Fic: Treasure - Chapter Four - (Sam/Dean - NC17)
Back to Chapter Three
CHAPTER FOUR
He’s got a couple of hours downtime before the Red Team are due on the other side of the wall so he heads to the gym for a quick work-out, priming his body and mind for the upcoming mission.
He’s working out, sweating hard as he slides forwards and backwards on the base’s 1960s era rowing machine when his radio crackles from its place on his discarded towel.
“Red Leader, come in, Red Leader, this is Command.”
Damn it. He skids to a stop, blinks the sweat out of his eyes and climbs off the machine. He wipes his sweaty palms off on his towel and reaches for the radio. He depresses the button, gritting his teeth as he barks: “Anderson, I’m off duty until 1200 hours.”
“Yes, Sir, I know that, Sir,” Anderson replies breathlessly. “It’s just - your brother -“
“My brother?” he interrupts, annoyance immediately fading and pulse ratcheting up another level. “Is he okay? What’s going on?”
“He gave me a message for you, Sir. Blue Team’s brought in a new hostile for processing. It’s in the lab.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. Give him the message!” he answers. He towels off as much as he can, grabs up his weapon from his locker, and sets off at a jog towards the lab building.
Sam’s bent over the gurney holding the new hostile when Dean enters the lab. He’s wearing a pair of white latex gloves and he’s prodding at something in the hostile’s mid-section, the sheet rolled all the way down to its feet, his cane propped against the side of the gurney. The two guys from the Blue Team are standing a few feet away, watching Sam and the hostile nervously. They straighten and salute as he comes in, looking relieved.
“How many shots you give it?” he addresses the question to the taller of the two guys - Matthews.
“Two, Sir. One out on the field and one just before we wheeled it into base.”
“Give it two more,” he orders.
Matthews hesitates, and Sam lifts his head up, and frowns at him. “Dean, I’m not sure that’s necessary. Give it too much and its system might not be able to handle it. We want it alive.”
“Give it too little and it’ll wake up and take a bite out of you,” Dean retorts, his gaze colliding with his brother’s and holding.
Sam thins his lips, and looks as if he’s about to say something else, but Dean speaks first, turning back to Matthews.
“Give it another shot. That’s an order, soldier. Or do I have to remind you what an order is?”
“No, Sir, of course not, Sir,” Matthews replies quickly, face flushing as his fingers fumble with the tranq gun hooked over his arm.
Sam sighs loudly, picks up his cane and takes a couple of paces backwards, making room for Matthews. The kid presses the tranq gun up against the thing’s thigh, a mangled, grotesque ruin of rotten flesh and exposed bone. He pulls the trigger, the dosage slamming into the creature’s body. He steps back, nods at Dean.
“Good,” Dean says. “So, where’s Robinson?”
“He’s busy,” Sam says. He shuffles forward again, leaning back over the creature and starting to prod at something. “He’s gonna call up when he’s ready for us to take this one down there.”
Dean swears under his breath, fucking Robinson, playing his little power games again.
Sam looks up again, he looks amused. “It’s alright, man, it’s out cold.”
Well, that’s easy for Sam to say, but it’s making Dean itchy being in the same room as one of those things. To be more precise, it’s making his trigger finger itchy, and he can see that Matthews and the other Blue Team kid look just as uncomfortable.
“C’mere,” Sam says, beckoning him over with a crook of one of his long latex-covered fingers. “Wanna show you something.”
Dean hesitates. If he’s totally honest with himself then he really doesn’t want to look at whatever’s got Sam so excited. He always does his best to avoid looking at the mutants. Sure, he kills them, he takes aim at them down the barrel of a gun, but he never looks at them. And he’s not the only one. The two soldiers aren’t looking at it either, too busy looking at everything around them except the mutant. In fact, the vast majority of people on the compound, civilians especially - those people who haven’t been beyond the wall in years - haven’t seen a mutant since the early days. It’s one of the reasons people are so suspicious and uncomfortable around Sam.
He moves into the space beside his brother, close enough for their shoulders to brush but not close enough for the other two guys to notice anything. He sneaks a glance at Sam; Sam’s peering down at the creature with typical Sammy interest, that detached, fascinated intent that Dean can recall seeing on his brother’s face in so many morgues over the years. He watches Sam’s profile, sees his eyebrows draw together, a twitch in the muscle at his jaw barely hiding his excitement. Sam turns his head sideways, looks at him, quirks his mouth up into a smile.
“This is fantastic, Dean.”
Dean purses his lips. “If you say so, man.”
“I do! This one’s just like the one you brought me. One of the new generation. Look, look at this.” He cups the thing’s face with one hand, using the other to point at the bulbous growths around its chin and neck area, like enormous cysts bubbling and breaking through the flesh, the skin over them stretched paper thin like webbing. “Look at the development here. Look how different it is. Do you remember how they used to look? Before?”
Dean forces himself to focus his eyes on the mutant’s face. Just a quick glance tells him that the features are a lot less humanoid than they used to be. He can remember four, five years ago when they first started appearing and spreading and infecting. Back then, they’d looked human, they’d even had eyes. Now they just have craters in the skin where the eyes used to be, the skin over the sockets, stretched and smooth like a plastic dummy.
Sam’s poking away at something, lifting up a small skin flap on what Dean guesses is its nose. His stomach gives a lurch and he swallows back the wave of nausea, wondering for a second just how Sam can do this, how he can bear to touch it, never mind prod and examine and feel its squelchy putrid skin even through latex gloves. He forces himself to look where Sam’s prodding, at the nose: it’s flat, barely any nostrils, snake-like slits in its face, supremely creepy.
“It’s like a snake,” he says.
Sam nods vigorously. “Yes, yes, exactly, man. They’re evolving so fast, it’s incredible.”
Dean swallows, nods. “Right.”
Sam lifts his eyes to him, quirks up his lips. “I’m freaking you out?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Sam grins, sudden and stunning, and Dean feels his stomach lurch for an entirely different reason. Sam obviously sees it ‘cause his grin gets evil and he licks his lips, deliberate and provocative, eyes locked on Dean, daring him.
Dean opens his mouth, about to say something, when the buzzer goes.
Sam smirks at him, murmurs: “Hold that thought,” under his breath. He snaps off the latex gloves, tossing them to the gurney, and walks to the intercom. He presses the button, says: “Yeah?”
There’s a muffled, static noise, too indistinct for Dean to make out, so he watches his brother’s face instead and sees him nod, satisfied.
“Yeah, okay, we’re coming down,” Sam says. He turns back to Dean, nods at the gurney. “Cover it up. Robinson’s ready for us.”
Dean picks up the edge of the sheet with his fingertips, wanting to touch as little as possible, concentrating on the white cotton and carefully not looking at the thing underneath it.
“Uh, Sir, do we have to come with you?” Matthews asks.
He looks nervous, face twitching as his eyes skitter over the covered gurney up to Dean’s face.
Dean turns to Sam. “Do we need them?”
Sam shrugs. “Reckon you and me can handle it from here.”
“That’s your answer, soldier,” Dean tells the two guys. “You’re dismissed.”
They both salute him, not bothering to hide the expressions of relief as they practically run from the room. Dean watches them go then turns back to Sam. Sam’s smiling at him, that teasing gleam back in his eyes.
“You know, I love watching you boss them around like that,” Sam says, his tone almost conversational.
“Yeah?” He leers at his brother, “Does it make you all tingly and hot inside, Sammy?”
“You bet it does.”
Dean closes the space between them, slides one arm around Sam’s back, the other going up to cup the side of his face. “If we didn’t have to get that freakin’ mutant processed right now, I’d go down on you right here. Amongst your samples and microscopes, all your scientific shit. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Like me to blow you right here?”
Sam gulps, face flushing, eyes darkening. “Dean, wait…”
Dean leans in, presses his lips to Sam’s skin, breathes in his scent. “God, you smell of this place, it’s fuckin’ crazy but it gets me so damn hard sometimes. Just this smell - it’s disgusting, but it reminds me of you - how you smell.”
“Yeah, Dean, but not now - later, not now. We can’t -”
Dean shuts him up, cuts off his half-hearted protests with his mouth, teeth sinking into his brother’s lower lip, teasing at it, sucking it into his mouth. Sam responds greedily, tongue thrusting, long fingers hooking into Dean’s collar, ghosting over the nape of his neck. The kiss lengthens, lingers; Sam’s hand sliding under the waistband of Dean’s sweats to squeeze his ass and force their hips closer together.
They pause, catching their breath, and Sam pulls his head back, making a frustrated, hungry sound at the back of his throat.
Dean swallows hard, caresses the side of his brother’s face. “You - what you do to me, Sam,” he murmurs, his voice sounding unbearably tender in his ears.
Sam doesn’t say anything for long moment, just stares back at him, slicking his tongue over his reddened lips, the flush high across his cheeks, his eyes alight.
“Dean,” he says finally, “we - uh - we gotta -“
“Yeah, yeah. But, we are so coming back here and doin’ it one night. You gotta promise me, man?”
Sam laughs, mouth snapping into one of those goddamn beautiful grins. He reaches to straighten the collar of Dean’s sweater, hand lingering, fingers brushing gently over his collarbone through the thin material.
“Yeah, Dean, okay. That’s a promise. Now, c’mon, let’s move this thing, don’t wanna keep Robinson waiting.”
“Fucker kept us waiting long enough,” Dean bitches, but he sighs and adjusts his sweatpants, trying to hide his erection.
Sam smirks at him then turns to punch in a code to open the doors. He stands aside as Dean wheels the gurney through before he follows.
As its name suggests, the cages is the base’s containment area for hostile and specimen mutants. Twenty cells line one long corridor on one side, soundproofed, glass-fronted prisons, each one about eight foot square, lit with bright, fluorescent light; the stark, off-white walls stained with blood and gore and other mutant fluids that Dean doesn’t ever want to think about. He swallows, and tries to keep his eyes fixed on Sam leading the way, cane tapping rhythmically on the floor as he walks ahead of Dean.
He can’t stop from looking though, blurred movement in his peripheral vision making him jumpy, dragging his attention from the much more pleasing view of Sam’s ass to the contents of the cells. About half seem to be occupied, some of the mutants unconscious, some awake and moving despite the chains, their horrible gaping jaws locked in silent screams behind the thick steel muzzles. He sends up a quick prayer of thanks for the soundproof glass as he quickens his pace towards Robinson’s office at the end of the corridor.
Sam drops back to walk alongside him. “You did insist on doing this with me,” he says.
“Yeah, don’t hold me to that in future. Jesus, I don’t know how you can bear coming down here.”
Sam shrugs. “It’s my job.”
Dean glances at one of the occupied cells; the mutant inside is rocking, slamming its head against one of the walls of the cage, bloody, fleshy smears on the white paint. He jerks his gaze away and shudders.
Robinson’s waiting for them at the end of the corridor, arms crossed over his blood-stained, navy boiler-suit, a sneer on his face as his eyes meet Dean’s.
“Took you long enough, Winchester.”
“Commander Winchester,” Dean corrects.
Robinson sneers harder, but he keeps quiet; the guy’s a dick but he knows the chain of command. He steps forward, yanks the sheet off the specimen, giving it a cursory look. One of his guys - McAllen - wearing a matching boiler-suit and a matching sneer approaches, carrying the steel muzzle in his hands.
“How many shots you give it?” Robinson snaps, directing the question at Sam and ignoring Dean.
“Three. A couple outside, one in the lab,” Sam says, keeping his voice calm.
“Three? Is that really necessary?”
“That was my call,” Dean says.
Robinson acts like Dean hasn’t spoken, just beckons McAllen over. Dean watches the two of them fasten on the muzzle, forcing it down over the creature’s head. McAllen tightens the bolts on the contraption so the metal jaws pierce the swollen growths around the neck and jaw. The bile’s rising up at the back of Dean’s throat, his stomach churning sickeningly as he watches pus and blood start to leak from the holes and cuts Robinson and McAllen are making in the creature’s skin. They don’t seem to notice, forcing the metal ball-gag into the mutant’s mouth and screwing the final bolt in place with something like ghoulish satisfaction.
He flicks a glance at Sam; Sam’s watching the two guys work with a detached, dispassionate look on his face, and Dean remembers suddenly that Sam helped Robinson process the last mutant he brought in, that Sam would’ve been doing what McAllen’s doing right now. The thought makes him feel a little nauseous again, his eyes tracking to Sam’s hands, one wrapped around the head of his cane, the other resting on the metal bar at the end of the gurney.
He puts his back to them, not wanting to watch anymore. He wanders over to stand in front of the bank of security screens that line one of the walls of the office. They cover every cell in use, replicated black and white fuzzy pictures of mutant after mutant. The lab and the cages have their own energy source separate from the rest of the base, giving them guaranteed stable power. So while the rest of them suffer constant electrical shortages, even up in CIC, the power has never once gone out down here. It’s something Dean’s continually grateful for.
“Winchester, you gonna help us with this?” Robinson snaps.
He doesn’t bother to correct him this time. Robinson’s got a couple of lengths of chain wrapped up in his hands and he’s staring at Dean as if they’ve just engaged in a staring contest. McAllen’s standing off to one side, smirking.
“Here, I’ll help,” Sam starts to say.
“Nah,” sneers Robinson. “I know you can do it, man, just wanna see if your brother got the balls.”
Dean rolls his eyes, snorts contemptuously in Robinson’s direction. Robinson just sneers harder and holds out one end of the chain. Dean leans over the gurney and grabs it.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asks.
Robinson smirks, jerks his head down at the creature lying between them. “Attach it to the muzzle, padlock it in place. I’m gonna bind up the fucker’s hands.”
Dean nods shortly. He’s not wearing gloves. He’s gotta brush his naked fingers up against that thing without any protection between them. That’s just - awesome.
He looks down at the muzzle, sees the locking device Robinson must be talking about and gingerly slides one link in the chain around it, the padlock snapping into place like the clasp on a woman’s necklace. A long-ago image of Lisa, standing with her back to him, her hands holding her hair up as he fastened a chain around her long graceful neck bursts up in his mind and he blinks, a flutter of loss sudden and abrupt deep in his gut. He takes a step back; watches Robinson wind the other length of chain around the mutant’s claws and feet, chaining it up better than a caterpillar in a cocoon.
Once it’s chained up, Robinson goes to sit down at the control panel.
“Are we done here?” Dean demands.
Robinson ignores him of course, the ignorant fucker, just makes a show of consulting something on his screen. Finally, he looks up and barks an order at McAllen: “Put it in Three.”
“Yes, boss,” says McAllen. He pushes past Dean and grabs one end of the gurney, wheeling it out of the office and back out into the corridor.
They hear the electronic beep and swish of one of the cells opening then the same noise as it closes again. McAllen rolls the empty gurney back into the office, an expression of ghoulish satisfaction on his face.
“It’s done,” he announces.
Robinson nods, raises his gaze to Sam, then Dean, the corner of his mouth lifting up into another of those sneers.
“You can go now, Commander Winchester,” he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice.
Dean smirks back at him. “Right. Well, it’s been swell, boys, so glad I came.”
Robinson’s eyes narrow and he sneers once more at Dean before he turns his attention to Sam. “You want all the usual tests, Sam?”
Dean grits his teeth at Robinson’s casual use of his brother’s name, but Sam just answers, “Yeah, soon as you can.”
At least they seem to be done. Sam calls out a goodbye as they leave and Robinson and McAllen just grunt in response, not bothering with actual words or coherent sentences, the ignorant dicks.
“Jesus, how the fuck do you work with them?” Dean hisses as they make their way back down the mutant-lined corridor.
“It pays to keep them on my side,” Sam says with a shrug. “Unlike you, I’m pretty good at faking it when I can’t stand someone.” He smirks and Dean makes a face at him. “And well, you know, man, they could make my job really difficult if they - Holy shit!” He stops abruptly and grabs onto Dean’s arm, breathing out: “Dean, Dean, look, look there!”
Dean turns his head to where his brother’s staring: it’s one of the mutant-filled cells. The mutant inside is awake, thrashing and gnashing at the chains holding it down, wriggling and writhing its chain-cocooned body.
“Dean - don’t you see?”
“What? See what?”
“It’s cell Three! The one - the one we just processed. It’s awake! We gave it three freakin’ shots and it’s already awake. Christ, Dean, this is - this is not good. I’ve never known them to recover so quick.”
He unleashes his hold on Dean, takes a tentative step forward, fingers white knuckled around his cane. He stands in front of the cage, staring at the creature inside. “Fuck, McAllen got it caged just in time.”
Dean feels the bottom fall out of his stomach, sudden image of what could’ve happened, of the fucker coming awake just a couple of minutes earlier - on that gurney - Sam right there - exposed - himself with his gun holstered. Jesus, how could he have been so stupid? Trying to act nonchalant in front of those two douchebags when he should’ve had his damn weapon out the entire time, should’ve gone with his instincts.
Christ, they were lucky. They got lucky. ‘Cause it’s awake. It’s really damn awake, thrashing and struggling and screaming, ramming itself against the blood-stained walls.
“Sam, Sam, c’mon, come away. Let’s go, man, c’mon.”
Sam doesn’t move, still staring into the cell.
“Sam, c’mon!” Dean repeats, voice getting louder, more insistent. “Sammy!”
Finally, Sam turns and lets Dean drag him away.
On to Chapter Five