Taken Chapter 6/10
Finally, chapter six is here. Sorry for such the long wait. I was in Vegas, woo! And I've had a fever for a couple of days, so writing really hasn't been my top priority. But I finally got it done, so here it is. Um, I'm gonna put a warning on this chapter that there's some pretty descriptive violence and gore. So you are warned. :-) Enjoy!
Chapter Six
"Ready?" Sam asked, squaring himself with his brother who was gritting his teeth and staring wide eyed at him. Dean's face had grown paler and there was a sheen line a sweat layering his skin. His eyes looked sunken and there was blood smeared onto his cheeks and forehead from the wound on his shoulder. Sam had one hand pressed to the wound, fingers wrapped around the meat hook that was still embedded there. The other hand held onto the chain linked from the hook to the machine behind them. The chain was tense and it was going to hurt to unlatch it from the hook, but they both knew it had to be done. "On three, okay?" Sam asked, watching as Dean's wide eyes roamed his face, almost absently. Dean had lost a lot of blood, Sam didn't know how much longer Dean would last.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, resting his head back against the machine. "Just hurry up. We need to get the hell out of here."
Sam couldn't have agreed more. He nodded and got a firmer grip on the chain before looking back at Dean's closed eyes. "Okay," he announced. "One. Two. Three." And he pulled quickly, the chain breaking from the hook and falling with a clatter as Sam reached both hands out to steady Dean's shoulders as his brother bucked and cried out. But Dean sat back and kept his eyes closed, struggling to get his body under control again, struggling to keep the pain from his face, struggling to keep the tears behind closed eyes. Sam just waited, his hands squeezing Dean's shoulder while the other was holding a piece of his shirt to the wound, which had started to bleed again. "Jesus," he whispered under his breath as he watched Dean's teeth start to chatter.
"Ow," Dean muttered after a few minutes of just sitting and collecting himself. He opened his eyes and gave a half smile, which Sam returned in full. Sam patted Dean's good shoulder and finally found enough courage to look away from his brother and towards the door he'd been brought in through. Dean was right, they needed to get out of here. His brother was in no condition to fight, hell, Sam wasn't even sure he'd be able to walk. And those guys were on some sort of demon steroids that made them near invincible. They wouldn't get anyway trying to fight their way out of this. They needed to run, get Dean to a hospital, and come back later when they were more prepared, preferably with an arsenal of automatic machine guns and hand grenades. That would take those bitches down.
"You okay?" Sam whispered, still holding the cloth to Dean's wound.
Dean choked out a mock chuckle. "I told him you asked stupid questions," he muttered before lowering his eyes and looking at a spot on the floor.
Sam frowned. "Told who?"
"Alex," Dean answered automatically, eyes still distant. Sam took in a breath and chewed on his lip. Dammit. "He asked the same thing. Course I lied to him, didn't want to scare the kid. Thought I could get him out of here." Sam shook his head and started to say something, but Dean kept talking. "He shouldn't have died, Sammy."
"Dean, there was nothing we could have done," he said calmly, trying to get his brother to look at him. When he wouldn't, Sam leaned down and tilted his head so he could see Dean's eyes. "We can't save everyone."
"We should have been able to save him," Dean whispered back and Sam wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear that or not. "Didn't even get a chance to finish his documentary on Henry Ford. Kid probably would have loved cars."
"Dean," Sam said and finally his brother looked up at him. "I'm sorry," he said and Dean's face fell for a minute before he regathered himself. "But we'll get out of here and then we'll stop these bastards from killing again, okay? We'll make sure no one else has to die like this."
Dean nodded and looked away, seemed to accept the answer for now and Sam just stared at him for a little bit. His brother was shaken, more than usual. There weren't many times when Dean was put into a situation he couldn't handle. Where he couldn't keep up his macho attitude or spew out jokes to cover how scared her really was. But this was one of those times where his brother wasn't even joking. He wasn't swatting Sam's hands away or trying to hide the hurt in his voice and on his face. It was one of those times when Sam could see Dean, truly see him, and Sam didn't like it. He didn't like that he could see the failure written all over his brother, that he could see the the self deprication clearly on Dean's face, that he could probably hear his brother listening to John Winchester's Marine voice yelling at him that he'd failed in his mission, that he'd been unsuccessful as a soldier, that he couldn't be proud of a son who had just sat there and watched as a sixteen year old fucking kid had just been murdered in front of his eyes. Sam could almost hear the scolding, the reprimand, the utter dissapointment in his father's voice.
"Makes you think twice about eating a burger, huh?" Dean's voice broke into the silence and Sam realize Dean was looking up at him, that disappointing look in his eyes now masked by the look he always got when he slipped into the role of big brother. Sam smiled and shook his head, trying not to show how relieved he was that Dean was joking, was protecting, was being Dean, even if it was only an act for now.
"Like that'll stop you," Sam said, checking on the wound again, peeling back the cloth to see if it was still bleeding. It had slowed a bit, but still looked nasty. "Burgers and leather are your life." Dean chuckled at the joke and Sam felt relief slip through him.
"Fucking cold..."
Sam looked back at Dean, a spike of panic tearing through his body at Dean's muttered words. His brother's eyes were drooping and he had started to shake. Adrenaline was probably running out. Dean was giving in to his wounds. Sam seemed to notice for the first time that Dean was still in only his boxer briefs and a t-shirt. He quickly took off his light jacket and put it around Dean's shoulders, careful not to jostle the hook still stuck there. "Well serves you right for running around in your underwear," Sam scolded playfully, watching as a grin stole its way onto Dean's face. Then Sam reached into one of the pockets on his jacket. "Oh, here," he said, pulling out the pendant he'd found in the Marxs' farm house. "I think this is yours."
Dean eyed it for a moment. "Oh, fuckers..." he grunted and let Sam put it around his neck. Sam licked his lips and stared at Dean for a moment, feeling better that his brother had his pendant back, but also worried that Dean's vocabulary was downsizing to just swear words, something that only happened when he was angry or injured to a point where saying anything else would just take too much effort.
"Okay," Sam said, pulling the jacket in tighter around his brother and then slipping an arm under Dean's good one. "Come on, it's time to go."
"And how are we going to do that, Wonder Boy?" Dean mumbled as Sam lifted him to his feet.
"I'm not sure yet," Sam answered, looking around. There wasn't much to work with. The whole hook thing hadn't really worked out before so Sam was reluctant to try it again. As much as he loved Dean, he didn't really want to follow in his footsteps that much.
There were some industrial sized meat grinders towards the back, but without electricity, they were pretty much useless. Then Sam spotted a few vats near the opposite side of the room. They were a little bit bigger than bathtubs, but there were metal lids on top. Sam started maneuvering them towards the vats. The closer he got, the better view he had of them. On the lids, there was a small glass window, the size of a brick, with a thermometer beneath it. "You up for a rematch?" Sam asked as he lowered Dean to the ground again, his eyes not leaving the vats.
Dean groaned as Sam went to the vats and ran his hands over them, looking for a latch of some sort. "Sammy, these guys are hopped up on something strong. I busted that guys ankle and he didn't even flinch."
"I know," Sam said, distractedly. His fingers suddenly caught on a latch on the vat and he wrapped them around it, tugging as hard as he could. It stuck for a little bit, caught in some goo that Sam wasn't willing to try and identify, before the lid suddenly decompressed and opened. But the stench that filtered out had Sam dropped the lid and turning away quickly, hands coming to cover his nose and mouth. He took a few deep breaths, trying to get the smell out of his nostrils. It was like a bathtub of rotten flesh. Sam's hands were shaking the smell was so bad. He breathed in through his mouth, trying to ignore the way he could almost taste the smell.
"Okay," Dean whispered shakily and Sam's eyes shot to him. If it was possible, Dean had grown paler. "I'm gonna be sick," he announced and immediately turned and retched onto the ground. Dean's hand came up to hold onto the hook in his shoulder, while the other braced himself on the ground, his body revolting to the horrid stench that still lingered in the air. Sam gave him a few minutes, half because Dean needed them and half because Sam was fighting back his own urges to vomit. Finally, Dean sat up and leaned against the wall, a grimace plastered onto his face that he couldn't seem to make go away. "That's just gross," he whispered, a fist to his mouth.
Sam nodded his agreement before looking around. Yeah, really gross. But he could use it. This could work. He looked back at Dean. "I have a plan."
***
Keith and Lyle emerged from the freezer not too shortly after they'd gone in. Keith was blowing into his hands and Lyle was yawning and strethcing, the front of his shirt covered in wet blood that had just begun to dry. It still clung to him in that sick sort of way only blood does. But the two looked more bored than anything else. And Keith scratched his gut while looking around. His eyes landed on Dean, who was sitting in a different position from where they'd left him. He looked down for the count. His head lolling to the side heavily, but his eyes staring at them glossily. Keith smiled.
"Hey, the kid skinned up pretty good," Keith said. "He'd make a nice lampshade."
"Fuck you," Dean spat at him, though a shiver racked his body, taking away some of the angering effect he'd tried to put into the insult. Keith and Lyle just laughed before they made their way towards Dean.
"Where's that other fella?" Lyle asked, looking around. "Planning another sneak attack?" Lyle posed in a sloppy fighting position before bursting out in laughter. "Cause that one worked out really last time. You want another hook in your shoulder? I could give you one on the other side, make it look pretty."
"You know I'm going to kill both of you," Dean said confidentally, rolling his head back so he could look up at Lyle, who had made it over to him and was now standing over him. "And I'm going to enjoy every fucking minute of it?"
Keith laughed as he came to stand by Dean's outstretched legs. He crossed his arms over his chest, grinning down at him. "Oh really?" he asked, then squatted down and patted one of Dean's legs. "And how you plan on doing that? You gonna bleed on me?"
"No," Dean shook his head, his eyes drooping again, breath slowly wheezing out. But a smile crept onto his face and his eyes narrowed, almost devilishly. "I was thinking more like drowning you in a meat boiler."
Keith let out a laugh and looked up at Lyle, who returned it. But when they looked back at Dean and saw that he was still smiling, Keith's laughter died away and he leaned forward to point a finger at him. "I'm gonna have fun making you scream."
"Hope you have a nice bath," Dean whispered.
There was only a small yell from Lyle as warning before Keith found himself the target of a vicious roundhouse kick. It cracked his head to the side and he got to his feet out of instinct. He tried to turn and see his attacker, that other kid they'd caught snooping in their house no doubt, but another kick found its way to his face and before he knew what was happening, the back of his knees caught on the edge of a basin and he was falling backwards, his body submerging into a clumpy, watery substance. When his feet were pushed into the basin, he realized where he was and he let out a growl, ignoring the stale water that crept down his nose and throat, and pushed himself up with a roar. But the lid was slammed down on top of him before he could make it up above the water. He brought his hands up and pounded on the lid. Pounded on it until the bones in his fists cracked, and even then he continued to beat on it. He was screaming and howling and yelling and breathing in the water and rotten meat that had been inside of it. His body was shutting down, but his spirit still fought. And he could barely make out the fight that was going on outside through the splashing of the water and the fogging of the glass window. Damn those city fuckers.
***
Sam had listened to Dean bait them. He'd listened with growing hatred as they talked about Alex, made fun of his brother, and threatened him. Sam had never killed another man before, but he was about to. He knew Dean would kill them in a heartbeat. There may be a little bit of guilt, deep down, but Dean wouldn't hesitate, not after what they'd done. And Sam was working harder and harder on ignoring his conscious, screaming at him that his morals clearly stated not to kill another human being. Ever. Hell, he'd felt slightly guilty about Meg, and he knew that bitch deserved to die. These guys? They deserved it too. He'd watched them kill Alex. They'd taken his brother for god's sakes and then shoved a hook into his shoulder. His Dad probably wouldn't even be having this conversation with himself right now. John Winchester would probably already know that he was going to kill them, he probably would have known the moment he found Dean missing from his bed. He'd probably tell Sam to suck it up, to realize that there was no other choice. It was us or them. Like always.
So when Sam jumped from his hiding spot and attacked without giving Keith a chance to realize what was happening, he acted on impulse. The thing about this job, the thing that Sam never fully grasped, never fully accepted and still didn't, was that there were times when you had to do things you weren't willing to do. They'd all done it, without question. All except for Sam. He'd always fought, he'd always argued, he'd always try to find another way. John had done this every time he'd made his sons move, every time he'd used them as bait, every time he'd left them, without an explanation, every time he'd ignore their phone calls, their pleas for him to call and at least tell them he was all right. John had never wanted to isolate his sons. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to. Dean had done this whenever he'd listened to his father without question, when he'd dropped Sam off at the bus station with a "goodbye" and "good luck" and nothing more, when he'd pretended he didn't have a little brother for all those years, when he'd told his father that he couldn't with. Dean had never wanted to break up his family. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
And Sam. Everything he'd done, was something he didn't want to, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the selfless acts like his father and brother. It wasn't like that. Sam was selfish. Dean was right. What had he ever done, what had he ever sacrificed for his family? He'd spent his whole life wanting to get out. But maybe this wasn't for the job. Maybe he wasn't about to do this because the hunt asked him to. This was a different job. This was being a Winchester, not a hunter. This was one brother looking out for the other. This was Sam making sure that these guys wouldn't get a chance to hear his brother's screams, to see his tears, to feel his blood. And that was a job Sam would never back down from.
Sam had never wanted to kill another man. But he'd do so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
So Sam closed the lid on the water boiler without hesitation. He listened to the screams and the pounding on the lid and ignored them as he turned and faced Lyle head on. But Sam hadn't acted quick enough. He'd thought he'd been ready, thought that with one down, he could take on the other, one on one. But Lyle was pissed and Sam was winded and when Lyle landed the first punch, Sam went down hard, hearing and feeling the crack of his nose breaking as he fell to the ground and Lyle jumped on top of him, rainging punches down around Sam's arms as he tried to cover his head.
It was happening so fast. Sam wondered how he was supposed to fight someone in hand to hand combat who had a demon backing them up. This guy was fast and his punches were strong and Sam knew that beside the broken nose, he would have two broken arms he didn't get this guy off of him soon. But he couldn't find any break in the punches, they just kept coming, not allowing him to find time to move his arms and try to catch Lyle's wrists or do anything but try to keep those fists away from his face. Jesus, how was he going to get out of this one?
But just as quickly as they had been coming, the punches suddenly stopped. It took Sam a moment to realize that he wasn't being hit anymore. His arms were pounding with bruises and abraisions and it was hard to distinguish between a punch and a heartbeat for a moment. But when he finally figured out that he wasn't being attacked anymore, he moved his arms away from his face and eyed the situation. He felt the blood drain from his face as he realized why Lyle wasn't hitting him anymore.
Lyle was standing up straight. His hands down at his sides. An upset frown on his face. Behind him, Dean was standing, shakily, wobbling on his feet. Dean was staring at Sam with wide, glossy eyes, pain etched across his features. Dean's shoulder was a mess. Blood was pouring anew from the wound. Skin had been ripped and bunched and torn and a sliver of bone stuck out from beneath the flesh. The hook that had once been embedded in his brother's shoulder had found its way into Lyle's left eye. It stuck in deep and covered half of Lyle's face with blood and puss and eye juice. Lyle's lips moved but no sound came out. The man fell to the floor, the hook clanging on the ground as it sunk in deeper. Sam looked at him for a second before jerking his head back to his brother. Dean was unsteady on his feet. His hand fluttering over the wound on his shoulder. His face scared, pale, clamy. Sam had to scramble forward quickly to catch him as Dean's strength finally failed and he fell to his knees.
Dean had never wanted to pull a meat hook from his shoulder and snap his collar bone to save his younger brother from a madman backed by a demon. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
But Dean had never wanted to do anything more.
Go to Chapter Seven
Chapter Six
"Ready?" Sam asked, squaring himself with his brother who was gritting his teeth and staring wide eyed at him. Dean's face had grown paler and there was a sheen line a sweat layering his skin. His eyes looked sunken and there was blood smeared onto his cheeks and forehead from the wound on his shoulder. Sam had one hand pressed to the wound, fingers wrapped around the meat hook that was still embedded there. The other hand held onto the chain linked from the hook to the machine behind them. The chain was tense and it was going to hurt to unlatch it from the hook, but they both knew it had to be done. "On three, okay?" Sam asked, watching as Dean's wide eyes roamed his face, almost absently. Dean had lost a lot of blood, Sam didn't know how much longer Dean would last.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, resting his head back against the machine. "Just hurry up. We need to get the hell out of here."
Sam couldn't have agreed more. He nodded and got a firmer grip on the chain before looking back at Dean's closed eyes. "Okay," he announced. "One. Two. Three." And he pulled quickly, the chain breaking from the hook and falling with a clatter as Sam reached both hands out to steady Dean's shoulders as his brother bucked and cried out. But Dean sat back and kept his eyes closed, struggling to get his body under control again, struggling to keep the pain from his face, struggling to keep the tears behind closed eyes. Sam just waited, his hands squeezing Dean's shoulder while the other was holding a piece of his shirt to the wound, which had started to bleed again. "Jesus," he whispered under his breath as he watched Dean's teeth start to chatter.
"Ow," Dean muttered after a few minutes of just sitting and collecting himself. He opened his eyes and gave a half smile, which Sam returned in full. Sam patted Dean's good shoulder and finally found enough courage to look away from his brother and towards the door he'd been brought in through. Dean was right, they needed to get out of here. His brother was in no condition to fight, hell, Sam wasn't even sure he'd be able to walk. And those guys were on some sort of demon steroids that made them near invincible. They wouldn't get anyway trying to fight their way out of this. They needed to run, get Dean to a hospital, and come back later when they were more prepared, preferably with an arsenal of automatic machine guns and hand grenades. That would take those bitches down.
"You okay?" Sam whispered, still holding the cloth to Dean's wound.
Dean choked out a mock chuckle. "I told him you asked stupid questions," he muttered before lowering his eyes and looking at a spot on the floor.
Sam frowned. "Told who?"
"Alex," Dean answered automatically, eyes still distant. Sam took in a breath and chewed on his lip. Dammit. "He asked the same thing. Course I lied to him, didn't want to scare the kid. Thought I could get him out of here." Sam shook his head and started to say something, but Dean kept talking. "He shouldn't have died, Sammy."
"Dean, there was nothing we could have done," he said calmly, trying to get his brother to look at him. When he wouldn't, Sam leaned down and tilted his head so he could see Dean's eyes. "We can't save everyone."
"We should have been able to save him," Dean whispered back and Sam wasn't sure if he was supposed to hear that or not. "Didn't even get a chance to finish his documentary on Henry Ford. Kid probably would have loved cars."
"Dean," Sam said and finally his brother looked up at him. "I'm sorry," he said and Dean's face fell for a minute before he regathered himself. "But we'll get out of here and then we'll stop these bastards from killing again, okay? We'll make sure no one else has to die like this."
Dean nodded and looked away, seemed to accept the answer for now and Sam just stared at him for a little bit. His brother was shaken, more than usual. There weren't many times when Dean was put into a situation he couldn't handle. Where he couldn't keep up his macho attitude or spew out jokes to cover how scared her really was. But this was one of those times where his brother wasn't even joking. He wasn't swatting Sam's hands away or trying to hide the hurt in his voice and on his face. It was one of those times when Sam could see Dean, truly see him, and Sam didn't like it. He didn't like that he could see the failure written all over his brother, that he could see the the self deprication clearly on Dean's face, that he could probably hear his brother listening to John Winchester's Marine voice yelling at him that he'd failed in his mission, that he'd been unsuccessful as a soldier, that he couldn't be proud of a son who had just sat there and watched as a sixteen year old fucking kid had just been murdered in front of his eyes. Sam could almost hear the scolding, the reprimand, the utter dissapointment in his father's voice.
"Makes you think twice about eating a burger, huh?" Dean's voice broke into the silence and Sam realize Dean was looking up at him, that disappointing look in his eyes now masked by the look he always got when he slipped into the role of big brother. Sam smiled and shook his head, trying not to show how relieved he was that Dean was joking, was protecting, was being Dean, even if it was only an act for now.
"Like that'll stop you," Sam said, checking on the wound again, peeling back the cloth to see if it was still bleeding. It had slowed a bit, but still looked nasty. "Burgers and leather are your life." Dean chuckled at the joke and Sam felt relief slip through him.
"Fucking cold..."
Sam looked back at Dean, a spike of panic tearing through his body at Dean's muttered words. His brother's eyes were drooping and he had started to shake. Adrenaline was probably running out. Dean was giving in to his wounds. Sam seemed to notice for the first time that Dean was still in only his boxer briefs and a t-shirt. He quickly took off his light jacket and put it around Dean's shoulders, careful not to jostle the hook still stuck there. "Well serves you right for running around in your underwear," Sam scolded playfully, watching as a grin stole its way onto Dean's face. Then Sam reached into one of the pockets on his jacket. "Oh, here," he said, pulling out the pendant he'd found in the Marxs' farm house. "I think this is yours."
Dean eyed it for a moment. "Oh, fuckers..." he grunted and let Sam put it around his neck. Sam licked his lips and stared at Dean for a moment, feeling better that his brother had his pendant back, but also worried that Dean's vocabulary was downsizing to just swear words, something that only happened when he was angry or injured to a point where saying anything else would just take too much effort.
"Okay," Sam said, pulling the jacket in tighter around his brother and then slipping an arm under Dean's good one. "Come on, it's time to go."
"And how are we going to do that, Wonder Boy?" Dean mumbled as Sam lifted him to his feet.
"I'm not sure yet," Sam answered, looking around. There wasn't much to work with. The whole hook thing hadn't really worked out before so Sam was reluctant to try it again. As much as he loved Dean, he didn't really want to follow in his footsteps that much.
There were some industrial sized meat grinders towards the back, but without electricity, they were pretty much useless. Then Sam spotted a few vats near the opposite side of the room. They were a little bit bigger than bathtubs, but there were metal lids on top. Sam started maneuvering them towards the vats. The closer he got, the better view he had of them. On the lids, there was a small glass window, the size of a brick, with a thermometer beneath it. "You up for a rematch?" Sam asked as he lowered Dean to the ground again, his eyes not leaving the vats.
Dean groaned as Sam went to the vats and ran his hands over them, looking for a latch of some sort. "Sammy, these guys are hopped up on something strong. I busted that guys ankle and he didn't even flinch."
"I know," Sam said, distractedly. His fingers suddenly caught on a latch on the vat and he wrapped them around it, tugging as hard as he could. It stuck for a little bit, caught in some goo that Sam wasn't willing to try and identify, before the lid suddenly decompressed and opened. But the stench that filtered out had Sam dropped the lid and turning away quickly, hands coming to cover his nose and mouth. He took a few deep breaths, trying to get the smell out of his nostrils. It was like a bathtub of rotten flesh. Sam's hands were shaking the smell was so bad. He breathed in through his mouth, trying to ignore the way he could almost taste the smell.
"Okay," Dean whispered shakily and Sam's eyes shot to him. If it was possible, Dean had grown paler. "I'm gonna be sick," he announced and immediately turned and retched onto the ground. Dean's hand came up to hold onto the hook in his shoulder, while the other braced himself on the ground, his body revolting to the horrid stench that still lingered in the air. Sam gave him a few minutes, half because Dean needed them and half because Sam was fighting back his own urges to vomit. Finally, Dean sat up and leaned against the wall, a grimace plastered onto his face that he couldn't seem to make go away. "That's just gross," he whispered, a fist to his mouth.
Sam nodded his agreement before looking around. Yeah, really gross. But he could use it. This could work. He looked back at Dean. "I have a plan."
***
Keith and Lyle emerged from the freezer not too shortly after they'd gone in. Keith was blowing into his hands and Lyle was yawning and strethcing, the front of his shirt covered in wet blood that had just begun to dry. It still clung to him in that sick sort of way only blood does. But the two looked more bored than anything else. And Keith scratched his gut while looking around. His eyes landed on Dean, who was sitting in a different position from where they'd left him. He looked down for the count. His head lolling to the side heavily, but his eyes staring at them glossily. Keith smiled.
"Hey, the kid skinned up pretty good," Keith said. "He'd make a nice lampshade."
"Fuck you," Dean spat at him, though a shiver racked his body, taking away some of the angering effect he'd tried to put into the insult. Keith and Lyle just laughed before they made their way towards Dean.
"Where's that other fella?" Lyle asked, looking around. "Planning another sneak attack?" Lyle posed in a sloppy fighting position before bursting out in laughter. "Cause that one worked out really last time. You want another hook in your shoulder? I could give you one on the other side, make it look pretty."
"You know I'm going to kill both of you," Dean said confidentally, rolling his head back so he could look up at Lyle, who had made it over to him and was now standing over him. "And I'm going to enjoy every fucking minute of it?"
Keith laughed as he came to stand by Dean's outstretched legs. He crossed his arms over his chest, grinning down at him. "Oh really?" he asked, then squatted down and patted one of Dean's legs. "And how you plan on doing that? You gonna bleed on me?"
"No," Dean shook his head, his eyes drooping again, breath slowly wheezing out. But a smile crept onto his face and his eyes narrowed, almost devilishly. "I was thinking more like drowning you in a meat boiler."
Keith let out a laugh and looked up at Lyle, who returned it. But when they looked back at Dean and saw that he was still smiling, Keith's laughter died away and he leaned forward to point a finger at him. "I'm gonna have fun making you scream."
"Hope you have a nice bath," Dean whispered.
There was only a small yell from Lyle as warning before Keith found himself the target of a vicious roundhouse kick. It cracked his head to the side and he got to his feet out of instinct. He tried to turn and see his attacker, that other kid they'd caught snooping in their house no doubt, but another kick found its way to his face and before he knew what was happening, the back of his knees caught on the edge of a basin and he was falling backwards, his body submerging into a clumpy, watery substance. When his feet were pushed into the basin, he realized where he was and he let out a growl, ignoring the stale water that crept down his nose and throat, and pushed himself up with a roar. But the lid was slammed down on top of him before he could make it up above the water. He brought his hands up and pounded on the lid. Pounded on it until the bones in his fists cracked, and even then he continued to beat on it. He was screaming and howling and yelling and breathing in the water and rotten meat that had been inside of it. His body was shutting down, but his spirit still fought. And he could barely make out the fight that was going on outside through the splashing of the water and the fogging of the glass window. Damn those city fuckers.
***
Sam had listened to Dean bait them. He'd listened with growing hatred as they talked about Alex, made fun of his brother, and threatened him. Sam had never killed another man before, but he was about to. He knew Dean would kill them in a heartbeat. There may be a little bit of guilt, deep down, but Dean wouldn't hesitate, not after what they'd done. And Sam was working harder and harder on ignoring his conscious, screaming at him that his morals clearly stated not to kill another human being. Ever. Hell, he'd felt slightly guilty about Meg, and he knew that bitch deserved to die. These guys? They deserved it too. He'd watched them kill Alex. They'd taken his brother for god's sakes and then shoved a hook into his shoulder. His Dad probably wouldn't even be having this conversation with himself right now. John Winchester would probably already know that he was going to kill them, he probably would have known the moment he found Dean missing from his bed. He'd probably tell Sam to suck it up, to realize that there was no other choice. It was us or them. Like always.
So when Sam jumped from his hiding spot and attacked without giving Keith a chance to realize what was happening, he acted on impulse. The thing about this job, the thing that Sam never fully grasped, never fully accepted and still didn't, was that there were times when you had to do things you weren't willing to do. They'd all done it, without question. All except for Sam. He'd always fought, he'd always argued, he'd always try to find another way. John had done this every time he'd made his sons move, every time he'd used them as bait, every time he'd left them, without an explanation, every time he'd ignore their phone calls, their pleas for him to call and at least tell them he was all right. John had never wanted to isolate his sons. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to. Dean had done this whenever he'd listened to his father without question, when he'd dropped Sam off at the bus station with a "goodbye" and "good luck" and nothing more, when he'd pretended he didn't have a little brother for all those years, when he'd told his father that he couldn't with. Dean had never wanted to break up his family. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
And Sam. Everything he'd done, was something he didn't want to, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't the selfless acts like his father and brother. It wasn't like that. Sam was selfish. Dean was right. What had he ever done, what had he ever sacrificed for his family? He'd spent his whole life wanting to get out. But maybe this wasn't for the job. Maybe he wasn't about to do this because the hunt asked him to. This was a different job. This was being a Winchester, not a hunter. This was one brother looking out for the other. This was Sam making sure that these guys wouldn't get a chance to hear his brother's screams, to see his tears, to feel his blood. And that was a job Sam would never back down from.
Sam had never wanted to kill another man. But he'd do so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
So Sam closed the lid on the water boiler without hesitation. He listened to the screams and the pounding on the lid and ignored them as he turned and faced Lyle head on. But Sam hadn't acted quick enough. He'd thought he'd been ready, thought that with one down, he could take on the other, one on one. But Lyle was pissed and Sam was winded and when Lyle landed the first punch, Sam went down hard, hearing and feeling the crack of his nose breaking as he fell to the ground and Lyle jumped on top of him, rainging punches down around Sam's arms as he tried to cover his head.
It was happening so fast. Sam wondered how he was supposed to fight someone in hand to hand combat who had a demon backing them up. This guy was fast and his punches were strong and Sam knew that beside the broken nose, he would have two broken arms he didn't get this guy off of him soon. But he couldn't find any break in the punches, they just kept coming, not allowing him to find time to move his arms and try to catch Lyle's wrists or do anything but try to keep those fists away from his face. Jesus, how was he going to get out of this one?
But just as quickly as they had been coming, the punches suddenly stopped. It took Sam a moment to realize that he wasn't being hit anymore. His arms were pounding with bruises and abraisions and it was hard to distinguish between a punch and a heartbeat for a moment. But when he finally figured out that he wasn't being attacked anymore, he moved his arms away from his face and eyed the situation. He felt the blood drain from his face as he realized why Lyle wasn't hitting him anymore.
Lyle was standing up straight. His hands down at his sides. An upset frown on his face. Behind him, Dean was standing, shakily, wobbling on his feet. Dean was staring at Sam with wide, glossy eyes, pain etched across his features. Dean's shoulder was a mess. Blood was pouring anew from the wound. Skin had been ripped and bunched and torn and a sliver of bone stuck out from beneath the flesh. The hook that had once been embedded in his brother's shoulder had found its way into Lyle's left eye. It stuck in deep and covered half of Lyle's face with blood and puss and eye juice. Lyle's lips moved but no sound came out. The man fell to the floor, the hook clanging on the ground as it sunk in deeper. Sam looked at him for a second before jerking his head back to his brother. Dean was unsteady on his feet. His hand fluttering over the wound on his shoulder. His face scared, pale, clamy. Sam had to scramble forward quickly to catch him as Dean's strength finally failed and he fell to his knees.
Dean had never wanted to pull a meat hook from his shoulder and snap his collar bone to save his younger brother from a madman backed by a demon. But he'd done so, because in this job, you do things you don't want to.
But Dean had never wanted to do anything more.
Go to Chapter Seven