The Woods are Lonely, Dark and Deep
17. The Perfect Storm
I never left there, he thinks.
He can hear her puttering about, the clink of the spoon as she stirs whatever glop is the meal of the day, the rustling as she throws twigs on the fire. He shifts feebly but he doesn't have the strength to move, he's been chewed up, spat out, he hurts and his limbs don't work any more. Energy is something that happens to other people. He can't breathe in without feeling his chest creak and tighten, his body feels like a furnace, his head pounds and he holds it rigid because even the tiniest inclination left or right has his brain gyrating crazily around inside his skull.
He's fuckin' starvin'.
And he's afraid.
The fear has a point of reference, something he can focus on. And in focusing on it he knows he should be able to rationalize it, talk himself through it, take careful aim and overcome it, like he has done since his father presented him with his first sawed-off at thirteen.
But this fear can't be rationalized and overcome, because it's fear of the thing that means the most to him in this life and the sense of betrayal has him drowning in bewilderment, sorrow, shame, terror.
He knows how he can escape it.
"Sssshhhhhh… sshhhhhh…"
He can hear a voice rambling, crying out abruptly, muttering, whispering, wonders who it is for a minute.
"Sssshhhhh, Dean…"
And it's him, the voice, spouting crap and nonsense. "Please… please… n-n-n-need to… to st-st-stop thinking."
His voice rustles out proper words as dry as dead leaves, so faint and petrified that he doesn't believe it can possibly be him speaking. The effort leaves him breathless, shallow gasps all he can manage, oxygen barely squeezing past a tongue that lies thick and dry in his mouth, even though he wants desperately to suck in precious air, in and in until he's so full he levitates and Lee - Sam? - has to tie a rope around his ankle so he doesn't float off into the stratosphere.
"Dean. I'm here. It's okay…"
"Help me… pictures in my head… make 'em go away…"
His voice is broken but inside his head it streams out strong and fluent and he's begging, pleading, screaming, fuck-Lee-please-it-hurts-so-much-please-make-it-stop-anything-I'll-do-anything, and he blinks in confusion as shooting stars career wildly past him and he thinks he might be making the jump into hyperspace or stepping through the Stargate.
"Everything's okay Dean, please believe me. You're gonna be fine."
"Need… I need…"
He feels a hand touch his face, a light touch sliding through the water of tears that leak from his eyes and trail salt over his lips, fingertips gently wiping the trickle of moisture away before it can soak into his hair, tracing gentle circles on his temples and brow. He turns into the hand, tries to focus on the hypnotic sensation, the round and round, the up and down.
"Need what, Dean? What do you need?"
The pain comes in rips and tears, taunts and teases him, reaches in, pokes, twists, slashes, leaps back out of reach, attacks again from a different angle. He gags as his mouth fills up with burning acid, coughs the tiniest, barely manageable cough, and dribbles rancid slime out the side of his mouth, feels the soft sensation of damp cloth wipe the drool away.
"You know. Please. Lee… I need it… red ones…"
"Sam. It's Sam, Dean."
"Sam… Sammy…"
He remembers Sam in a slideshow of memories that play out on the fifty-three inch plasma flatscreen he keeps front and center of his mind for that very purpose, take-your-brother-outside-now-Dean the opening credits to images that bombard him, images of him and his brother, the perfect nuclear family, them against the world; images of a father and various other adults who play walk-on parts in their lives but never really break through the he-and-me invisible forcefield they have separating them from not-them. He fast-forwards through sleepless nights, spoonfeeding, tantrums, abc and 123, tears wiped away, booboos bandaged, hide-and-seek, the laughter and brightness, the small arms clinging tightly, the fierce desire to protect that innocence and the profound sadness at seeing it worn away. The sullen moods, the hurt feelings, the angry words as his brother became his father before his very eyes, man-up-Dean… how-can-you-stand-him… stop-being-such-a-fucking-tool… how-can-this-be-enough-for-you… I-have-plans… this-is-what-I-want… you-can't-stop-me…
And that day when Sam left.
He remembers feeling proud.
He remembers feeling empty.
He remembers feeling lost.
You never fuckin' asked me what I wanted. You never fuckin' asked what mattered to me.
"Sam left," he whispers.
It's quieter in there at last, Bobby thinks, Dean's insensible raving and fretting, and the endless clink as he tugs fitfully at the cuff, easing off. He checks in on them, can see Sam slumped over the bed, his head resting up against his brother's cast, his right hand tangled in Dean's hair and his left loosely cupping the fingertips peeping from the plaster. Bobby pads in, drapes a quilt over Sam, pulls the blanket up higher on Dean to guard against the evening chill.
Dean's breathing is erratic and his eyes are roving under his closed lids, dry, cracked lips moving, almost soundlessly though he can hear the barest whisper.
Bobby leans closer, listens.
"Please-come-get-me-please-come-get-me…"
He has to force back the tears that threaten, thinks how unutterably sad it is that this boy is lying in bed, warm, safe, meds trickling into him, and his entire focus, his reason for the last twenty-two years, is right there next to him, but he's still trapped in his nightmare.
Bobby reaches to the nightstand for a small pot of lipbalm Hudak left there, almost-joking that the lips needed preserving so she could kiss the kid properly when he was better. He dabs it gently on bluish skin, feeling like a fucking idjit, thinking how Dean would roll his eyes and make some snide comment about bleeding hearts, thanking Christ Sam isn't awake to see him although he knows Sam would get it.
The cuff clinks again and Bobby sees that Dean's wrist is rubbed red-raw, a livid crimson bracelet tattooed into his skin. Something else he can fix, make better. He fetches the medkit, unlocks the cuff, carefully cleans and salves the chafed area, covers it with gauze, and bandages it. He lifts the hand back into the cuff, feels the fingers suddenly tighten around his.
Dean is looking right at him, a vaguely mystified look. "Bobby…?"
Bobby smiles, rests his other hand on top of Dean's. "The one and only. How you feeling, son?"
"They got you too?" Dean whispers sadly.
"No, you're out of there now," Bobby soothes. "We got you out. You're safe."
"Safe…?"
Bobby can't fight the tears any more and they splash onto the back of his hand as it rests over Dean's.
"Safe, boy. Bender isn't gonna hurt you no more. No more. It's over."
Dean's expression falls desolate. "They hurt me."
Bobby forces words out over the lump in his throat. "We're gonna make you better, boy. We're gonna make the hurt go away, I promise. And Sam's here, look…"
Dean's eyes flicker over to the shock of dark brown hair on the bed. "Sam left," he breathes out. "Why…?" He shifts, splutters, and his eyes grow huge with pain as his lungs rebel and he coughs.
Bobby pulls Dean up into his arms, lays his boy's head on his shoulder and rubs his back as his body shakes in a paroxysm of wet hacks and chokes he desperately tries to swallow. He knows the damaged ribs must stabbing agony inside the kid, and all the time he struggles, fights against the circle of Bobby's arms, and it breaks the old man's heart.
"Lemme… go… pls… Cn… breathe…"
"Yes you can, boy," says Bobby, tries to rock him calm. "In, out, that's right. In, out."
Dean stops struggling, freezes in Bobby's arms, wound tight with anxiety but listening, trying to breathe along with him. Sam, exhausted, sleeps through the coughing, the wheezing, the spitting, and once the attack finally eases, Bobby gently lowers Dean back down.
"No… stay," Dean whispers, clinging on now and fighting Bobby's attempts to lay him flat. "Dad… don't let me go, dad. Don't go."
"I won't let go, son," Bobby murmurs, and he holds his boy and rocks him to sleep.
Hudak wakes from her doze, rubs her arms briskly against the cold, gets up and throws another log in the furnace. She looks at her wristwatch, frowns. She finds Bobby propping Dean up, the kid fast asleep on his shoulder.
"Hey." She motions him outside and he lowers Dean down as gently as if he were cut glass, follows her.
"I think Swenson should have been back by now and I'm a tad worried that he isn't," she says. "I know he took care of Dean but it's obvious from what was going on here with the Benders that he's a devious sonofabitch. I wouldn't put it past him to call the FBI."
Bobby snorts. "Well, I wouldn't trust him any further than I could throw him, that's a fact." He looks back in at Dean, reaches out and pulls the door over. "We need that oxygen, Kathleen… kid can barely draw breath once he starts coughing. I honestly thought we were gonna lose him this morning."
She considers. "I'm going to drive back into town, see if he's been held up for some reason. If he's raised the alert, I'll do my best to get back here ahead of the authorities… but if the Feds are onto us, there's no way we can move Dean."
Bobb huffs. "We'll drive off that bridge when we get to it."
Hudak is steering her Jeep up onto Swenson's driveway beside his sedan forty-five minutes later. The trunk of his car is open and she glances in as she walks by, sees a couple of oxygen tanks in there, thinks she's misjudged him this time, although he's still a devious sonofabitch.
She knocks at the door, doesn't get a reply, turns the knob and finds it unlocked. She briefly thinks, careless, given his office is well equipped with pricey machinery and a drugs cabinet any number of Hibbing's toxic teens would love to get their cloven hooves into.
When she pushes open his office door and sees him slumped over his desk she thinks, heck of a time to be catching up, says so as well. "Swenson, for crying out loud. We need the fucking oxygen and you're here taking a nap. Jesus."
He doesn't stir. She comes up behind him, tugs at his shoulder and his arm slips off the desk with a depressingly heavy finality. She pulls him up and back and gags, because under his chin Swenson has sprouted a whole new mouth that grins redly at her, and his shirt front is painted in sticky scarlet.
She stumbles back, spins around with her service revolver drawn, fumbles for the phone, stops herself.
She heads back outside, eyes darting in every direction, gun at the ready. It's quiet, quiet enough. She makes her way over to Swenson's car, lifts the oxygen tanks out of the trunk, closes it, stows them in the Jeep.
Then she makes the call.
It's dark and Bobby is pacing up and down outside the Bender place when Hudak pulls up and climbs out.
"Jesus!" he barks. "Ever heard of the phone? We've been packin' up here, fixin to head out once I got another truck started. What the fuck took you so long?"
He sees her face, pale, tense, and he softens his tone. "I'm sorry Kathleen… I'm just worried about the kid, he don't seem to be doing as well as we hoped with the antibiotics, and when you didn't come back I thought…" He peers behind the Jeep up the trail. "Where's Swenson?"
"He won't be coming," she says, opening the tailgate of her Jeep to let her dog out.
The hound is delighted to be loose, delighted to meet Bobby, and it slobbers all over him as he whacks its ribs hard with the flat of his hand. "I always loved a dog you can really slap," he muses. "I keep rottweilers myself, good guard dogs, make enough noise to warn you shit's comin' before it hits the fan. Can't stand those ratty terriers. Not coming back then? Figures."
He reaches beyond her into the Jeep, hauls out one of the tanks.
"He's dead. Swenson. Back at his surgery. His throat was cut. It was pretty messy… I couldn't just walk out of there."
Bobby gapes, puts down the oxygen tank and parks his rear on the car. He eyes the dog. "Why'd you bring the dog, Kathleen?" he says suddenly.
"Good guard dog," she says softly. "Makes enough noise to warn you shit's coming before it hits the fan."
Bobby pushes up, looks around them, back towards the house. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
She nods. "Swenson's neighbor saw a kid get out of the car and go into the house with him. Said it looked like a teenage girl."
Christ, it's never-ending, Bobby thinks as he hefts the oxygen tank up again. "Inside, now. I'm not taking any chances on this."
Hudak hails the dog and follows Bobby into the house, pausing to lock the door behind her as he sets the tank down on the kitchen table, rubs his brow, and he can't help thinking about what has brought them here, about John Winchester, so desperate that he raised his eldest to think he was the one member of the family who didn't mean shit.
"I'm beginning to think somebody up there just doesn't like this kid," grates out of him before he can stop it. "I mean, what are the odds? Of this happening, of it being this boy, who's so screwed in the head he fell for whatever lies they were peddling, and fooled into this, this nightmare because he's so desperate for some fuckin' kindness-"
"Bobby."
He pulls up, only realizes his voice must be carrying through into the hallway when Hudak walks over to close the door, and her expression when she turns back looks part-fascinated, part-embarrassed by the tirade he's pouring out in front of someone he barely knows.
"How bad is he?" she broaches carefully. "Honestly?"
Bobby holds out his hands and she can see a definite tremor. "That's how bad. I can't stop them. Last time my hands shook like this was twenty-five years ago, Kathleen, and that was comin' down from six months at cruising altitude after my wife and son were killed." He folds his arms, very deliberately. "He's all over the fuckin' place, flashing back, disoriented. Thinks either Sam or me's Lee Bender one minute, his dad the next. Can't catch his breath, Christ the ribs must be killing him when he coughs. Sicked up the two spoons of soup Sam forced down him ten minutes later, I swear he looks skinnier every time I go in there. Fuckin' John Winchester…"
He breathes heavy, holds his hands fisted now at his sides, as it bubbles up out of him. "This kid, he doesn't deserve this. Their dad, he just… You know, I know he loves them, he does. But somehow that falls by the wayside and they're just… cannon fodder, footsoldiers in his personal fuckin' army, dragged on his personal fuckin' crusade. And Sam, he had the guts to get out - and it took guts, believe me. But how John could do it, how he could do it to Dean… I just don't think I'll ever get it."
Hudak pulls out a chair, sits at the table. "Could Dean not have done what Sam did?" she says, puzzled. "If he was unhappy? Maybe gone with Sam?"
Bobby shakes his head. "Sam never asked him, far as I know. Dean'd spill his guts every now and then when he'd been on the Wild Turkey. Said Sam never wanted him with him, said Sam was ashamed of him, didn't think he'd measure up to his college buddies."
Raising an eyebrow, Hudak notes, "That doesn't sound like Sam… he seems pretty devoted to me."
Bobby nods. "Now. But a lot had gone on with Sam and John… locking horns all the damn time, Dean stuck in the middle and having to break up fights every day far as I could tell. Sam wasn't running from Dean, he was running from John… Dean was collateral damage. But John can do no wrong in Dean's eyes, so the kid just ended up blaming himself."
"But Dean's a grown man… couldn't he have left himself?"
"He just couldn't seem to find the exit. Couldn't walk away from his dad even though his dad destroyed him, destroyed his chances and his hope, and turned him into something he wasn't ever meant to be, some kind of killing machine. The fuckin' Terminator. And then John walked away from him."
He reaches for the oxygen, pauses. "It's just fuckin' ironic," he continues, quieter now. "I told you, didn't I, about how Dean always needed. So it's just fuckin' ironic that all these pieces slot together… Bender catching sight of him, whack on the head, drugs up the wazoo… and he falls for it, this whole family line they feed him, as sick and twisted as it is, because he's hurt and confused and because it's all he ever really wanted, to be part of a family. And all of these coincidences collide to bring us here to this point, like it's the perfect fuckin' storm or something. And it still isn't over."
He stares at the closed door for a minute. "What the fuck do we have to do for this to be over?" he murmurs as he reins himself back down to something approaching calm. He lifts the oxygen tank. "Let's get this to the boy."
Hudak gets up to follow him. "Bobby… what you said," she starts.
Bobby is already regretting it. "I said a lot just there, Kathleen, things I shouldn't have said."
"I'm sorry, Bobby, but you can't lay all that on me… cannon fodder, and footsoldiers, and personal armies, and crusades, and killing machines… and just leave it there."
He stops with his hand on the doorknob, very pointedly doesn't answer.
"You said Dean wasn't guilty of any crime as I knew it, but he was one of the FBI's most wanted," Hudak presses. "Until he died. Or apparently didn't. You may have said too much, but you can't unsay it. And leaving me to spin in the wind will not wash with me."
Bobby grins wryly, wonders why he ever expected that to wash over Hudaks's head. "Why does that not surprise me?" he says. "Okay, have it your way. We'll talk some more about it later."
Hudak narrows her eyes at him. "We will," she says, and then she sighs in a way Bobby knows is meaningful.
"What?" he fishes.
"Swenson told me what to look for. What signs to look for."
Dean cracks his eyes open as Bobby lifts his head to position the mask, even smiles the ghost of a smile. He's burning hot and his body is wracked by shivers.
Sam has coffee on the go, is wide awake now, nerves setting him twitching almost as badly as his semi-comatose brother.
"How's the coughing?" Hudak says.
"Pretty bad still, when he gets a fit of it… he's seized a couple more times." He looks past her, through the open door. "He's still really hot, I think he needs more antibiotics, can we get Swenson in here to dose him up?"
There's no way to do this easy so Hudak just spits it out. "Sam, when I went back into town after Swenson I found him dead, throat cut. Someone saw a girl get out of his car when he arrived back there and I think it might have been Missy Bender…"
He's astounded and she doesn't blame him. "But what about my brother, who's gonna…? How can that even be possible, how can she still be alive? Jesus… Bobby, I'm seriously wondering if there's more to this than we thought… Is this a Carrie deal? Could she be, I don't know, a, a ghoul, a changeling? Or a wraith, maybe?" The words spill out of him thoughtlessly, until he notices sees Hudak staring right at him.
"I m-m-mean…" he stammers."W-what I mean to say is-"
"Sam, just put your foot back in your mouth, boy," Bobby interjects dryly. "The Deputy and I have already had some words about the family business and we'll be talking more about it later. And while I guess this kid could be working some mojo we don't know about, we could just be looking at an unusually lucky stalker in puppy love with your brother."
Sam closes his eyes, scowls. "Ugh, God. Something Bender said… that she was using her magic fingers on him. She was all over Dean… and she cut me loose when Bender was about to… when he went for Dean." He stands up. "She could be out there again, anywhere. We need to lock this place up, we need to-"
"I brought my dog, Sam, she'll let us know if anything is trying to get in here," Hudak says. "We'll walk her around the place, every room, outside too."
He nods, looks a tad less rattled, crosses to Swenson's bags. "We need to give him more drugs… we held off because we expected Swenson would be back any time." He rummages through the bag, pulls out the bottle Swenson drew the antibiotics off. "Bobby?"
The old man tears open a syringe. "More fluids too, this pack's almost out," he says.
Sam looks over at Hudak, back at his brother, clears his throat. "You need to check him over. I know he told you what to look for."
She sighs wearily, because she's been hoping this wouldn't come up again. "I know. But do you think it's really necessary?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Well… the way you said he reacted when he woke up with you there in the bed, the way he exploded… you said it was like a flashback. Maybe that's confirmation enough?"
"She's got a point, Sam," Bobby offers. "Maybe we can just assume. Maybe we don't have to go… upsetting him any more than he already is. Could set him off coughin', make him seize again."
Sam's tone is cool, unemotional. "I'm willing to take that risk. I need to know what happened to my brother, Bobby. Everything that happened to him. We need to confront this if we're to have any hope of helping him find his way back from it. I don't want to be wondering about it and second-guessing everything he says or does. And he needs to know I know, he needs to know that he doesn't have to hide anything from me, or feel ashamed."
He's right, Hudak knows it, and she can see from his face that Bobby does too.
"Are you staying for it?" the old man says, bluntly. "Because I'd as soon take the dog around myself."
"I'm staying."
Hands, rolling him, pulling, tugging at fabric, tugging at his defenses.
The hands don't hurt this time, but he doesn't want them there.
"Dean, you have to calm down. Dean, calm down, we need to… we're not gonna hurt you… Dean…"
The fear smothers him and he screams, kicks, bats out, floats a desperate hand up to his chest as his heart skips in horror.
"Dean, look at me. Look at me…"
And suddenly the voice is cold, implacable, uncompromising, and utterly familiar.
"Man up, Dean. That's a fucking order."
Yessir…
And the lights start to strobe again and the haze sets in, and he feels his jaw lock, his teeth clenching together so hard it sends white-hot shards of pain reverberating through his brain, and he shakes, rattles and rolls his way into sleep-wake.
Next
I never left there, he thinks.
He can hear her puttering about, the clink of the spoon as she stirs whatever glop is the meal of the day, the rustling as she throws twigs on the fire. He shifts feebly but he doesn't have the strength to move, he's been chewed up, spat out, he hurts and his limbs don't work any more. Energy is something that happens to other people. He can't breathe in without feeling his chest creak and tighten, his body feels like a furnace, his head pounds and he holds it rigid because even the tiniest inclination left or right has his brain gyrating crazily around inside his skull.
He's fuckin' starvin'.
And he's afraid.
The fear has a point of reference, something he can focus on. And in focusing on it he knows he should be able to rationalize it, talk himself through it, take careful aim and overcome it, like he has done since his father presented him with his first sawed-off at thirteen.
But this fear can't be rationalized and overcome, because it's fear of the thing that means the most to him in this life and the sense of betrayal has him drowning in bewilderment, sorrow, shame, terror.
He knows how he can escape it.
"Sssshhhhhh… sshhhhhh…"
He can hear a voice rambling, crying out abruptly, muttering, whispering, wonders who it is for a minute.
"Sssshhhhh, Dean…"
And it's him, the voice, spouting crap and nonsense. "Please… please… n-n-n-need to… to st-st-stop thinking."
His voice rustles out proper words as dry as dead leaves, so faint and petrified that he doesn't believe it can possibly be him speaking. The effort leaves him breathless, shallow gasps all he can manage, oxygen barely squeezing past a tongue that lies thick and dry in his mouth, even though he wants desperately to suck in precious air, in and in until he's so full he levitates and Lee - Sam? - has to tie a rope around his ankle so he doesn't float off into the stratosphere.
"Dean. I'm here. It's okay…"
"Help me… pictures in my head… make 'em go away…"
His voice is broken but inside his head it streams out strong and fluent and he's begging, pleading, screaming, fuck-Lee-please-it-hurts-so-much-please-make-it-stop-anything-I'll-do-anything, and he blinks in confusion as shooting stars career wildly past him and he thinks he might be making the jump into hyperspace or stepping through the Stargate.
"Everything's okay Dean, please believe me. You're gonna be fine."
"Need… I need…"
He feels a hand touch his face, a light touch sliding through the water of tears that leak from his eyes and trail salt over his lips, fingertips gently wiping the trickle of moisture away before it can soak into his hair, tracing gentle circles on his temples and brow. He turns into the hand, tries to focus on the hypnotic sensation, the round and round, the up and down.
"Need what, Dean? What do you need?"
The pain comes in rips and tears, taunts and teases him, reaches in, pokes, twists, slashes, leaps back out of reach, attacks again from a different angle. He gags as his mouth fills up with burning acid, coughs the tiniest, barely manageable cough, and dribbles rancid slime out the side of his mouth, feels the soft sensation of damp cloth wipe the drool away.
"You know. Please. Lee… I need it… red ones…"
"Sam. It's Sam, Dean."
"Sam… Sammy…"
He remembers Sam in a slideshow of memories that play out on the fifty-three inch plasma flatscreen he keeps front and center of his mind for that very purpose, take-your-brother-outside-now-Dean the opening credits to images that bombard him, images of him and his brother, the perfect nuclear family, them against the world; images of a father and various other adults who play walk-on parts in their lives but never really break through the he-and-me invisible forcefield they have separating them from not-them. He fast-forwards through sleepless nights, spoonfeeding, tantrums, abc and 123, tears wiped away, booboos bandaged, hide-and-seek, the laughter and brightness, the small arms clinging tightly, the fierce desire to protect that innocence and the profound sadness at seeing it worn away. The sullen moods, the hurt feelings, the angry words as his brother became his father before his very eyes, man-up-Dean… how-can-you-stand-him… stop-being-such-a-fucking-tool… how-can-this-be-enough-for-you… I-have-plans… this-is-what-I-want… you-can't-stop-me…
And that day when Sam left.
He remembers feeling proud.
He remembers feeling empty.
He remembers feeling lost.
You never fuckin' asked me what I wanted. You never fuckin' asked what mattered to me.
"Sam left," he whispers.
It's quieter in there at last, Bobby thinks, Dean's insensible raving and fretting, and the endless clink as he tugs fitfully at the cuff, easing off. He checks in on them, can see Sam slumped over the bed, his head resting up against his brother's cast, his right hand tangled in Dean's hair and his left loosely cupping the fingertips peeping from the plaster. Bobby pads in, drapes a quilt over Sam, pulls the blanket up higher on Dean to guard against the evening chill.
Dean's breathing is erratic and his eyes are roving under his closed lids, dry, cracked lips moving, almost soundlessly though he can hear the barest whisper.
Bobby leans closer, listens.
"Please-come-get-me-please-come-get-me…"
He has to force back the tears that threaten, thinks how unutterably sad it is that this boy is lying in bed, warm, safe, meds trickling into him, and his entire focus, his reason for the last twenty-two years, is right there next to him, but he's still trapped in his nightmare.
Bobby reaches to the nightstand for a small pot of lipbalm Hudak left there, almost-joking that the lips needed preserving so she could kiss the kid properly when he was better. He dabs it gently on bluish skin, feeling like a fucking idjit, thinking how Dean would roll his eyes and make some snide comment about bleeding hearts, thanking Christ Sam isn't awake to see him although he knows Sam would get it.
The cuff clinks again and Bobby sees that Dean's wrist is rubbed red-raw, a livid crimson bracelet tattooed into his skin. Something else he can fix, make better. He fetches the medkit, unlocks the cuff, carefully cleans and salves the chafed area, covers it with gauze, and bandages it. He lifts the hand back into the cuff, feels the fingers suddenly tighten around his.
Dean is looking right at him, a vaguely mystified look. "Bobby…?"
Bobby smiles, rests his other hand on top of Dean's. "The one and only. How you feeling, son?"
"They got you too?" Dean whispers sadly.
"No, you're out of there now," Bobby soothes. "We got you out. You're safe."
"Safe…?"
Bobby can't fight the tears any more and they splash onto the back of his hand as it rests over Dean's.
"Safe, boy. Bender isn't gonna hurt you no more. No more. It's over."
Dean's expression falls desolate. "They hurt me."
Bobby forces words out over the lump in his throat. "We're gonna make you better, boy. We're gonna make the hurt go away, I promise. And Sam's here, look…"
Dean's eyes flicker over to the shock of dark brown hair on the bed. "Sam left," he breathes out. "Why…?" He shifts, splutters, and his eyes grow huge with pain as his lungs rebel and he coughs.
Bobby pulls Dean up into his arms, lays his boy's head on his shoulder and rubs his back as his body shakes in a paroxysm of wet hacks and chokes he desperately tries to swallow. He knows the damaged ribs must stabbing agony inside the kid, and all the time he struggles, fights against the circle of Bobby's arms, and it breaks the old man's heart.
"Lemme… go… pls… Cn… breathe…"
"Yes you can, boy," says Bobby, tries to rock him calm. "In, out, that's right. In, out."
Dean stops struggling, freezes in Bobby's arms, wound tight with anxiety but listening, trying to breathe along with him. Sam, exhausted, sleeps through the coughing, the wheezing, the spitting, and once the attack finally eases, Bobby gently lowers Dean back down.
"No… stay," Dean whispers, clinging on now and fighting Bobby's attempts to lay him flat. "Dad… don't let me go, dad. Don't go."
"I won't let go, son," Bobby murmurs, and he holds his boy and rocks him to sleep.
Hudak wakes from her doze, rubs her arms briskly against the cold, gets up and throws another log in the furnace. She looks at her wristwatch, frowns. She finds Bobby propping Dean up, the kid fast asleep on his shoulder.
"Hey." She motions him outside and he lowers Dean down as gently as if he were cut glass, follows her.
"I think Swenson should have been back by now and I'm a tad worried that he isn't," she says. "I know he took care of Dean but it's obvious from what was going on here with the Benders that he's a devious sonofabitch. I wouldn't put it past him to call the FBI."
Bobby snorts. "Well, I wouldn't trust him any further than I could throw him, that's a fact." He looks back in at Dean, reaches out and pulls the door over. "We need that oxygen, Kathleen… kid can barely draw breath once he starts coughing. I honestly thought we were gonna lose him this morning."
She considers. "I'm going to drive back into town, see if he's been held up for some reason. If he's raised the alert, I'll do my best to get back here ahead of the authorities… but if the Feds are onto us, there's no way we can move Dean."
Bobb huffs. "We'll drive off that bridge when we get to it."
Hudak is steering her Jeep up onto Swenson's driveway beside his sedan forty-five minutes later. The trunk of his car is open and she glances in as she walks by, sees a couple of oxygen tanks in there, thinks she's misjudged him this time, although he's still a devious sonofabitch.
She knocks at the door, doesn't get a reply, turns the knob and finds it unlocked. She briefly thinks, careless, given his office is well equipped with pricey machinery and a drugs cabinet any number of Hibbing's toxic teens would love to get their cloven hooves into.
When she pushes open his office door and sees him slumped over his desk she thinks, heck of a time to be catching up, says so as well. "Swenson, for crying out loud. We need the fucking oxygen and you're here taking a nap. Jesus."
He doesn't stir. She comes up behind him, tugs at his shoulder and his arm slips off the desk with a depressingly heavy finality. She pulls him up and back and gags, because under his chin Swenson has sprouted a whole new mouth that grins redly at her, and his shirt front is painted in sticky scarlet.
She stumbles back, spins around with her service revolver drawn, fumbles for the phone, stops herself.
She heads back outside, eyes darting in every direction, gun at the ready. It's quiet, quiet enough. She makes her way over to Swenson's car, lifts the oxygen tanks out of the trunk, closes it, stows them in the Jeep.
Then she makes the call.
It's dark and Bobby is pacing up and down outside the Bender place when Hudak pulls up and climbs out.
"Jesus!" he barks. "Ever heard of the phone? We've been packin' up here, fixin to head out once I got another truck started. What the fuck took you so long?"
He sees her face, pale, tense, and he softens his tone. "I'm sorry Kathleen… I'm just worried about the kid, he don't seem to be doing as well as we hoped with the antibiotics, and when you didn't come back I thought…" He peers behind the Jeep up the trail. "Where's Swenson?"
"He won't be coming," she says, opening the tailgate of her Jeep to let her dog out.
The hound is delighted to be loose, delighted to meet Bobby, and it slobbers all over him as he whacks its ribs hard with the flat of his hand. "I always loved a dog you can really slap," he muses. "I keep rottweilers myself, good guard dogs, make enough noise to warn you shit's comin' before it hits the fan. Can't stand those ratty terriers. Not coming back then? Figures."
He reaches beyond her into the Jeep, hauls out one of the tanks.
"He's dead. Swenson. Back at his surgery. His throat was cut. It was pretty messy… I couldn't just walk out of there."
Bobby gapes, puts down the oxygen tank and parks his rear on the car. He eyes the dog. "Why'd you bring the dog, Kathleen?" he says suddenly.
"Good guard dog," she says softly. "Makes enough noise to warn you shit's coming before it hits the fan."
Bobby pushes up, looks around them, back towards the house. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
She nods. "Swenson's neighbor saw a kid get out of the car and go into the house with him. Said it looked like a teenage girl."
Christ, it's never-ending, Bobby thinks as he hefts the oxygen tank up again. "Inside, now. I'm not taking any chances on this."
Hudak hails the dog and follows Bobby into the house, pausing to lock the door behind her as he sets the tank down on the kitchen table, rubs his brow, and he can't help thinking about what has brought them here, about John Winchester, so desperate that he raised his eldest to think he was the one member of the family who didn't mean shit.
"I'm beginning to think somebody up there just doesn't like this kid," grates out of him before he can stop it. "I mean, what are the odds? Of this happening, of it being this boy, who's so screwed in the head he fell for whatever lies they were peddling, and fooled into this, this nightmare because he's so desperate for some fuckin' kindness-"
"Bobby."
He pulls up, only realizes his voice must be carrying through into the hallway when Hudak walks over to close the door, and her expression when she turns back looks part-fascinated, part-embarrassed by the tirade he's pouring out in front of someone he barely knows.
"How bad is he?" she broaches carefully. "Honestly?"
Bobby holds out his hands and she can see a definite tremor. "That's how bad. I can't stop them. Last time my hands shook like this was twenty-five years ago, Kathleen, and that was comin' down from six months at cruising altitude after my wife and son were killed." He folds his arms, very deliberately. "He's all over the fuckin' place, flashing back, disoriented. Thinks either Sam or me's Lee Bender one minute, his dad the next. Can't catch his breath, Christ the ribs must be killing him when he coughs. Sicked up the two spoons of soup Sam forced down him ten minutes later, I swear he looks skinnier every time I go in there. Fuckin' John Winchester…"
He breathes heavy, holds his hands fisted now at his sides, as it bubbles up out of him. "This kid, he doesn't deserve this. Their dad, he just… You know, I know he loves them, he does. But somehow that falls by the wayside and they're just… cannon fodder, footsoldiers in his personal fuckin' army, dragged on his personal fuckin' crusade. And Sam, he had the guts to get out - and it took guts, believe me. But how John could do it, how he could do it to Dean… I just don't think I'll ever get it."
Hudak pulls out a chair, sits at the table. "Could Dean not have done what Sam did?" she says, puzzled. "If he was unhappy? Maybe gone with Sam?"
Bobby shakes his head. "Sam never asked him, far as I know. Dean'd spill his guts every now and then when he'd been on the Wild Turkey. Said Sam never wanted him with him, said Sam was ashamed of him, didn't think he'd measure up to his college buddies."
Raising an eyebrow, Hudak notes, "That doesn't sound like Sam… he seems pretty devoted to me."
Bobby nods. "Now. But a lot had gone on with Sam and John… locking horns all the damn time, Dean stuck in the middle and having to break up fights every day far as I could tell. Sam wasn't running from Dean, he was running from John… Dean was collateral damage. But John can do no wrong in Dean's eyes, so the kid just ended up blaming himself."
"But Dean's a grown man… couldn't he have left himself?"
"He just couldn't seem to find the exit. Couldn't walk away from his dad even though his dad destroyed him, destroyed his chances and his hope, and turned him into something he wasn't ever meant to be, some kind of killing machine. The fuckin' Terminator. And then John walked away from him."
He reaches for the oxygen, pauses. "It's just fuckin' ironic," he continues, quieter now. "I told you, didn't I, about how Dean always needed. So it's just fuckin' ironic that all these pieces slot together… Bender catching sight of him, whack on the head, drugs up the wazoo… and he falls for it, this whole family line they feed him, as sick and twisted as it is, because he's hurt and confused and because it's all he ever really wanted, to be part of a family. And all of these coincidences collide to bring us here to this point, like it's the perfect fuckin' storm or something. And it still isn't over."
He stares at the closed door for a minute. "What the fuck do we have to do for this to be over?" he murmurs as he reins himself back down to something approaching calm. He lifts the oxygen tank. "Let's get this to the boy."
Hudak gets up to follow him. "Bobby… what you said," she starts.
Bobby is already regretting it. "I said a lot just there, Kathleen, things I shouldn't have said."
"I'm sorry, Bobby, but you can't lay all that on me… cannon fodder, and footsoldiers, and personal armies, and crusades, and killing machines… and just leave it there."
He stops with his hand on the doorknob, very pointedly doesn't answer.
"You said Dean wasn't guilty of any crime as I knew it, but he was one of the FBI's most wanted," Hudak presses. "Until he died. Or apparently didn't. You may have said too much, but you can't unsay it. And leaving me to spin in the wind will not wash with me."
Bobby grins wryly, wonders why he ever expected that to wash over Hudaks's head. "Why does that not surprise me?" he says. "Okay, have it your way. We'll talk some more about it later."
Hudak narrows her eyes at him. "We will," she says, and then she sighs in a way Bobby knows is meaningful.
"What?" he fishes.
"Swenson told me what to look for. What signs to look for."
Dean cracks his eyes open as Bobby lifts his head to position the mask, even smiles the ghost of a smile. He's burning hot and his body is wracked by shivers.
Sam has coffee on the go, is wide awake now, nerves setting him twitching almost as badly as his semi-comatose brother.
"How's the coughing?" Hudak says.
"Pretty bad still, when he gets a fit of it… he's seized a couple more times." He looks past her, through the open door. "He's still really hot, I think he needs more antibiotics, can we get Swenson in here to dose him up?"
There's no way to do this easy so Hudak just spits it out. "Sam, when I went back into town after Swenson I found him dead, throat cut. Someone saw a girl get out of his car when he arrived back there and I think it might have been Missy Bender…"
He's astounded and she doesn't blame him. "But what about my brother, who's gonna…? How can that even be possible, how can she still be alive? Jesus… Bobby, I'm seriously wondering if there's more to this than we thought… Is this a Carrie deal? Could she be, I don't know, a, a ghoul, a changeling? Or a wraith, maybe?" The words spill out of him thoughtlessly, until he notices sees Hudak staring right at him.
"I m-m-mean…" he stammers."W-what I mean to say is-"
"Sam, just put your foot back in your mouth, boy," Bobby interjects dryly. "The Deputy and I have already had some words about the family business and we'll be talking more about it later. And while I guess this kid could be working some mojo we don't know about, we could just be looking at an unusually lucky stalker in puppy love with your brother."
Sam closes his eyes, scowls. "Ugh, God. Something Bender said… that she was using her magic fingers on him. She was all over Dean… and she cut me loose when Bender was about to… when he went for Dean." He stands up. "She could be out there again, anywhere. We need to lock this place up, we need to-"
"I brought my dog, Sam, she'll let us know if anything is trying to get in here," Hudak says. "We'll walk her around the place, every room, outside too."
He nods, looks a tad less rattled, crosses to Swenson's bags. "We need to give him more drugs… we held off because we expected Swenson would be back any time." He rummages through the bag, pulls out the bottle Swenson drew the antibiotics off. "Bobby?"
The old man tears open a syringe. "More fluids too, this pack's almost out," he says.
Sam looks over at Hudak, back at his brother, clears his throat. "You need to check him over. I know he told you what to look for."
She sighs wearily, because she's been hoping this wouldn't come up again. "I know. But do you think it's really necessary?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Well… the way you said he reacted when he woke up with you there in the bed, the way he exploded… you said it was like a flashback. Maybe that's confirmation enough?"
"She's got a point, Sam," Bobby offers. "Maybe we can just assume. Maybe we don't have to go… upsetting him any more than he already is. Could set him off coughin', make him seize again."
Sam's tone is cool, unemotional. "I'm willing to take that risk. I need to know what happened to my brother, Bobby. Everything that happened to him. We need to confront this if we're to have any hope of helping him find his way back from it. I don't want to be wondering about it and second-guessing everything he says or does. And he needs to know I know, he needs to know that he doesn't have to hide anything from me, or feel ashamed."
He's right, Hudak knows it, and she can see from his face that Bobby does too.
"Are you staying for it?" the old man says, bluntly. "Because I'd as soon take the dog around myself."
"I'm staying."
Hands, rolling him, pulling, tugging at fabric, tugging at his defenses.
The hands don't hurt this time, but he doesn't want them there.
"Dean, you have to calm down. Dean, calm down, we need to… we're not gonna hurt you… Dean…"
The fear smothers him and he screams, kicks, bats out, floats a desperate hand up to his chest as his heart skips in horror.
"Dean, look at me. Look at me…"
And suddenly the voice is cold, implacable, uncompromising, and utterly familiar.
"Man up, Dean. That's a fucking order."
Yessir…
And the lights start to strobe again and the haze sets in, and he feels his jaw lock, his teeth clenching together so hard it sends white-hot shards of pain reverberating through his brain, and he shakes, rattles and rolls his way into sleep-wake.
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