bit on the choking and I sputter and gasp for breath. I stare wildly from one person to the other, trying to figure out what move to make next. “I-I don’t understand…”
The knife all at once pushes harder, slicing easily against the outline of my bottom rib, leaving a sickly warm trail of blood in its wake. I successfully, but barely, contain the small cry that forms in the back of my throat (suck it up, Winchester!) and instead attempt to control the unsteady spurts of my panting lest I cause the blade to sink even deeper. I can’t afford to land myself a hospital trip, I can’t do that to Dean so soon after Dad’s…well, you know.
The man leans forward, his nose almost touching my own. I can smell his cheap cologne by now. Let me tell you, it’s repulsive, damn near nauseating in fact. “You see, we had a nice, long chat with Dean-o last night at the bar. After all, you Winchester boys are the center of many a conversation in our world. Especially after word of John’s death got out.”
I bet the look on my face is one of sheer and utter comical shock. I gape, open mouthed, back at him. “Wait…you’re hunters?” I hate it when I do this, ask questions I know the answers to only to feel unreservedly stupid. Classic Sam, easily duped. God, I’m an idiot…
The man chuckles, the cold knife tip lowering to linger just above my belly button. I draw in my stomach, practically engraving myself into the brick wall in order to pull away. It’s no use, though, he’s just too strong and the blood loss from my head wound is fast making me dizzy. Now is so not the time to faint. “Bingo, Sammy. We’ve heard a lot about you. Always had the utmost respect for your pop, you know. So when we ran into Dean last night, we thought, ‘hey, why not have a few drinks?’ "
A lump forms in my throat; I do not like the direction this conversation is taking. A part of me knows what he’s going to say next, the part of me that’s always known this kind of thing would happen eventually. “Mind you, you’re doting brother was very drunk by the time he started talking about you.” I stare despondently as he grins down on me and all I can do is brace myself for his words. “But lord, did that boy say just the most interesting things. Started going on and on about visions and psychics and special powers.”
I bite back a scream as the knife unexpectedly slides across my middle, a choking sound escaping my lips in its place. “Tell me, Sam, just how long did you think you could last in the hunting world as one of them.”
I’m coherent enough to realize that this is far worse than I initially suspected. These aren’t just people my brother had carelessly hustled; these are hunters, vindictive hunters at that, whom he had even more recklessly opened up to. Had he, indeed, just been too drunk and overwhelmed by grief to properly know what he was doing, or better, saying? Or was this something more? Because surely, Dean wouldn’t wave my secret around in the faces of people he knew to be hunters, ones that would come after me….would he? I nearly fail at beating back the undesired tears threatening to leak from my eye lashes. “You-you don’t understand. It’s not what you think…”
But his damn elbow is back again and I find myself once more struggling to draw in air. “It’s exactly what we think, you abomination! You’ve got demonic powers! You’re stained, and filthy with the supernatural.” The hunter hisses spitefully.
I can’t help but flinch at each and every word. It’s like every stray fear I’d ever had is being ruthlessly confirmed. But what really drives in the last nail is that these men aren’t just pulling words out of their ass. No, they’d gotten these ideas from somewhere…from Dean. Suddenly, I don’t much feel like putting up a fight anymore. If that’s what Dean thinks, than what other reason do I have to stick around? What other reason could there possibly be to integrate myself into the life of someone who so obviously doesn’t want anything to do with me?
I barely hear what the hunter says next, I’m too busy drowning amidst my own personal anguish and the unbearable revelation that the one person I have left has practically handed me over on a silver platter.
Lamb to the slaughter.
It leaves a cold, empty sensation deep inside, in a place that used to be touched with the warmth only a big brother can supply. “You know better than anyone what has to be done, Sammy.” Then, as if to console me in some sick, twisted way, the hunter adds with only a hint of remorse, “It’s what John would have wanted.”
The mention of Dad leaves me breathless and reeling all over again.
Then, I flinch just in time for the knife to promptly bury itself deep into my abdomen, all the way until the point at which I can feel the cracked leather of its hilt against my torn skin.
I whimper as the knife is twisted brutally and is subsequently roughly removed with a terrible, stomach-turning squelch. A ringing begins to reverberate within my ears, the pain so intense it’s unfathomable. I don’t know how anyone can feel this way and still be alive. It’s the kind of pain that makes me want to crawl into Dean’s arms and wait for him to make it go away, to make it better. Because that’s what he does, right? Makes it better? It only hurts more when I think of how that won’t be happening this particular time. I’m going to die, alone, in this god forsaken alley, surrounded by our dirty laundry.
The men are long gone by the time I fall to my knees, wetness instantly seeping throughout the fabric of my jeans. I don’t notice though. All I can focus on is the warm, slippery redness drenching my hands after I pull them away from my body. It drips in sporadic blobs onto the pavement, running between my fingers and well past my wrists. I sway precariously, my vision tunneling and at last becoming completely black. “Dean…”
And then the pain and shock at last seems to take me and I know no more.
TBC...
I swear it’s not a death fic! Lol, doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t pull on your heart strings a bit, though, right? ;) click next entry for part three ( my iPad is screwing up my links lol)
-punkin
Part two:
As my vision clears, I find myself face to face with a huge, strapping man equipped with muscles practically bursting through his thread bare sleeves and whose moustache took a wrong turn right around ‘horseshoe’. He’s exactly the type Dean would peg to be a hell’s angel wannabe. Unfortunately, he’s also the type my darling older brother appears to get a kick out of enraging by means of cheating them out of their hard earned, and no doubt as equally as swindled, money.
He’s smiling at me, beady eyes akin to black pits and teeth stained from years of beer and coffee consumption. Or at least I smell as much on his breath. After all, you don’t get this close to someone without consequently acquainting one’s self with their more ‘unappealing’ qualities. Pssh, please, is this guy serious? I’m going to knock him on his ass…
Movement from behind him catches my attention. I inwardly groan as I realize that my ‘attacker’ now must be upgraded to ‘attackers’. Plural. Multiple. In other words, my odds of escaping this without serious injury just plummeted to slim to none. There are two more men, slightly smaller than the one currently pinning me, but formidable foes nonetheless. Especially considering the fact that I am weaponless, sleep deprived and now quite possibly suffering from a concussion thanks to the crow bar the guy farthest to my right is tossing from one hand to the other (really? A crow bar?) Isn’t that just my luck? Dean has to go and piss off an entire gang, yet somehow I am the one being punished for it.
Suddenly, it’s not the fact that I can’t deal with a violent, drag out fist fight…it’s the fact that I’m so god damn tired.
Blood trickles down my neck. I can feel it matting in my hair, snaking its way across my skin and soaking into my coat collar. The deep and all consuming iron scent fills my mouth, but before I can gag, ‘muscle boy number one’ presses his arm callously against my throat, effectively rendering me dependent on his every move just for a proper breath of air. I struggle in vain for a few moments, vaguely aware of the minute but cold, steel press of a menacing knife against my side.
The man is grinning at this point, and I can see out of the corner of my eye as he jerks his knife wielding arm, pushing the sharp edge with just enough force to bite into the skin along my protruding ribs. I gasp, water rising in my eyes unbidden. “L-listen…” I gasp out, “I don’t know what my brother d-did, but he’s really not himself right now. If he hustled you, I’ll give you whatever the amount he took…honest.”
The man abruptly jams his elbow deeper against my throat, cutting off my words. My lungs scream for air and the heat in my cheeks increases as I claw desperately on his unrelenting grip. My gaze strays for a second to the facial expressions of the two men in the background. They’re both grinning. What smug bastards! That’s certainly the Dean in me talking…if only I could be more like him. He’d know what to do right now, he’d know what to say. He wouldn’t be taking this kind of crap. It’s my own damn fault that I seem to walk straight into my own undoing.
“We don’t want your money, Sammy.” He hisses into my ear, his words drenched with malice and a foreboding promise of pain. If it sends a shiver down my spine, it’s only because it is kind of chilly outside for the middle of the afternoon, not because it genuinely gives me the creeps.
At last, ‘muscles’ lets up a bit on the choking and I sputter and gasp for breath. I stare wildly from one person to the other, trying to figure out what move to make next. “I-I don’t understand…”
The knife all at once pushes harder, slicing easily against the outline of my bottom rib, leaving a sickly warm trail of blood in its wake. I successfully, but barely, contain the small cry that forms in the back of my throat (suck it up, Winchester!) and instead attempt to control the unsteady spurts of my panting lest I cause the blade to sink even deeper. I can’t afford to land myself a hospital trip, I can’t do that to Dean so soon after Dad’s…well, you know.
The man leans forward, his nose almost touching my own. I can smell his cheap cologne by now. Let me tell you, it’s repulsive, damn near nauseating in fact. “You see, we had a nice, long chat with Dean-o last night at the bar. After all, you Winchester boys are the center of many a conversation in our world. Especially after word of John’s death got out.”
I bet the look on my face is one of sheer and utter comical shock. I gape, open mouthed, back at him. “Wait…you’re hunters?” I hate it when I do this, ask questions I know the answers to only to feel unreservedly stupid. Classic Sam, easily duped. God, I’m an idiot…
The man chuckles, the cold knife tip lowering to linger just above my belly button. I draw in my stomach, practically engraving myself into the brick wall in order to pull away. It’s no use, though, he’s just too strong and the blood loss from my head wound is fast making me dizzy. Now is so not the time to faint. “Bingo, Sammy. We’ve heard a lot about you. Always had the utmost respect for your pop, you know. So when we ran into Dean last night, we thought, ‘hey, why not have a few drinks?’ "
A lump forms in my throat; I do not like the direction this conversation is taking. A part of me knows what he’s going to say next, the part of me that’s always known this kind of thing would happen eventually. “Mind you, you’re doting brother was very drunk by the time he started talking about you.” I stare despondently as he grins down on me and all I can do is brace myself for his words. “But lord, did that boy say just the most interesting things. Started going on and on about visions and psychics and special powers.”
I bite back a scream as the knife unexpectedly slides across my middle, a choking sound escaping my lips in its place. “Tell me, Sam, just how long did you think you could last in the hunting world as one of them.”
I’m coherent enough to realize that this is far worse than I initially suspected. These aren’t just people my brother had carelessly hustled; these are hunters, vindictive hunters at that, whom he had even more recklessly opened up to. Had he, indeed, just been too drunk and overwhelmed by grief to properly know what he was doing, or better, saying? Or was this something more? Because surely, Dean wouldn’t wave my secret around in the faces of people he knew to be hunters, ones that would come after me….would he? I nearly fail at beating back the undesired tears threatening to leak from my eye lashes. “You-you don’t understand. It’s not what you think…”
But his damn elbow is back again and I find myself once more struggling to draw in air. “It’s exactly what we think, you abomination! You’ve got demonic powers! You’re stained, and filthy with the supernatural.” The hunter hisses spitefully.
I can’t help but flinch at each and every word. It’s like every stray fear I’d ever had is being ruthlessly confirmed. But what really drives in the last nail is that these men aren’t just pulling words out of their ass. No, they’d gotten these ideas from somewhere…from Dean. Suddenly, I don’t much feel like putting up a fight anymore. If that’s what Dean thinks, than what other reason do I have to stick around? What other reason could there possibly be to integrate myself into the life of someone who so obviously doesn’t want anything to do with me?
I barely hear what the hunter says next, I’m too busy drowning amidst my own personal anguish and the unbearable revelation that the one person I have left has practically handed me over on a silver platter.
Lamb to the slaughter.
It leaves a cold, empty sensation deep inside, in a place that used to be touched with the warmth only a big brother can supply. “You know better than anyone what has to be done, Sammy.” Then, as if to console me in some sick, twisted way, the hunter adds with only a hint of remorse, “It’s what John would have wanted.”
The mention of Dad leaves me breathless and reeling all over again.
Then, I flinch just in time for the knife to promptly bury itself deep into my abdomen, all the way until the point at which I can feel the cracked leather of its hilt against my torn skin.
I whimper as the knife is twisted brutally and is subsequently roughly removed with a terrible, stomach-turning squelch. A ringing begins to reverberate within my ears, the pain so intense it’s unfathomable. I don’t know how anyone can feel this way and still be alive. It’s the kind of pain that makes me want to crawl into Dean’s arms and wait for him to make it go away, to make it better. Because that’s what he does, right? Makes it better? It only hurts more when I think of how that won’t be happening this particular time. I’m going to die, alone, in this god forsaken alley, surrounded by our dirty laundry.
The men are long gone by the time I fall to my knees, wetness instantly seeping throughout the fabric of my jeans. I don’t notice though. All I can focus on is the warm, slippery redness drenching my hands after I pull them away from my body. It drips in sporadic blobs onto the pavement, running between my fingers and well past my wrists. I sway precariously, my vision tunneling and at last becoming completely black. “Dean…”
And then the pain and shock at last seems to take me and I know no more.
TBC...
I swear it’s not a death fic! Lol, doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t pull on your heart strings a bit, though, right? ;) click next entry for part three ( my iPad is screwing up my links lol)