Storm Surge (R)
banner by Noelani618
Prologue/Chapter 1
Grover’s Point,
Melinda Jefferson knew what was happening from the very start. Head mistress of the Grover’s Point Orphanage, home of children left without families or parents in the Great War between the States. Really, another name for children, bastard children, the product of slaves and soldiers left to die or fend for themselves. Some white, some black, some a mixture, all were left here.
The good folks of Grover’s Point detested what was commonly known as the home for society’s rejects, children that should have been left to die before the end of their first day. There were rumors of the place, the odd goings on, strange noises in the night, crazy children talking to themselves, seeing things not there. They were kept well away from town, near the beach, sheltered from too much scrutiny. Out of sight, out of mind.
Melinda Jefferson knew. She knew what their so-called benefactor Hiram Thomas did, night after night, sometimes in the middle of the day. His black heart and blacker soul putrefied these children, claiming to purify their sullied lives. These children, Melinda knew, were guilty of nothing other than being born. That didn’t stop Hiram Thomas from doing what he did, abusing their bodies, their minds; pimping them out to the good people of Grover’s Point; sick lot all of them.
Hiram claimed he did what he did out of love. He preached over and over how much he loved these children; how it was the only way they’d make it in this world of bigotry and violence, poverty. This post war bit of land on the
It wasn’t until one little boy, one very special little boy came along that Melinda found hope, an escape. Ezra had no last name. He was sweet and kind, an affectionate boy with a tousled mop of curly dark hair, pale brown eyes and a smile that melted her heart. This boy Hiram wouldn’t touch, not because Melinda wished he not be sullied, but Hiram feared him for some reason Melinda never understood. It never mattered. Ezra never saw the black nightmares, the thing going from child to child, to Hiram. He formed a bond right from the first day he arrived with Melinda, she with him.
Hiram tried, but Ezra repelled him at every turn. Some in town claimed Ezra a witch of sorts; it was the only explanation. Melinda taught Ezra to read, write, do his figures. He was a bright boy, a fast learner. A bright and shining beacon in her world of darkness and despair.
It came for them both on the same night; came but no one ever knew what happened with any accuracy. The same night it came, more powerful than ever before, so did a violent storm. Wind and waves and rain assaulted the ocean, drove it to the beach. When it was over the dead numbered in the hundreds, the town, and the orphanage, so many drowned, torn away on wind and waves.
Though the orphanage still stands, since the night a hurricane killed the occupants, it has never been used since. The original building was never torn down, it remains to this day. The orphanage was rebuilt farther inland, to a farm, where today it is home for abused, unwanted, orphaned children. It is one of the oldest orphanages in the
Melinda and Ezra were never found…some say teacher and student still wander the grounds of the orphanage. Some say they still watch for the blackness of nightmares, expelling from its victims, even at the risk of those washed over, drowning in blackness as the orphans did the ocean’s waves so many decades ago.
Sam caught a glimpse of Dean’s eye roll before he switched off the flashlight, rolled his head around to ease his stiff neck and rubbed at his forehead. He’d hoped the last thing Dean hadn’t noticed before Sam turned off the light, flooding the inside of the Impala in darkness.
“You ok? Vision?”
Guess Dean noticed. “Naaa, too much reading by flashlight in a cramped car, driving into the biggest weather front known to man type headache.” Sam tried for a smile, knew it was weak. “This,” Sam waved at the folder in his lap, “Was written a few years ago for some local paper.”
“Why do they all have to be so over dramatic?” Dean laughed a bit, shaking his head. Even though Sam was watching out the front window, he felt Dean’s movements. His brother’s hand left the steering wheel, reached out, patted his collarbone and rested there for a few seconds before going back to the steering wheel. “You sure you’re all right? We can find a place to stop for the night?”
“I’m fine. Let’s get there, get this done.” He hadn’t meant to snap. A sideways glance at Dean made him feel worse. The quick flash of hurt across Dean’s face was covered almost instantaneously. Almost. He pulled in a breath, let it out slowly.
“Sammy, I know this thing…” Dean licked his lips, obviously not knowing what to say, if anything. “It’s not going to…”
Sam decided to put him out of his misery and cut him off, making sure his voice was softer this time. “Can we stop for a few, take a break and stretch?”
“Sure.” Dean’s voice dropped an octave, but his hands gripped the wheel tighter, he stared straight ahead, no sidelong glances at Sam. Instead Dean’s eyes scanned the roadside for a place to pull over. They traveled the back roads; there were no nice rest stops on these like there were on the main highways. But the main highways were only open heading north to allow evacuation of the areas likely to be hit by Hurricane Willa. Sam figured he and Dean were probably the only two people stupid enough to be driving into the storm.
When the throbbing in his head stopped, or at least slowed down he’d apologize. Until then he took solace in the fact he knew his brother understood, and never held it against him…much. He was seriously nauseous by the time Dean pulled the car off onto the shoulder where it widened for a few yards. The cool night air blew across his face, refreshed him enough to shove the bile down his throat. Gratefully he twisted his torso side to side, stretched his arms high above his head before swinging them in a circle at his sides.
“Aargh…good idea Sammy.” Dean did a few deep knee bends, shook his hands at his sides, stretched his back until it popped and cracked, making Sam smile. “How you feeling?”
Sam shrugged. “I’ll live.” He didn’t miss the sidelong glance Dean gave him, chose to ignore it. He’d long ago come to terms with Dean and his never-ending need to watch over Sam. It made Dean happy, it didn’t hurt anything and, even though he’d never admit it to Dean, Sam liked it. It was who and what Dean was, Sam never wanted his brother to change, Sam thought his big brother was perfect the way he was. Not that he’d ever tell Dean that either.
“You know what I could go for about now?” Dean yawned.
Sam leaned against the car beside his brother, looked over expectantly.
Dean nudged his arm, grinned, “A pepperoni and mushroom calzone from Carlito’s. Damn, those were beyond awesome. Up there with sex. I can still taste them.”
Even Sam’s curdled stomach growled at the thought. “They have those here?” This brightened his night. “I thought it was just a one person place, there was one in
“Lots of it and cheap.” Dean nodded. “The only one I know of was in
“How’d you know about…” Sam’s voice trailed off when he realized they were talking about the same tiny Italian restaurant.
Scuffing the roadside gravel with his toe, Dean sighed, stared out at the countryside, then up to the sky, clear between the wisps of clouds. “I lived not too far from it. Had an apartment there, on the other side of town from the campus, could walk to Carlito’s.”
“You had a…” this stunned Sam. “I used to think I’d see the Impala once and a while, but I never thought…you lived there? For how long?”
“Moved in about three months after you got there.” He finally looked at Sam, rolling his shoulders, “Did you think I’d not be around if you needed me? I went on jobs, but was there at least half of every month, most times more. It was a nice place. I liked it there.” Crowding against Sam until he moved away from the driver’s door, Dean opened it, leaned on it for a minute before saying, “I thought you might like to know that.” He slid out of sight into the car.
Sam stood at the front of the car, staring into it until Dean hit the horn, making him start. “Hey, Sam, you gonna ride in the car or on it? Or you just gonna stay here?”
Bumping the fender on his way around the car, Sam couldn’t help stumbling; the ground was terribly unsteady all of a sudden. Opening the passenger door, he slipped into the car, closed the door softly behind him. Dean barely gave him a glance as he started the car.
“Headache worse?”
Shaking his head, capable of nothing more than staring out the front window between a few stolen looks at his brother he finally got a, “I’m okay,” around the mushy part of his throat and out of his mouth. “Thanks.”
The slight nod Dean offered was all Sam needed. His brother knew the gratitude wasn’t solely for asking about his headache.
Chapter 2
Dean gripped the steering wheel hard enough his arms cramped, pain crept to his shoulders and neck. A gust of wind hit the Impala, making it swerve. It was sheer reflex that had him righting the car so quickly. He barely stole a glance at his younger brother, sliding sideways, arm out to brace against the dash. Dean’s second sheer reflex was to stretch one arm across Sam’s chest, holding him in place, or trying to.
He expected an annoyed face from Sam; instead he was given a shaky smile as Sam righted himself. “Gale warnings are out, heard them on the radio a while back.”
“Thank you Sammy.” Wind buffeted the car again, making Dean grabbed at the wheel with both hands again. Leaning closer to the windshield, Dean peered into the rain. It was somewhere between day and night, that gray twilight, and having it raining was making it more difficult to see. “We’re going to find somewhere to stay.”
“This isn’t going to clear up, not until after the hurricane passes.”
“Yeah, well I’m not driving in it in the dark.”
“I can—“
“And neither are you.”
“Dean…” Sam huffed something Dean was sure he didn’t want to know the translation of.
“What is with you, all of a sudden, since we left
Sam grumbled, flipped himself around to face forward, and slammed back against the seat. Rolling his eyes, but keeping quiet, Dean chuckled inwardly. Sam was so thirteen some days. He knew there was an underlying cause to Sam’s recent change; it was beginning to wear on them both. It needed to be addressed, and Dean sensed the time was fast approaching. He could only hope it didn’t turn into an all out confrontation between his brother and him.
“I want to get this done, over and done. Okay?” Sam bit out, speaking mostly to the passenger side window.
Pulling in a deep breath, more to steady his hands than anything, Dean reached out to Sam’s shoulder. He was surprised when Sam shrugged him off, snarling an annoyed noise from deep in his chest.
“Sam.” Dean withdrew his hand, glanced at his brother for as long as he dared in the torrential rains.
“You’re just…” Sam drew in some deep breaths, eyes shifting to stare at the dash, “You’re getting just like him, just like Dad. You’re turning into him.”
The sheer intensity, disgust, hate in Sam’s voice shocked Dean speechless. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Where the hell did the kid come up with this stuff? Most days Dean only wished he knew, he really had no clue. Sam saw things; fine nuances in people, things no one else thought were seeable. It was a powerful research tool. Emotionally, it was this tendency forever threatening to tear Sam apart from the inside out. His feelings, logic sometimes warped into some hideous twelve-headed monster. Mostly Dean wanted to cut all those heads off and stick them in a meat grinder.
“You’re getting obsessed and act like you have blinders on to everything but IT.” Sam snapped out, breathing harsh, words tumbling over themselves, crunching together.
“It’s going after kids Sammy. Yeah, I want to stop it. Or at least stop this one, this time.”
“It was…it…” Sam’s fingers picked viciously at the window frame. “That thing is after you, wanted to hurt you, and it’s going to use me to find you.” He blurted out.
“Then we’ll deal with it Sam.” Glancing at his young brother Dean again moved his hand to Sam’s shoulder, this time he wasn’t pushed away. An insistent squeeze and Sam turned to look at him. “We will.” Dean said earnestly. “I’m asking you again, Sam—that thing show up in the car when we left Battersfield? Since then, have you seen it? Don’t bullshit me either.”
“I don’t know. I’ve felt it, I told you I did. I woke up and everything was so black, no light, just dark, empty dark.” Sam fell silent for a few minutes. “I’m just… it scares me, you getting obsessed with it, like Dad was with the yellow-eyed demon.”
“I won’t.” Dean said softly.
“How do you know?”
Cracking a grin, “Cause you, my little brother, will harp on me until I stop.”
That lightened Sam’s mood somewhat. “Yeah, I will.”
“I won’t ever let it take you Sam, I won’t. I promise.” Dean took a quick look at the traffic behind him. “In the meantime we’re still stopping for the night. I’m tired and my ass hurts from sitting so much.”
Smiling, Sam turned his head just far enough to peer at Dean from under his bangs. “I’ll hold you to that you know.”
“I was sort of counting on it.” Again the car rocked and skimmed toward the shoulder. “This is nuts, keep an eye out for somewhere, anywhere to pull off.”
“We’ve got another three or four hours at least to Grover’s Point.”
“Sam!” Dean growled out. “Enough. You’re the one obsessed, not me. We’re stopping for the night, end of story. Once more and I’m kicking your ass out and you can walk in this crap.”
Blanching, Sam turned away, glared out the side window. Dean immediately regretted his words. His leaving for a few days in
It wasn’t too much of a stretch for Dean to put this all together in his own head. He had plenty experience with people leaving him, knew exactly what it felt like, and how the thought of it happening again felt. It still gnawed little holes in his brain some days, wondering if Sam would take off, just leave. Those times were fewer and much farther between, simply because Dean no longer feared losing his brother that way. Some other way maybe, but not because Sam might just throw his hands up and strike out on his own, forgetting his brother altogether.
For the first time in their lives, Sam must have felt he’d lost the security Dean always provided, even if it was just for a few days. Dean knew it wasn’t lost, and for once he knew exactly how to remedy the problem. However, there was no quick fix for this one, Sam would simply have to learn for himself Dean was no different, he’d be there, just as he always had.
“There.” Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts.
Dean looked to the right, where Sam’s arm extended, pointing out the front window. A turn off with a small group of buildings huddled near it, on a hill no less. Shrugging, Dean figured it was as good a place as any. Guiding the big car off the road, between the wind and rain it still managed to slide and shimmy. Sam’s hand shot out, gripping the dash when they fishtailed for a few yards. Narrowly missing the guardrail and the who knew how far drop beyond it, the Impala would plow through those flimsy tin rails like they were paper.
The second he had the car under control, slowed to a crawl, Dean again gripped his brother’s shirt, pushing Sam back against the seat, only mildly surprised he didn’t get some sarcastic remark from Sam about him not being a child. Those had eased off considerably since
“Maybe we should stop for the night.” Sam muttered mostly to his knees.
Rolling his eyes because he could, not because Sam would see them in the dark, Dean finally brought their car to a stop in front of one of the closer buildings off the ramp. Several semis dotted the area, both in front of this building and a few of the others. It was a truck stop type of place, diner and bar rolled into one. Though the building next to it didn’t specifically advertise as such, it was probably some sort of motel. Since truckers mostly slept in their rigs there was little need for rooms for them. For the rest of the traveling population however there was a need. Dean found often times smaller motels sat alongside the traditional truck stops. Pulling around to find a spot closer to the office, he finally saw the tell tale ‘VACANCY’ sign flashing alongside some cute motel name. It faced the local road, not the highway.
“I’ll get us a room. Hungry? We can head over there,” Dean pointed the diner/bar, “Grab some food.”
“Sure.” Sam made busy packing up his files, grabbing his jacket from the back seat.
Dean knew the entire time he was in the office, even though Sam appeared occupied, he was really watching every move Dean made. Oh well, Dean supposed, turn about was fair play. If it made the kid feel better he didn’t really mind or care.
“Ya’ll heading the wrong way sonny.” The man, maybe in his sixties, behind the counter cheerfully pointed out to Dean. No shit dude.
Plastering a charming smile on his face, Dean nodded, affirming the man’s wisdom. “Yeah, tell me about it. But my brother and I have to get south; business.” He added a shrug for effect.
The man seemed to feel sorry for him. “We’re pretty full, sorry, but you’re around back; no parking spaces close.”
“That’s ok, warm room and a hot shower is what we want. How’s the food over there?” Dean’s thumb jerked back toward the diner/bar.
“It’s good, cheap and filling.”
“My favorite kind.” Dean smiled a farewell to the man, signed the card slip and took the offered key cards. He was back in the car, dripping wet, in a few minutes. “Thanks.” He gratefully took the small towel Sam offered, rubbing his hair dry. “What’s first, dump our stuff or eat?”
“Eat.”
“Good choice.” If they were eating, Sam’s mouth would be full and he couldn’t rehash again how they needed to get to Grover’s Point and how Dean was getting obsessed; which he was not.
The short run from the car to the diner door had them both drenched. Dean’s leather jacket provided a bit more protection from the wet, but Sam’s denim one didn’t, he was shivering slightly when they found a booth. Sam nearly dove into the offered cup of coffee, making the waitress’s mouth twitch up. Leaning back, arm slung over the booth back, Dean took a casual look around the place.
The diner part was in the front, a bar, tables, wide screen TV and video games near the back. He tapped the back of Sam’s hand, pointing out the free Wi-Fi sign, which brought an immediate grin to his kid brother’s face, though the laptop was left in its bag, resting between Sam’s feet. Their waitress seemed to be the only one; a tired, overworked looking woman in her thirties he guessed. There were also more people in here than there were trucks outside to account for them. Dean wondered why so many people would be out on a night like this.
Sloughing off the general feeling of unease creeping up his spine, Dean sipped his coffee, eyes falling on everyone in the place for a few seconds. Not all of them were truckers, in fact few were. Thrill seekers in the guise of storm chasers, a few were obviously locals, then there was the group closer to the back, in the bar area. Hunters, they were hunters, and not the kind after deer; these guys had silver tipped knives, rosaries and Dean was willing to bet those flasks with crosses etched on the outside held holy water.
They ordered their food, Dean made sure to make the waitress blush because he could, and more importantly because it seemed to make the woman brighten, all the while keeping an eye on the group in the back. Sam, still rifling through his files, didn’t seem to notice. Then again, why should he, Dean reasoned. Sam lived his life knowing Dean noticed these things, which again brought Dean back to the termination of Sam’s complaining he was too over protective. Tapping the side of Sam’s foot with his toe, Dean nodded casually to the group in the back.
Sam stretched, fingers intertwining over his head, twisted himself side to side, far enough to look where Dean indicated. “Think they made us?” Sam’s voice dropped to something just over a whisper.
Dean shook his head. “Don’t know. Maybe they’re here for something else, the same as us? Hell, Sammy, these guys all seem to know who we are and we don’t know who any of them are.”
“Yeah, well if Dad hadn’t been so—” Sam bit his words off, stuffing food into his mouth instead. The kid was definitely shaky on bringing up their father in any context.
“Not much we can do about it now.” Dean pretended not to notice, and smiled kindly when the tension dropped from his brother’s shoulders and face. Arguing constantly over what their dead parent did or did not do, did or did not feel was useless, pointless and hurtful. He’d said as much to Sam, now he reasoned he’d have to show it to the kid too, prove he meant it and everything else he’d said in
Pointing at Sam’s plate, “Finish up, let’s go get some rest, huh?”
“I am finished Dean, you’re the one who has cold food on your plate.” Sam grinned, then ordered and ate dessert, getting two more orders to take back to their room.
Once they’d piled everything into their room, Dean headed for the shower. Hot water assaulted him, relaxing him and warming him. By the time he was done, and flopped onto his bed, he was drowsy and comfortable, vaguely aware of Sam talking about something, his voice softening then getting louder as he moved about the room. The sound of water running in the shower heralded the closing of Dean’s eyes.
Black. Nothing but black, black, black. No light reflected off the black. Just black. And Sam. Black oozed around Sam, slithered through his hair, not leaving an oily, dirty trail, just slithered through. Around his neck, cascading to the floor to pool at Sam’s feet. The black rose in steady waves, covered his brother’s legs up his torso. Reaching out, reaching to Dean, Sam shouted, begged for help. The black reached Sam’s chest, Dean could see it was making his breathing difficult.
Run! Dean ran, ran fast, not fast enough to stop it. Not fast enough to reach Sam before it covered his head.
The black flowed higher, Sam couldn’t breathe through it…higher still, until nothing but wide, frightened eyes was all Dean saw, that and Sam’s hair spreading out on the wave of black. Sam flailed in the black, making it quiver but not shimmer, nothing reflected it. Struggling against a force Dean couldn’t see, Sam was pulled under, engulfed with black. His scream of “Dean!” cut off and garbled.
Then there was nothing but the black…
“Dean. Hey, Dean?”
Awake, sitting up and swinging all at once, Dean fought against a weight on his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
“DEAN.” Sam shouted and ducked, pushing his hand flat against Dean’s chest. “You ok?”
Dean blinked, coughed, struggled up and back to lean against the wall behind the bed. Grabbing Sam’s arm with enough power a barely audible, “oww” escaped Sam’s mouth, though he didn’t move.
“You were dreaming.”
Staring up at Sam, he shook his head a few times, eyes traveling to his arms when small drops of water fell from Sam, still mostly wet from his shower, half his face covered with shaving cream. Dean blinked at him some more, the white against Sam’s skin confusing him. “W-why you half white and fluffy?”
“Why am I…?” Sam blew out a breath, leaned back, curled one leg under himself and settled more comfortably on the edge of the bed. Holding up his other hand, razor gripped in white knuckles, “Dude, I nearly slit my own throat shaving you scared me so bad. You screamed like your legs were being chewed off.”
“Soo-ssorry.”
“It’s ok.” Sam smiled patiently. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” Dean managed to clear his throat, get his voice working. Letting go of Sam’s wrist he patted his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry.”
“I know you didn’t mean it.”
His free hand fluttering in the direction of the bathroom, “Go finish shaving, you look ridiculous.”
Sam nodded, giving Dean’s chest a slight bump as he stood. “What was it, you remember?” His voice floated out of the bathroom, Dean could see the lighting change with Sam’s movements.
“Just um…no…not…” He swung off the bed, going for the small fridge just outside the bathroom door, more so to be in closer proximity to his brother, know he was fine, than to get the can of Coke he knew was in there. He leaned against the door jamb, staring out at the room, cracking open the pop with a fizz and small spray of the sticky liquid.
“Uh huh…sure.” Sam leaned around the door, now mostly shaved and grinned. “Like I don’t remember mine?”
“Exactly like that.” Dean took a swig from his drink, offered Sam some when he rounded the door, this time free of shaving cream.
“Thanks.” Sam took a drink, handed it back, stood between Dean and the main part of the room, blinking placidly. When Dean didn’t say anything for a few minutes Sam rocked back and forth on his heels, sighed heavily.
Wiping one hand over his face, Dean met his brother’s eyes, shrugged a bit. “I don’t know Sam, just dark; maybe something like water rising up, but not water like I’ve ever seen. It was just...” He groped for a word, and only found one, “Black. It just kept coming up, covering you; me too, I think.”
Sam shivered. “It was, that was it, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Which was the truth.
Crossing the room, Sam pulled one of the files out, settled on the edge of Dean’s bed again. Trailing behind him, Dean plunked down on the other side, took the pages his brother offered. “This place, this old orphanage seems to be the center point. I don’t know for sure if it’s the land, the building or something attached to one of them.”
Nodding, Dean leaned back, switched on the TV, “Okay, so we start there.”
Sam bit his lip, stared at the floor, but didn’t argue. The lights flickered, dying completely in the next second. They both sat there, holding a breath for a second before both heads turned to the window. The power was out. It was just as well, the only station they could get here was The Weather Channel, and Dean sure didn’t need that to know what sort of mess he was driving himself and his brother straight into. After another minute Sam groaned and laughed short and nervous.
“We’re salted and warded.” Dean reminded him, felt the bed move slightly as Sam nodded, then moved away to his own bed.
By the time Sam’s breathing evened out, Dean’s eyes adjusted to the near total blackness of their room. But it was normal, dead of night black, nothing more. Sam had stretched on his side, facing his brother. Dean sat there quietly, not really tired anymore, and not really anxious to go back to sleep just yet, watching Sam’s chest rise and fall, watching the small movements under his eyelids, of his face as he slept. Dean sat there watching his brother, not knowing how long it was exactly before he too dropped off to sleep.
Chapter 3
Sam paced from the window to the bathroom door, stood listening to Dean’s singing for a minute, then wandered back to the window. Standing to one side he watched the men they’d seen the night before loading up trucks parked near the corner of the building. He’d made Dean promise not to go out alone, to wait for him. Now Sam was stuck doing the same thing. He was hungry and wanted coffee.
Mostly he wanted coffee.
Crossing to the diner, while not a long walk, would put him in direct sight of the other hunters. They had no idea why these men were here, but Sam no longer had a bit of trust for any hunter not Bobby, Dante or his brother. For that matter he had not a bit of trust left for anyone, hunter or not.
It would be foolish, endangering not just himself, but Dean. Putting himself on the line didn’t bother Sam. Putting Dean there was unthinkable. If the other hunters even knew they were here, who they were…Sam suspected they did indeed, he’d seen a few of them pacing around the Impala, giving it curious stares. Could be simply someone interested in classic cars, but Sam doubted it.
Settling at the small table, giving the defunct coffee maker in their room a silent snarl, Sam flipped open the book Concha had given him. Head braced against palm, Sam read some more. Try as he did, the anger welling up from somewhere in his belly to fill his chest couldn’t be stopped. Yet another thing about him kept from him, from both of them.
Biting his lip, Sam’s other hand balled to a fist against his leg. His chest and throat were heavy and tight. Drawing in deep breaths, get a grip, it was a long time ago, doesn’t matter now. Somehow his heart wouldn’t agree with his head.
“You about ready?” Dean’s voice made him start; straightening too fast the chair bumped across the carpeting. Dean’s hand dropping on his shoulder made him jump a bit. “Whatcha reading?”
Having no choice, Sam leaned back in the chair so Dean could see the book. He caught Dean’s profile; the sudden smile that made his eyes crinkle. The tightness in Sam’s chest doubled, the heated angry worm in his middle chewed at his insides.
Holding his amulet up and out to face him, Dean laughed. “Hey look at that buddy. You’re in one of those musty old books.” He was talking to the amulet.
“He knew.” Sam pushed the words out, thinking them hurt, saying them were agony.
“Who knew what?” Dean turned the book a bit, reading over Sam’s shoulder, at the same time turning his amulet to compare it from different angles to the sketches in the book.
Shut your mouth Sam. “Nothing.”
“Sam.” Dean growled a warning. It wasn’t one of the endearing growls Sam liked so much.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I…just…forget it, okay, I never should have said anything.”
Dean straightened, looking down at Sam. “You don’t want to talk about it? Sam, you make a career out of wanting to talk about it. You always make me talk about it, so dude, you are too.”
“Your amulet.”
“What about it? You pissed at him now too?”
Not Dean’s fault. “He knew.” Sam barely managed to keep from shouting the words at Dean.
“My amulet knew what?” Dean looked so genuinely confused Sam wasn’t sure if he was being played or if Dean really wasn’t getting it.
“You’re amulet is not a HE.”
“Then who are we talking about?” Dean shouted, arms thrown out to his sides, confusion replaced by frustration on his face.
Sam stood and backed away a few steps so quickly the chair turned over, he tangled in it and barely avoided landing on his ass. “Dad!” He shouted back, grabbing the offending chair and heaving it to the side, bouncing it off one of the beds.
Dean’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. His head dipped forward, eyebrows scrunched together. One side of his upper lip pulled up in a you’re not making sense gesture. Blowing out a soft breath, Dean’s right hand rose to his waist, dropped with a thud against his thigh. His left hand slammed the book shut and scooped it off the table.
For a few seconds Sam thought Dean was going to smack him across the face with the heavy book. Instead he tossed the book onto Sam’s duffel. “Sam, you gave me this amulet. You. Not Dad. You.”
“But he knew what it was. Told you not to ever take it off, because he knew.”
“Sam! He told me that because I was twelve and lost shit all the time. And for the record you stupid moron, I never took it off BECAUSE YOU gave it to me! Not because of anything Dad said. I don’t give a goddamn what he knew. I may have followed orders, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t think for myself or have my own feelings. Half the time what I did, I did because I wanted to, not because I was told to…by anyone!”
“You’ve never lost anything that’s important to you.”
“Give it a rest Sam. Enough. Stop. You need to stop this. It’s nuts. You’re so wrapped up in what Dad knew, didn’t know, said, whatever. It’s nuts Sam. He’s dead, and nothing will change. Let it go.”
“But he—”
“He what Sam? You’ve got to stop this. It’s doing nothing but tearing you up. What the hell? I took care of you, I was always there. I did everything for you, not him. What the hell? Wasn’t I good enough for you? Didn’t I do enough for you? Why are you so damn concerned with what Dad didn’t do? Or how he felt? I’m sorry he treated us differently, I am. But I can’t do anything about that, I never could.” Dean’s hands fisted tight, pressed to his legs. His entire body trembled. It was plain to Sam, those words, sentiments, were never meant to come out, be spoken, hang between them. They were meant to remain forever locked inside Dean’s head.
Sam’s intestines oozed and slithered around themselves, his lungs constricted, unable to work properly. His knees felt wobbly. Tears blurred the world around him; he blinked them away angrily. How could he be that mean?
“Dean—”
Holding up one hand, visibly struggling to calm down, Dean’s voice was low, a rough growl, an actual growl. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care. Dad is dead. It’s done and over and I don’t care about what he knew anymore.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam rasped out, anger draining out of him, deflating him and leaving him feeling hollow. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”
Dean gave him a look that literally made Sam cringe, unsure what to expect from his brother. “Just…” he turned away, waved one hand at the room in general. “Just drop it.” He moved about the room, stuffing things randomly into his duffel, throwing other things at Sam to be packed. “We’re going to grab some food, you’re going to shut your damn mouth on the subject, then we’re getting to the orphanage, check it out and then find somewhere to hole up until this hurricane passes. End of discussion. Now get your ass to the car. Or stay here, whatever the hell you want.”
Sam deciding moving his ass to the car was the wisest choice. Dean rarely became so angered with him, and suddenly he’d managed to do so to such a degree twice in a month. He’d been wrong to bring the subject up, let it bother him so much. It wasn’t fair to Dean, who’d given up so much for him, to constantly have it thrown in his face how Sam felt about their father. It wasn’t Dean’s fault. He certainly had no control over any of it, suffered as much as Sam did, only in a different way.
They sat in silence at the diner. Sam ate, but didn’t even pretend to taste or enjoy the meal put in front of him. Dean would flip out even more if he didn’t eat, so Sam just shoved the food in, ignored how it needed to be forced down his throat, how his stomach protested being put to work.
“So what did he know, or what do you think he knew?” Dean snapped the words out, though is voice was soft. His gaze settled somewhere behind Sam, then dropped to his coffee cup.
Sam’s own eyes flicked up, then away fast, startled by Dean’s voice as much as his question. Dean was angry, but curious. This was new territory for Sam. Usually Dean would shut down, shut him out and ignore these issues. Completely caught off guard Sam stared, wide-eyed, at the table, his brain suddenly fumbling for something, anything to say, any words to come out his mouth that made even a semblance of sense.
“Sam.” His name was spoken evenly, firmly, no malice, a quiet request.
When Sam looked up Dean was watching him, met his eyes, and held.
Completely uncharted territory.
Or maybe not. Dean had made some promises, maybe more to himself than to Sam recently. Dean never broke a promise to Sam in his life. No more secrets. I’ll listen. Though Sam could never say Dean didn’t listen. Maybe it was more Dean was honestly trying to see things from Sam’s side. He tended to forget, getting so wrapped up with what might become of him, Dean was just as affected. Maybe even more so.
Dry tongue scraped over drier lips. “There are a few legends attached to it, your amulet. One of the more prevalent ones is it protects the wearer from evil, specifically people touched by evil, turned into something evil.” Sam stared at his plate, aimlessly moving his fork around it as he spoke.
“And you’ve decided that means protect me from you?” Dean’s voice was calm, almost too gentle. His face softened. “So that’s what has you so cranked up? You think Dad knew this all along, even when you were little?”
Somehow hearing Dean say it aloud made the entire concept seem far-fetched and silly. Rationalizing didn’t make Sam feel any better however. He shrugged.
After a few more minutes of fumbling around with his napkin and fork and Dean waiting patiently, Sam looked up. “Bobby told me it was for protection, that was it. Then ya know, a few months later Dad starts making a big deal out of you not taking the thing off. I figured he dug up more details.”
Dean sighed, rubbed his forehead. “Sam, Dad hated the thing. He also kept telling me to stick it under my shirt, or don’t you remember that part?”
Sam did. Smiling sheepishly his eyes drifted back down at the table. “I remember.”
“Let. It. Go Sam. Whatever anyone other than you and me know about this—” Dean crooked his thumb through the leather cord around his neck, pulling it away from his chest and giving a shake so the amulet danced a bit, catching the light and reflecting it around the room. “—is irrelevant. If we need to know, we’ll find out ourselves. You and me.”
Sam wasn’t thoroughly convinced, and maybe he never would be, but the expression Dean wore ended his desire for any further discussion right now. There was something odd about Dean’s interest and his request to put the matter aside. Something deeper Sam wasn’t seeing, and Dean wasn’t talking about. He spent the few hours driving to the orphanage mostly quiet, mulling over in his head what the spoken as well as unspoken words from his brother meant.
The whole thing, every fact and detail kept from them by John under the guise of protecting his children hurt Sam. It must have gouged Dean to his very core. Finding out he wasn’t as trusted, depended upon by their father as he’d always thought. Dean took it upon himself to be caretaker; it was his nature. Yet at every turn it seemed he’d been denied information. Sam, he could live with that, expected it. What it did to Dean angered him, not what John hadn’t told him.
Grover’s Point Orphanage, the original structure, sat nestled between a stretch of beach and gently rolling landscape. Today the dark gray skies edging to black, met with a dark, angry sea. Waves lashed the shoreline, coming higher and higher.
“When?” Dean asked. He found a higher spot to park the Impala. They’d walk from here. No way was either of them risking losing their car to encroaching waves. The more sandy ground surrounding the old building would be unstable from the rain and water, leaving the simple fact, their heavy car would mire down, getting stuck in the sludge and mud.
“Landfall is in three days.”
“Direct hit?”
Sam nodded, wiped rain out of his eyes, and pushed wet bangs away from his face. “Of course.”
“Figures,” Dean sighed.
They slipped and slid their way toward the building. Sam trailed a pace or two behind Dean, watching with fascination as Dean’s footprints in the sand filled with water oozing in from everywhere.
“We’ll get what we can from here, but I want to be gone well before dark. No arguments. We’re finding somewhere to ride this storm out. There’ll be plenty of residual trails for us to follow, and I’m betting this thing hangs around for a bit after the storm to cash in on the emotional aftermath. Kids after something like this will be easy pickings.” Dean stopped so fast, Sam bounced off his back. He had to take a few steps back so Dean’s finger didn’t poke up his nose. “And no lip or arguments from you about it.”
“I wasn’t giving you any, dumb ass.”
Dean rolled his eyes, then his shoulders, nodded. “Well then, good.”
The old building had stood the test of time, somewhat. The doors and windows were boarded up, but that was a small deterrent, nothing more than an inconvenience really. As soon as they stepped inside the musty entranceway, shivers slipped over Sam’s skin, the feeling of tiny feet skimming his skin everywhere at once, despite the heat and humidity of the surrounding air.
Dean’s eyes slid at him. “You feel that?” Bringing one hand up, Dean rubbed the back of his neck a few times, then let the hand fall to his side. It was an unconscious, nervous habit he had. Sam knew it was a sure a sign of Dean’s unease as anything.
“Yes.” Sam shivered again, pushing away thoughts of how warm and safe the spot between Dean’s open jacket and his side looked just then.
Twisting his upper half as far as possible, Dean’s gaze swept the room. Sam waited, knowing his brother needed to have a good mental picture of every inch of the place, where they were exposed, where they were confined, where to get out. It was sheer instinct, this hunter part of Dean, and something Sam never completely mastered, no matter how hard he worked and tried. So he waited for Dean to do his assessment. Sam supposed this was what a true team was, each had their strengths. Where Dean was weak, Sam excelled and visa versa. It made them a whole, strong, invincible, formidable. It was a weapon in itself.
The hunter.
Even their Dad always said Dean could sniff out a spook from a mile off. Which really, was a pretty good trick considering spooks and spirits had no body odor.
Sam found the legends, the sigils, incantations, and artifacts they often used. Dean put them into practice. It was in that part of the hunt Sam stood back, took his cues from his brother and backed him up. Dean was the true hunter. Sam found over the years staying behind his brother and following his lead was not only productive, but smart and the safest thing to do.
He watched as Dean stepped away a few paces, peering down a hall, then aiming his flashlight up a flight of stairs, every few seconds turning back to make eye contact with Sam. Another shiver skipped through him, more tiny pinpricks edged with frost slithered over his arms, neck, back. While his lungs filled with frigid air, his brain filled with thoughts of Dean hunting alone while Sam was at Stanford. Dean without someone to bounce his ideas off of, figure out the fine nuances of each case with, tell his crappy jokes to, just talk to, churned Sam’s stomach. Sam knew the hunts their father and Dean teamed up on were few and far between.
The hunter.
Dean was better. Better than Sam, better than Bobby, better than John. Better than everyone. It occurred to Sam just then, maybe part of Dean’s being better was his ability, his preference to hunting with someone, with Sam. Each had their own strengths and weaknesses, complimenting each other perfectly. Dean was one of the few, if not the only hunter Sam knew who preferred a partner. He’d preferred Sam, but had worked with others. Sam had met some, heard stories from Dean of a few. It was Dean’s ability to work with someone, bring out their strengths and use them, that contributed to making him better Sam was sure.
The chilled air made the sweat trickling down Sam’s back an icy ribbon on his skin. It wasn’t unnaturally cold, but it shouldn’t have been cold in here at all.
Dean took a few steps toward one hallway. The floorboards creaked and groaned, Sam saw a few of them bend under his brother’s weight. Aiming his flashlight first down the hall, then to the floor, then swung around to a hall opposite, Dean shook his head. “This is…safe.” One foot out in front, Dean leaned more of his weight on it, bounced his knee a few times.
Smiling Sam stepped behind him, testing the floor as he moved. Sam was taller, but Dean actually weighted slightly more. Their combined weight might be too much for any spot of floor at once, so Sam sidestepped, putting a few feet between himself and Dean, spreading out their weight.
Pointing with his light, “There’s bound to be an office or records’ room around here. Why don’t you try that way, I’ll check this part out.”
The hunter. The prey.
“No!” The word hissed between Sam’s lips before he could stop it. Reaching out before Dean could move away, Sam’s fingers wound in the material covering his brother’s arm.
Dean froze, turned far enough to give him a searching look. “Sam.” It was a talent, how Dean could roll question, order, comment and affection all into one word. The guy was just busting with talent Sam decided.
When Sam didn’t answer immediately Dean quirked an eyebrow and raised his free arm out and to his side.
“I…I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know.”
Dean nodded, free hand moving in to pat Sam’s chest before he stepped toward the closest hallway. A gentle tug of his arm had Sam moving with him. “Stick close.”
Well, ya, wasn’t that sort of the point Sam was trying to make?
Huffing a breath, Sam let go of Dean as they came to the first doorway. Sounds of rain and wind outside faded the further into the building they moved. The rooms inside, old and dusty, appeared to be some sort of apartment, probably belonged to one of the staff. The other doors lining that hall produced pretty much the same sort of rooms, so they made their way to the other side of the main floor. There they found a records’ room, offices, places to start their search. Places likely to yield results.
In short order they’d pulled out and were going through records, doing fast scans. What they wanted to examine more completely they’d take with them, read them by something other than yellow tinted flashlight in a building likely to come down around their ears at anytime. One after another Sam saw, as he skimmed each file he’d pulled from a cabinet lining one wall, children. Unwanted, unloved, unprotected children left open by circumstance to be preyed upon by this demon, this boogeyman.
Chest tightening, Sam felt hot tears sting his eyes. He wished desperately these children had been given, felt, even for a day, what he had while growing up. That thought was so startling it made him stop reading. He’d never considered his childhood anything but wrong. Yet here was evidence to the contrary, in these musty old files. These children never knew a loving family or the kindness and security of someone who cared for them. They’d never known anything but hate, distrust and bigotry. Not so for Sam, who’d been loved, cared for, kept safe his entire life. For maybe the first time ever in his life, Sam was thankful for the childhood he’d had.
A heavy hand resting on his shoulder, strong fingers curling around and gripping shocked him enough he nearly yelped. That he jumped was totally unavoidable. Behind him Dean snickered. When he turned, Dean’s face sobered at once.
“You alright?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sam didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but the way Dean’s eyes skimmed his face, it was unsettling. Why did he always feel like he was transparent to Dean when his brother wore that look?
“You just looked a bit pasty there for a second.” Dean gave him another glance before moving a few steps away. Maybe Sam was transparent to Dean.
Sam smiled softly. “I’m fine.” He put down the file he held, rubbed his arms with his hands, then crossed them over his chest, burying fists in armpits. “There was no comparison.” He blurted out.
“Huh?”
“Between you and Dad. There never was. He couldn’t even begin to come close.”
Dean turned, gave Sam a silent, appraising look before dipping his chin down and back up once. He studied Sam’s face for a few seconds, seemed about to say something when confusion slowly spread over his face. Sam thought for a few seconds he hadn’t heard him, or understood what Sam said. Or worse yet Sam managed to reignite Dean’s earlier anger.
Along the edges of Sam’s vision the world darkened by a fraction, or maybe it was illusion, his imagination.
Dean’s eyes widened. Confusion gave way to apprehension, then outright fear. Dean sucked in a breath and lurched at Sam. The world’s edges were definitely growing dimmer, murkier.
It can’t hurt us Sammy, it has no power over us. We protect one another, believe one another. We have each other.
“Dean!” Sam met Dean halfway, both fists bunching in Dean’s leather jacket, trying to pull Dean to him. Dean’s feet scrabbled along the mildewed wooden flooring. The dark edges of the world folded inward, coming at them. Dean’s hands grasped his arms at the elbows. “Hang on!” Sam shouted.
It can’t just take us or it would have.
Sam desperately tried insinuating himself into that spot between Dean’s jacket and side. Dean was doing everything he could to help Sam’s efforts. The cloud of black rolled ever closer. Dean started sliding away, threatening to be yanked from Sam’s grasp.
The black spread farther, crowded closer to them, Sam pulled with everything he had, trying to haul Dean back, closer to him. Dean’s feet pushed along the floor, tried to propel him at Sam. His fingers gripped Sam’s arms tighter, with incredible strength.
As if hit by some electric shock Dean’s body arched, his mouth worked, but no sound came out. His eyes snapped shut, then open. He tried twisting around, putting himself between Sam and the encroaching black. At the same time he pushed against Sam in an attempt to move him back, as Sam pulled on Dean to move him away.
Dean’s entire body jerked, arms and legs captured by spasms. Then his fingers opened. A surprised yelp and Dean was torn from Sam’s grasp, flung with arms and legs trailing at the black cloud.
“
The silence was deafening. Sam stood there for a heartbeat, not processing what just happened. “Dean! DEAN!”
In the next instant thunderous crashing coming from everywhere at once erupted. Sam shuddered, then was shoved back a few steps. “DEAN!”
The floor beneath him bent and groaned in protest. Splintering, it fell away, sending Sam plummeting down into darkness.
Chapter 4
Water ran down Dean’s face, coursed the crease between his nose and cheek. It slipped over his lips to drip down his chin, finding its way under his shirt, continuing on a path between the muscles of his chest and abdomen, finally rolling off his side.
It was damn annoying.
He managed to move one hand. His fingers felt sluggish, as if they didn’t really belong to him. His hand and arm throbbed in time with the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Low moans interrupted his already fractured thoughts. It took a few seconds for his brain to process it was his voice, his moans. Shifting his weight, rolling to one side, Dean knew for sure the sharp groan was his.
“Oww…crap…” He rolled a bit farther, pulled on the duffel wedged between him and the ground, not really wanting to know what poked his back and between his ribs. “Shit.” Panting, jerking on the straps, he finally managed to wrench it free and drop flat on the ground.
Ground. Not wooden flooring. Ground. Wet, soggy, ground.
It was raining…on him.
Outside. He was outside, on the ground, in the rain.
“Isn’t that just delightful.”
Closing his eyes for a few minutes, Dean tried to collect his very scattered thoughts. Why exactly again was he flat on his back in the rain? Outside…in the rain? Gingerly turning his head left, then right, Dean scanned the area. He was behind the orphanage, which completely confused him for a few seconds.
“Sam! SAMMY!”
Trying to push up onto his elbows for a better look around…where the hell is Sam?
As he moved, something shifted over his legs, creaked and pressed against him with sudden pressure. His brain kicked in and everything came crashing back to him with enough force it nearly knocked the breath from his chest. It was then he realized what was more likely the culprit were the boards and debris across him, shifting with his movements. Shifting down. Pressing and holding him to the ground.
Inside, he’d been inside with Sam, clinging desperately to him. In the blink of an eye he’d been outside, trapped under debris, in the rain.
“Crap.” Struggling to move his legs and push himself upright, Dean managed to dislodge some of the planks scattered across his lower torso and legs.
He stared at the back of the orphanage. It was slightly uphill now. Getting one elbow under his shoulder, Dean pushed against the soggy ground. He’d been dumped in what might have been a storage building, or small barn at one time. Now, it was a pile of rubble. Heavy boards and metal trusses, some with sharp edges, or possibly nails sticking out, covered him, had partially buried him.
Wet grass at his back made it impossible for him to move without sliding, causing the debris to shift with him. Pushing free hand against anything he could, Dean tried forcing it away. The pile moved. When he wiggled his legs, trying to get out from under the debris, the entire thing shifted on the wet ground, water allowing wood and metal to slip, pressing in at him.
“God-damn!” He shouted through clenched teeth, shoving and kicking again, which only brought more debris at him.
Something flickering just inside his periphery caused him to start, reaching behind him for his gun. He pulled the duffel around, hoping to reach other weapons hidden inside. Vision swimming, then clearing when he realized it was the air around him, not his vision that rippled.
“Sam.” He bit out, panting and pushing at the debris again. “He’s in there. That thing is in there with Sam.”
“I can’t—”
“Craven, please. He’s in there; find him. Help him.”
Leaning down, solidifying more, Craven helped Dean shove some planks to one side, freeing him enough to sit upright. “You really don’t listen well, do you? I can’t fight it. You can. You’re the only one who can.”
Dean stopped and blinked at Craven for a few beats, letting the information sink in. Shoving another board to one side, Dean snarled, “Could you help me out here? I can’t do a damn thing stuck here.”
“I think we’ve got other problems.”
“We? WE? We do not have problems. Sam has problems, I have problems, you are a friggin’ ghost. You can’t possibly have problems.”
“Ethereal entity.”
Dean growled and Craven helped move a long, twisted steel truss, shoving it away. He followed Craven’s line of sight. “Goddamn!”
“Maybe you could be louder, shoot off your gun and really tell them you’re here,” Craven snapped.
Pulling his eyes back to Craven, Dean gaped at him for a few seconds before slapping his mouth shut. “They were in a diner we stopped at last night. I see four, how about you?”
Craven nodded.
“There were six.”
“So two more are around here somewhere?”
“Or just not here, maybe they split up for some reason.”
With a nod Craven agreed. “Will you be okay for a few minutes? I’ll go do some recon.”
“Yeah, go.” Dean huffed a loud breath. “That’s what I asked you to do in the first place.”
“Try and stay out of trouble for a few minutes.”
Before Dean could sling a retort at him, Craven was gone. How far he was able to go from the spotting scope Dean carried in his duffel, and from Dean himself, he had no idea. Though Sam was the official student, it was Dean Craven was bound to.
Shoving more debris to the side, he finally was able to drag himself free. Pushing to his feet, Dean clenched his teeth against the groan wanting out. Warm wet mixed with the cool wet of the rain and slid down his left calf. As if on cue his leg started to throb. “Great, I’ll have Tetanus by tomorrow.” Fishing through the duffel, Dean pulled out a bottle of peroxide and one of holy water.
His jeans were already ripped, right over where his flesh was ripped. Dean grabbed the material and yanked, opening the leg of his jeans up to his knee. First he dowsed the jagged wound along his calf with peroxide, then the holy water. Panting through clenched teeth, eyes scrunched shut, Dean wavered for a few seconds before regaining his balance. The burn and sting shot up and down his leg then faded away as quickly as Dean had created it. He pulled a few of the strips of cloth he kept in the duffel out, winding them snuggly around his leg. That would have to do until he could get it properly cleaned and bandaged.
Taking a minute to catch his breath, find a way to balance on less than two legs, Dean scanned the area. It figured he’d have to have landed downhill from where he wanted to be. Moving as fast as possible while keeping his weight more on his right leg, Dean ran, gate stilted, up the hill, panting through the pain brought on by each step.
+++++
Sam coughed; blowing spit and dust from his mouth. Shifting to one side he groaned, pushed against his elbows to sit up. “Dean? DEAN?”
He was surrounded by dark, swirls of dust and debris kicked up from his rather ungraceful landing were nothing but a shade or two lighter than the dark around him, twisting and settling as gravity tugged them down. Normal dark, for now at least. Something tickled at the back of Sam’s mind, making the hairs along his neck, the skin of his arms prickle and stand.
Sitting up straighter, shaking dust and cobwebs from his hair, he peered into the dark, arched his neck to look up. A shaft of light glinted through the hole Sam made when he crashed through the floor. His fingers ached from the strain of trying to hold onto his brother, pull Dean to him, and keep him from being flung away.
He’d failed miserably.
He’d crashed down maybe fifteen feet, it was a small miracle he hadn’t broken anything. Flexing and bending his legs, twisting his torso and stretching his arms confirmed bruised and battered, but not broken. He didn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere. Standing gingerly, brushing dirt from his jeans Sam looked around. He was in what appeared to be some sort of storage area; maybe it’d been a cellar at one time. One room dug out of the ground. There were wooden walls, shoring up the earth, but no apparent doors.
A few feet from the hole he’d made, in a corner, was a decayed wooden ladder. Just a few rungs clung to the wall leading up. There was no way to reach it, and even if he could Sam doubted it would hold his weight.
A shiver ripped down his back, gooseflesh rose in earnest along his arms and neck like tiny feet stampeding over his skin. What they’d come looking for, what he and Dean had come here to hunt was close.
Sam feared the hunters had become the hunted.
Voices above drew his attention there. The black encroaching in from the walls divided that attention. “Hey! Can you throw me some rope? I’m stuck down here!”
His answer was a spray of gunfire that bounced more dirt into the air. Ducking, Sam covered his head, crouched down and back. “What the—”
The black slithered at him, filling the space around him, pressing in at him.
He heard the conversation from above, more background noise. They weren’t talking to him, but about him, Sam suddenly realized.
“Which one is that?” Voice one asked.
“The younger one, Sam.” That voice was older, gruffer.
Great, more people who knew him, but he didn’t have a clue about. Pushing away thoughts of where Dean was and that he was trapped, Sam skimmed the area again, looking for an escape route.
“Let’s kill him, then get the other one.” A third voice.
Sam froze, shifting his eyes up to the dim light of the opening above. He had to find Dean, knowing that if his brother was capable of it, he was already scouring the area for Sam. He’d walk right into an ambush, not even aware these men were here. Pressing his lips together, Sam fought to control his breathing, keep quiet, stay calm.
Moving back until he was pressed against the farthest wall, Sam’s eyes flicked back and forth between the conversation above and the thing flowing at him. The air around him crackled with energy, and not in the good way. His skin crawled over itself, lines of sweat oozed down his back.
The older, gruffer voice spoke, moving closer to the opening above Sam. “No. The older one is more dangerous, we need this kid to catch him, then we finish them both. We don’t leave either one.”
Sam was starting to get that royally screwed feeling.
Attention pulled away from the men above, Sam focused on what shared the small space with him. As before, it flowed around his feet, pooled there, blocking out all light, surrounding Sam with a dense black abyss. Sam jerked in a few quick breaths, trying to stay calm. The fingers of one hand slipped into his jeans pocket, wound around and gripped the two items he carried. A stone with a sigil carved in it, and the packet of herbs Dean insisted they both carry.
It hovered, then slithered along his leg, winding up his torso. There it stopped. Dean wasn’t there to watch, to be tortured along with Sam. It taunted Sam, showed him what it could do to those unloved, unprotected. Turning his head to one side, pressing his cheek to the damp walls, Sam closed his eyes to the pain, desperation of unknown, unnamed children whose faces and fears were shown to him by this thing. Reminding himself again, he had been loved, protected. So had Dean. They’d escaped this fate simply because they gave each other the weapons, the means to resist, even before they knew how.
This thing can’t come take us in our sleep or anything, or it would have by now Sam.
Dean had spoken those words just a over a week before, yet it had come, taken Sam’s brother, enveloped and swallowed him in a cloud of black and taken him.
“What the hell?” One of the voices from above got through to Sam. “We’ve got to put him down. Look, that thing, it’s attracted to him.”
Sam heard movement, one body being moved away by another. “No.” It was the older, gruffer one.
“You wanna mess with that kid while he’s possessed?”
“It’s not going to possess him. I don’t think this type works that way. We can use him.” More rustling of clothes. “Hey, kid.”
Sam looked up in time to see a string of dark beads sail through the air at him. Snatching it just before it smacked his face, Sam stared at what hung over his hand. “Get me outa here!” He shouted, knowing as he did so it was useless.
The older, gruffer voice laughed, a face came into view. He was a thin man, covered with a scruffy gray beard, equally gray hair stuck out at odd, short angles. “You’re lucky I gave you that Rosary. You know how to use it. It’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel, you bring those things here, and we pick them off. Let you make up for what you did to Steve before I let it just tear you apart.”
Clutching the Rosary to his chest, Sam tried turning away from the black evil surrounding him, tried slinking farther into the shadows. There was no escape. No help.
Assaulted by images of the cold-hearted killer of innocents Dean would become, the evil Sam would become, he tried desperately to convince himself it wasn’t true, would never be true.
Cold, bone chilling and coming from everywhere at once surrounded Sam. He edged away from the black thing settling around him, it was a useless act he knew, but tried anyway.
Motion in the corner near the ladder caught his attention. A faint flicker. Sam turned to watch, it grew stronger, took more shape. The black lashed out at it, making it cringe away. Sam felt its fear, its horrible all encompassing fear. Something Sam swore looked like fingers reached out from the flicker, waggled at him in a follow motion.
Inching along the wall, trying to get away from the boogeyman demon, Sam moved toward the flicker. The black flowed along with his feet. Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Sam found a small bottle of water, holy water. Opening it, he tossed some at the black. It hissed. Steam rose for a few seconds from it, then it was as black and frightening as before, though it slowed its movement.
The flicker took more shape. A little boy, phantom eyes shifted from Sam to the black evil puddling near his feet. He had wide pale brown eyes, dark, curly hair. Ducking into a small hole in the wall, he poked his head back through, then a hand, again motioning for Sam to follow.
“You’re a tiny little ghost boy. I’m a big, grown up solid boy.” Sam grumbled.
Creeping across the floor, back to the wall, painstaking inch after inch, Sam kept the black evil in sight. He froze when it swirled up creating for a few seconds a vortex, black reflecting nothing.
Then it was gone.
As quietly as possible, Sam pried boards near the hole loose, made an opening he was barely able to squeeze his shoulders through and followed a ghost child into the walls.
Chapter 5
Dean struggled up the gentle hill to the orphanage. The wet ground made it difficult to keep his footing. His leg throbbed, showing him not a bit of mercy. The rain picked up, driving into his eyes and mouth as he puffed and wheezed each breath.
Stopping halfway up to catch his breath, Dean gripped a partially decayed post, leaned into it for a second. He’d promised Sam…promised him…that thing wouldn’t get them, wouldn’t take Sam, wouldn’t snatch Dean away. Anger well up, bubbled over and erupted.
“Goddamn!” Dean let loose; his foot flying into the post, which did nothing but add insult to his wounded leg. His head filled with thoughts of his brother, in there, alone, having just seen Dean stolen away, pulled into some dark cloud. He had no idea where in the orphanage Sam was. They’d come in through the front of the building. Dean had been tossed to the back.
“Was that helpful?”
A shiver ripped down Dean’s spine, he spun, nearly throwing himself off balance. “Would you stop sneaking up on me?”
Craven snorted. “Some hunter you are.” He pointed at the orphanage. “I couldn’t find more than four of them, the other hunters.”
“Did they see you?”
“Please.”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Sam?”
“I found him, but I couldn’t get to him. He’s trapped in some sort of lower room, under the main floor.” Craven looked down at his feet. Dean wasn’t sure, but he thought the ghost lost some color, became more transparent for the briefest of instants. “I already told you, the only one who can fight that thing, that demon, is you.”
“Is he okay?”
Craven sighed, and Dean found himself wondering, as Concha had, why did he do that? “He’s stuck in a dirt room under a floor, alone, and only partially able to defend himself against that demon. How do you think he is?”
Dean growled. “Is he hurt? Were you able to talk to him?” Pushing away from the rotting wood post, Dean limped as fast as he was able.
“I couldn’t get close. I don’t think he was hurt, or at least not badly.” Craven actually sidestepped when Dean’s eyes slid in his direction for a few beats. “They know he’s there. Who is Steve? They were talking about Sam paying for some Steve.”
Running one hand over his forehead, trying to find relief from the constant rain running in his eyes, Dean groaned. “Steve Wandell. Year and a half or so ago, Sam was…” Even now saying it churned Dean’s insides, squeezed his heart into a too small place. “A demon we’d dealt with before, she wanted revenge. Possessed Sam, made him do things.” Dean stopped, braced hands against knees and fought a wave of dizziness. “He slit that guy’s throat. Wandell, he was a hunter. That and the visions, things others heard, wrong things, makes some of them think Sam is some monster. That he’s going to—” He couldn’t even continue, say the words.
“That’s why your father told you you’d have to kill him?” Craven asked quietly.
Dean stared at the ground, rain mixed with tears to blur the grass. He nodded. “I told Sam, the only person who could choose to make him evil was him.”
“You were right.”
Lifting his head, meeting Craven’s eyes, Dean saw sympathy and earnest belief. Hearing someone say he was right made all the difference. He was grateful beyond words, knowing he wasn’t the only one bent on keeping his brother safe, whole, alive. “Sam would never hurt anything, never kill some innocent man. It’s hard for him; he doesn’t know what he did. The bitch had him for a week, he lost a week.”
“I don’t think those men in there are as compassionate.”
Nodding, Dean straightened and staggered the remaining distance. Reaching the building, he found a door, boarded as the others had been. The wood had warped and bent from unknown years of exposure. Ignoring pain lancing through his fingers, Dean worked and pushed in until he had a good enough grip and managed, with a wordless shout between clenched teeth, to jerk the board free.
Slipping inside he followed Craven’s directions, leading him back to where he and Sam had been attacked and separated. They stopped just outside the records’ room. Craven silently pointed over Dean’s shoulder. Pressed to the wall just outside the room, Dean hunkered down, close to the wall and stretched far enough to see inside the room. Toward the back, near the last place Dean remembered Sam standing, was a dark, nasty gash where the floorboards there splintered and cracked, creating a gouge probably just large enough for Sam to have fallen through.
From his angle, Dean couldn’t see into the dark hole. He couldn’t hear much besides the voices of the men standing guard over the hole. The hole his brother was in. Dean wasn’t so concerned with the hole; those were easy. A bit of rope and Sam would be free of the hole. Even if injured in the fall into the hole, Dean could deal. He figured it must be a deep enough hole Sam couldn’t extract himself, or he would have climbed out right after dropping in.
It was pretty obvious by the men’s stance, how they looked down, then up at each other, there was someone—Sam—down in that hole. Dean could only hope there wasn’t a something too. Quieting his breathing, stilling every muscle, Dean melted against the wall, listening, able to hear every movement of clothing, every word spoken.
Their conversation confirmed, they had Sam, whether by design or accident, Dean didn’t know. It didn’t change the fact they now knew Sam was trapped in the room below their feet, at their mercy. Leaning his head back against the wall, taking a few deep breaths, Dean considered his options. It didn’t take him a lot of time. His options were pretty limited.
He could get a few shots off. If he was darn lucky get two of them before they got him. Which left Sam completely at their mercy, as one stated, like shooting fish in a barrel. One shot would drop his brother; he’d have no hope of escape. He could try distracting them long enough, and hope Sam might be able to climb out, but that brought him back to the thought, if Sam could have he would have already.
Option three was try and draw at least one of them out here, increase his odds. Craven flickered into sight near his right elbow, crouched down, mimicking Dean’s position. Tipping his head toward the men, Dean raised one eyebrow. “I need them separated.”
Craven cracked a grin, looked downright gleeful. Dean swallowed a chuckle. “Maybe I can get one out here. Throw something, make some small noise.”
Nodding, Dean felt around next to his leg until his fingertips brushed something small and metallic. One quick movement had it scooped up, a flick of his wrist and it whizzed through the air, clanking off the wall opposite him.
The voices in the room hushed. Dean heard the men moving around. Craven disappeared from his side, reappeared a second later in the doorway. Waved cheerfully at the room’s occupants and vanished again, only to reappear at Dean’s side grinning like a loon.
Footsteps, barely audible, closed the distance to the hall, and Dean. He doubtless ever saw Dean coming. Slipping up the wall, using it as a brace against his back to make up for his wounded leg, Dean saw the man’s eyes widen as he oozed out of the shadows, a shadow himself, and struck fast and sure. Seconds later the man was unconscious, tied and gagged with his own shirt.
The other men fanned out, moved away from the hole in the floor, away from Sam. Dean heard their boots hitting the floor, in three distinctly, subtly different patterns.
This was as good as it was likely going to get.
Pistol up and ready, it preceded him through the door. He wheeled around, shoulder pressed to the door jam, covering his limp as much as possible, Dean filled the doorway. He didn’t give them time to recover from the shock of seeing him, he moved just far enough into the room to be clear of the door, barking, “Where’s Sam?”
One guy, young and painfully skinny jerked forward. Without so much as a flinch Dean fired. The kid recoiled; ducked away as the bullet went by him, close enough Dean was sure he probably felt its wind against his ear before slamming through the wall beyond.
“Y-you m-m-missed.”
“No. I didn’t.” Dean kept the kid pinned where he was with a glare. He was acutely aware of the other two just a bit farther away and to the left.
One of them took one step, stopped, eyes focused on Dean as if he were some ghoul to be hunted, or a dangerous, wild animal to be out maneuvered. Dean let his gaze slide for a second to this man, pegging him immediately as the leader. The shudder wanting to creep down his spine was suppressed. Ears attuned to any movement, sound from the hole, Dean settled his weight on his heels, ready to strike.
“You know we can’t let him go. You either. See, we was just gonna kill the two of you, but maybe the other one, maybe he’s got a use after all. You, however, are nothing but trouble.” The man was older, maybe Bobby’s age. Thin, but not the gaunt, underfed look of the kid in Dean’s pistol sights just then. His gray beard moved as he spoke. This man was the hunter, the others following his lead. “That thing, whatever kind of demon it is, seems to like the boy. I can use that. He can make amends for what he did to Steve. Don’t worry though, we’ll feed him, give him water.”
Dean knew arguing, trying for an explanation, reasoning would be futile. His chest pressed in on itself at the thought of Sam used as a demon flytrap. He also realized this man was trying to bait him into making a foolish move. “You’re not going to do that, use my brother as some kind of demon lure. Not while I’m breathing.”
“Well, we can fix that.” The third man smirked, drew out a gun from behind his back.
Craven flickered just in front of the man, “Uh-uh. No, very impolite.”
The guy stumbled back a pace, obviously caught completely off guard by the appearance before him.
Some warning tingled along Dean’s neck, slithered down his back in cold, thin lines. It barely registered, the skinny kid moving to one side, grabbing up a sawed off shotgun, pulling it up, taking aim. The thought frightened children shouldn’t be allowed to play with guns was followed immediately by the realization the kid had the shotgun pointed at him, but the kid’s eyes were skittering sideways, to Dean’s right.
The burst from the shotgun exploded across his vision a split second before the sound reverberated through the room. Something flashed to his right, just inside his range of vision. It wasn’t gunfire, and Dean had but a brief instant to consider the streak of brown and tan coming at him was solid before his entire left side exploded in shock and pain from the jolt of hitting the floor.
Sam broadsided him, the both of them crashing to the floor.
It was sheer instinct that had Dean’s hand coming up, wrapping securely around the back of his brother’s head and pulling down so Sam’s face was against his shoulder. The discharge from the shotgun careened well above them, Dean heard it hit a wall, bits of wood and plaster sprayed across their heads and shoulders.
“Shit. Shit!” Sam hissed, one hand hitting the floor just beyond Dean’s ribs, his other hand latched onto Dean’s shoulder while he shoved the two of them away from the spot they’d landed on.
The floor groaned and cracked, Dean felt it bow beneath the stress of their combined weight hitting so suddenly.
“Crap.” Dean rasped out. Catching sight of the third man coming at them steadying up his aim at them spurred Dean along faster. Using the fact Sam was pulling on him to get halfway to his knees, Dean rolled far enough to get his own pistol free. Pushing against Sam, Dean reversed their positions, pinned Sam behind him to the floor with his shoulders, keeping himself between Sam and the other hunters.
Using Sam’s bulk for support, Dean pushed them away from the groaning floor boards with his feet, at the same time fired off a few shots at the armed man, then twisted far enough to get one at the skinny kid, sure he’d hit them both.
Feeling Sam drop a few inches while at the same time hearing more cracks and pops from the floorboards beneath them refocused Dean’s attention downward.
Time to go.
“Dean, the floor’s not going to hold.”
“Yeah.” Struggling to get his good leg under him, Dean shoved away from Sam’s side, ignored his brother’s grunt when his elbow dug against Sam and tried pushing himself over to get his right leg in position to support his weight.
Sam got the idea Dean was struggling more than he should be, braced both palms against Dean’s shoulder blades and pushed Dean away from him far enough Sam could wiggle free and scramble to his feet. “C’mon.” Was all Sam panted, irritably Dean thought, before looping one arm under Dean’s shoulders and hefted him far enough up Dean got both feet under him.
“Sam…go!” Dean shoved against his brother, urging him forward.
“Your leg.”
Honestly, did the boy pride himself at having some weird need to make inane conversation in these sorts of situations?
“Is going to be under the floor if you don’t move your ass!” Dean tried to not generally make it a habit, snapping at Sam, or try to make him feel guilty over something, but some days it was the only recourse he had.
Sam moved his ass.
Towed Dean’s ass right along with him.
Sounds of the floor splintering, shattering and dissolving right under the men they fled from filled the old building, surrounded them from all sides. Gritting his teeth to the pain rocketing up his leg, using Sam for balance, he herded Sam toward the front entrance. A quick glance behind confirmed they weren’t currently being followed. Dean didn’t put much stock in that staying the case for very long.
Finally the two of them sprinted free of the building.
Only to be hit with pelting, sharp rain that literally dug into any of Dean’s skin left exposed, and wind strong enough it drove them back a few steps. Dean turned his head, squinting against the water and air assaulting him, to get a look at the beach beyond the orphanage. Nasty, angry waves assaulted the shore, churning the water to nothing but white froth. The sky was nastier, angrier, dark and foreboding clouds tipped in white obliterated the horizon.
Sam’s fingers tightening on his arm, the horrified gasp the kid pulled down his throat and the strangled, “God, Dean, I’m so sorry, this is my fault, you were right we should have waited till after the storm passed,” that rushed out of Sam’s mouth, made him turn away from the ocean and face Sam.
Sam wasn’t looking at him, however. Sam was staring wide-eyed, through soggy bangs smeared over his face at a point of ground farther from the beach than the orphanage and higher still.
Dean’s voice caught, some garbled noise spewed from his mouth. He nearly fell over when Sam let go and darted away, heading for the higher patch of ground.
Chapter 6
Dean’s world froze. They’d left the Impala sitting on what looked like high, stable ground. The rain slammed into the ground rolling down, the weight of the car must have loosened dirt and rock enough the car now sat at an odd angle, sliding sickeningly backwards and down toward the mud and waves.
Sam, hair now stuck to his face like wet paper-Mache, scrambled gracelessly up the hillside, slipping and falling sideways more than going forward, fourteen-foot arms and legs moving faster than he was. Sheets of rain threatened to drive him back the way he’d come.
Balancing on one leg Dean stared on at Sam’s attempts to gain ground, and reach their car…their home.
He jerked as if shot when thunder rolled through the air joined a few seconds later by the groan of the car slipping farther down the hill. Straight at Sam. Wind and rain hit his brother, likely keeping him from seeing the car looming ever closer. The back tires had hit a patch of the hill steeper than the rest. The car’s slow slide would pick up speed once the front tires cleared the slightly more level spot they were on now.
Dean watched, fascinated, as the tires oozed inch by inch over rocks and across the soggy, rain laden sandy ground. Another groan from the car’s chassis impelled him forward. “Sam! Sa-uum!” Forgetting the pain shooting up his leg, he hiked his duffel higher on his shoulder, making sure the spotting scope was secure, Dean ran with a stilted gait at his brother and his car. “Get outa there! Sam! Sammy!”
It was only the fact that Dean with injured leg was taking more care with each of his steps, and Sam in his panic and rush to get to the car had charged ahead, scrambling carelessly for his footing that allowed Dean to catch up to his brother.
Lurching forward as his steps closed in on Sam, Dean reached out, grabbed Sam’s arm, yanked him back and around to face Dean. Sidestepping as fast as he was capable, he hauled Sam with him, out of the car’s line of descent.
“Dean! What the hell?” Sam turned back toward the Impala.
“We got to get out of here. She’s going to run us both over, it’s sinking and mud is coming down.”
“We’re not leaving the car.” Sam shouted, trying to rip out of Dean’s iron grip.
Yanking on Sam’s arm a few times, “Yes we are. It’s not worth your life. I’ll get another car. I rebuilt that one, I can do it again.”
“Not if it’s underwater or dragged away.”
They stood facing off one another, rain pelting both of them. Sam looked beyond frantic, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching. His gaze skipped erratically between Dean and the Impala. The air was thick with the smell of rain and mud.
Suddenly he gripped Dean’s biceps, squeezing hard. “Dean,” he pleaded softly. “We can do this, we can. It’s all we have, everything we own. We grew up in there. Dean?” He pointed to the car slipping backwards down an embankment.
In a rush of crystal clarity Dean understood why people refused to leave flooding or burning homes, why they sandbagged or sprayed thousand of gallons of water on a building.
“We have to at least try.” Sam begged. It was plain to Dean his brother was unwilling to leave him or the car. “Dean.”
Glancing down, waving at his injured leg, “Sam…I can’t—”
“I can.” Sam cut him off quickly. A tight nod, “I can.”
Another sickening groan from the car had them both turning that way.
Latching onto Sam in part for support and in part to keep him from getting too far ahead, Dean nodded. “Get moving.”
Sam took the hint, wound his fingers around Dean’s arm, helping to pull him faster, make up for his injured leg. Hitting rear bumper with his full weight, Sam turned, using his back to push against the car. His feet scrambled for purchase in the slippery muck. Dean went the last few feet to the driver’s side door, got it open and pushed against it. It creaked and moaned, but held fast. Reaching in, he slipped the key in the ignition, got the car out of park and into neutral.
“Now! Push Sammy!”
The car inched forward, then skidded sideways for a few feet. Biting his lip against the pain in his leg, Dean braced both feet against the wet ground, cranked on the steering wheel and pushed. Barely able to see where they were going, Dean hoped they didn’t get hung up or run straight into some barrier. The car inched forward with painstakingly slow progress. For a few minutes it moved sideways more than forward, which was pushing them back down the hillside. Sam’s grunts and wordless shouts reached his ears.
Then all at once everything moved. The ground went one way, the car the other. Sam landed flat on his back as the Impala pitched forward. Dean nearly lost his footing and avoided sliding under the car by a very narrow margin. Covered with mud, Sam rolled over, was up and getting a running start at the car. Crashing into the rear bumper again, shouting through clenched teeth he didn’t slow down.
Plowing over low brush, rocks, and mud the Impala gained higher, and safer, ground. Once they reached a fairly level patch, Sam stopped, wilting against the back of the car, panting and gagging. He leaned down, hands against knees, obviously struggling for breath.
Pushing the car back into park and tossing the duffel into the backseat—he didn’t want to lose Craven either—Dean sprinted as best he could with one leg dragging to the back of the car. “Sammy. Sam? You okay?” Pulling Sam straight by one arm, Dean ducked down so he could see into his eyes, searched for signs of serious injury. Dean knew the hit to the ground had to hurt, but he was more concerned about a cracked rib from the impact from the way Sam suddenly struggled for air.
Rain dripped from Sam’s nose and hair, little drops scattered when he bobbed his head up and down a few times. One hand reaching for Dean, grasping his forearm weakly. His other arm wrapped around his middle.
“Talk. Can you breath?”
Sam coughed out a, “Yeah.” He gagged, then coughed some more. “Mud…isn’t so…soft. Winded.” He was shaking, his teeth chattered.
Dean ruffled his brother’s wet hair, then wiped one hand across Sam’s forehead, purposely pushing his bangs in his eyes. Sam grinned up at him, using Dean’s shoulder as a brace to straighten to his full height. “Come on.” One arm wrapped securely around Sam’s middle, Dean pulled him close enough to lean on and lend Sam some support. “Get in before you catch pneumonia. You’ll be sneezing and blowing snot everywhere if you don’t get dry soon.”
He shepherded Sam around to the passenger side, opened the door and shoved him inside.
“You’d still love me.”
Dean snorted as he slid behind the wheel. “That’s not getting you out of cleaning the upholstery. I think we can drive out from here.” He paused, gripping the steering wheel tightly for a few seconds, drawing in a few deep breaths, trying to calm the shaking of his hands. Firing up the engine, rocking the car back and forth a few minutes worked them forward far enough the tires hit drier ground, found purchase. Just before gunning the engine and getting them to a safer road, Dean reached out, squeezed Sam’s shoulder for a few beats. “You did good Sammy. You did real good.”
Shivering, teeth chattering, dripping mud and rainwater Sam looked over at him and absolutely beamed.
+++++
“Deeeean.” Sam went for the indignant little brother whine. He’d spent years perfecting it; he figured he might as well get use out of it. Slapping Dean’s hands away, “I can get my own clothes off.” He started peeling jacket, shirts and jeans off.
“Put a move on then.”
“I’m not one of your cheap dates.” Sam ducked away. With Dean’s injured leg he was slowed down just enough to allow Sam escape to the far side of their motel room. Finding a room closer to the orphanage hadn’t been a problem, most people were heading away. If they were lucky they’d have a day or two before they were forced to evacuate this room, and find somewhere to wait out the storm.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes, and get into a hot shower.”
“You need to get in a hot shower and get that leg scrubbed before it gets infected.” Sam shot back. He might have had more impact if he wasn’t hopping on one foot trying to get soggy socks off his feet.
“Dude, you are shaking so bad you can barely stand, no way are you touching this wound to clean it up until you’ve got steady hands.”
Sam hated when Dean used logic, and good logic at that, on him.
Dean’s voice softened. “Go on. I’ll lay some salt lines, put down the wards.”
Sam bit his lip, looked around the room, saw the realization spread over Dean’s face.
“I’m not wasting hard earned pool game cash on cold medicine, so put a move on.” Dean turned away long enough to check the load on his pistol, one of their shot guns, and lay them on the table between the beds. “I’ll be right here.”
“Okay.” Sam grabbed some clean clothes, headed for the bathroom.
“Don’t take forever. My leg is starting to really hurt.”
Leaving the bathroom door cracked open, Sam heard Dean moving about the room, mumbling a few incantations. Good to his word he was warding and protecting the room. Even in the shower the sound of rain banging the small window and outer wall reached him. Every half minute or so the winds escalated, things crashed and bumped the ground and wall outside. The hot water felt good, even if a musky smell clung to the bathroom walls. The warm, soft sweatpants and sweatshirt he pulled on felt better. His back ached with every inhale, but he could breath freely, the rattle and cough had vanished within a few minutes of being in the car. He was battered and bruised, but not terribly damaged.
Dean left warm, thick socks on his bed.
He got the back of his head smacked when Dean walked by on his way to the bathroom.
Rummaging in their first aid kit for a few seconds, Sam pulled out a container of antiseptic soap. The bathroom door was cracked open, Sam heard the shower running. Opening the door far enough he could lob the container over the shower curtain, snickering when he heard a meaty thunk followed by Dean’s cursing.
“Use that, not the crap these motels have, that stuff probably promotes infection.”
Dean grumbled out, “Thank you Sam.”
By the time Dean hobbled from the shower, Sam had everything he’d need to make sure the cut along Dean’s calf didn’t get any nastier than it was spread out on Dean’s bed.
“It’s not deep, more like the skin got scraped off.” Sam dabbed a chunk of cotton soaked in peroxide along the length of the cut, wincing when Dean sucked in a quick breath. It wasn’t bleeding much, but Sam knew it had to hurt by the way Dean had just stretched out on his bed, leaned back against the headboard and not put up a fuss when Sam wanted to clean the wound.
Dean could have done the whole process himself, just like the majority of Sam’s minor hurts he could care for without help. This was just something they did, had always done. They’d averted disaster yet again, and this was a way to give comfort, get reassurance. They never talked about it, it never seemed necessary and as tough and blustery as Dean often appeared to be, this was something he never fought, in fact the opposite, he seemed to appreciate Sam’s efforts, like the attention. If anything it was Sam who was many times being told to sit still and let Dean take care of his wounds.
Twisting around to grab two tubes of antibiotic cream, Sam held up one in each hand, “Gotta preference?”
“That one.” Dean’s chin jerked at Sam’s right hand. “That other stuff smells funny.”
“Dean, everything we own smells funny.”
Dean sort of gave him a half nod and a bit of a grimace, taking the offered tube of cream. Catching Sam’s wrist with his other hand, he pulled gently. “Sit down.”
Sam sat.
Dean was hurt, although very minimally, but it was a rule, if the hurt guy asked for something, the other guy complied. Dean was clearly enacting that rule. Sam watched his brother, waited patiently for him to say whatever it was he was working through his head to get out his mouth.
“Sam, I’m sorry.” Dean finally got done smearing antibiotic cream down his leg, and looked up at him.
Drawing in a breath, Sam opened his mouth to ask why, but Dean’s hand resting on his forearm again silenced him.
“I told you, promised you, that thing wouldn’t, couldn’t take either of us, and it did.”
“I’m not five Dean. It wasn’t your fault, and I sure don’t blame you. You said you wouldn’t let it take me, and it didn’t. I fell through the floor. You can’t control other people or other things, and I get that. The fact you say those things and mean it, that’s what’s really important to me.” Sam turned away long enough to repack the first aid kit. Facing Dean once more, he ran one hand through his hair before continuing. “I think that building is important. Has something to do with it somehow.”
“Like some kind of energy well?” Dean gave his shoulder a poke. “How’d you get out anyway?”
“This is going to sound a little weird.”
Dean quirked one eyebrow and offered up one of his most dramatic long-suffering sighs.
Sam looked down at his knees, rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a half laugh. “Remember the little boy in that article I was reading in the car on the way down here?” Dean nodded. Sam continued. “I think it was his ghost. Following him through the walls was…an experience. I’m not exactly built for that.”
Dean burst out laughing.
When Sam shifted his weight, intending to move to his own bed, Dean’s fingers once again pressed against his wrist, keeping him in place. “I tried to hang on. I tried not to let you go, to let it take you.” He confessed in a small voice.
“Sammy, the only thing it was able to do was throw me out the back door. I think it has less physical power, and more emotional power, that’s where it does its damage, how it works.”
“It showed me things about you and me, like before.”
“We’ve kept it at bay this far, we can keep on doing that. I think we need to get back into that building, but not until the hurricane passes.”
“Those hunters, they saw it too. They wanted to use me as bait.”
“I know.” Dean said softly. “I heard them talking. That’s not going to happen either.” He gave Sam’s wrist a gentle, reassuring squeeze, then let his fingers slide from Sam’s arm.
“I meant what I said back there, about you and Dad.”
“Sam.”
As much as he feared another blow up between them, Sam needed to get this out, to make Dean understand. Ignoring his brother Sam pressed on. “I was reading those files and I realized how freaking lucky I was. When I was a kid you never ditched me, I never felt unwanted, or unloved. I always knew no matter where we moved you’d be there. I’d fit in with you. Even when I went to Stanford I knew you’d be there if I called. You raised me. Dad wasn’t even a close second to you.” He took a deep breath. “All those kids living in that orphanage, no one wanted them. I have no concept of what that feels like, and not because of Dad.”
Sam stood, wiping his palms against his jeans, needing to get out and knowing he couldn’t go anywhere. Dean sat there, watching him fidget. “We need our other stuff. I’m going to go get the weapons bag, salt lines and wards won’t stop those hunters.”
Dean nodded. By the time Sam was back in the room, Dean had the TV on, though they expected the power here to be gone before morning.
“Keep everything packed up in case we get evacuated or something.” Dean said. “We might have to find somewhere to hold up that’s not public if the cops decide to do a forced evacuation. Somewhere abandoned, but we’re going for high ground. None of this riding out the hurricane on the beach crap.”
“Okay.” Sam picked at his sweatshirt, watching Dean with sideways glances.
“Sammy.”
Sam was up, moving across the space between the beds, “Is your leg all right, you need anything?”
“Yeah, I do. I need you to believe me when I say we’ll beat this thing, you and me, just like always. We’ve always been in this together Sammy, always. That’s never going to change.”
His head felt empty and dizzy as he backed up to his own bed, dropping on it when the back of his legs hit the mattress. “Okay.” Sam managed to rasp out.
“Good.” Dean grinned, wicked and sly. “Now why don’t you find me some snacks before the power goes out and the microwave is useless? And we’ll figure our next move.”
Sam grinned, that was the best idea he’d heard yet today.
Chapter 7
Sam had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but it was long enough every muscle he owned stiffened and locked. His back was a slow, steady throb of ache, making breathing uncomfortable, bordering on painful.
The insistent banging was joined by a harsh shout from outside the door.
“Yeah, yeah. Coming.” Sam grumbled, pushed himself up and off the bed. “Dean?” He hadn’t intended to bump the end of Dean’s bed as he navigated the murky dark of their room, but his best intentions went awry.
Hearing his brother shift up against the headboard, a sharp hiss accompanied the rustle of sheets. “Ya…Sam…don’t…” Dean’s voice was gravely and thick, catching in time with his breathing. Though his wound was minimal, he still probably suffered the same as Sam, stiffened up and sore.
Despite Dean’s protests, Sam opened the door.
“Ow.” One hand immediately covering his eyes, the other gripped the door handle, leaning his weight against it.
The light dropped to his chest. “Oh, sorry, kid.”
The cop standing opposite Sam had held the flashlight over his own head, aiming high, obviously not expecting to shine it in someone’s eyes.
“ ‘S’okay.” Sam offered the startled cop a half-hearted grin and didn’t mention he was used to it. He followed the officer’s gaze to the floor and watched as the man took in the fact there was a line of salt across the doorway. Sam shrugged, “Rats. Big ones. They hate that stuff.”
“Huh. Learn something new every day.” The light swung away from Sam and into the room, landing on Dean as he clambered from the bed. “You and your--”
“Brother.”
“Yeah, your brother, need to pack up and move west and north. We’re evacuating this area. It’s just been upgraded to four, and there’s still another day before it hits. The surge is moving in.”
Sam blinked at the man, confused.
“Are you listening to me?” The cop snapped out.
Dean limped across the floor, stopped close enough behind Sam that he could feel his brother’s every movement, and grumbled out an irritated, “Hey.” It wasn’t a greeting, Sam knew, but a warning to this stranger. Sam’s brain finally kicked in, and he remembered. Hurricane coming! Now the conversation and the cop’s presence made sense.
The light moved to Dean, then down to his leg. “Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”
Fingers gripping the door, Dean eased it away from Sam’s control and insinuated himself between Sam and the cop, even though he didn’t physically move in front of Sam. “Na, we got mired down. Raked my leg on the bumper of my car getting out, just a big scrape.”
The cop glared at Dean. Dean glared back.
The flashlight beam moved across their room, his gaze following, before both came back to settle on Dean again. The cop looked Dean up and down. Dean returned the favor. Sam bit back a smile when the cop’s free hand moved to his gun and he stepped back. Little did this poor man know, he’d committed two grievous errors. He’d woken up Dean, and then spoken harshly to Sam. While Dean made a career out of waking people up, and speaking harshly to Sam, it was a different matter entirely when someone else did those things.
“We never really unpacked much, figured we’d have to move out quick.” Sam put all the innocence he could muster into his voice and face. The cop relaxed some, gaze shifting away from Dean and back onto Sam.
“Then you’ll be out shortly. The road is marked, be sure to follow it.” Giving their room, and belongings, another swift visual the cop said, “No detours.”
“Mind if I take a piss first?” Dean snarled out.
Sam rolled his eyes, mumbled, “Yessir,” and tightened his fingers around the doorknob, pulling the door away from Dean. “We’re leaving.”
“Sure. Just be quick and don’t decide to take a dump too.” The cop snapped out, spun on his heels and headed to the next room.
Sam was forced to let go of the door, and sidestep to keep from being hit when Dean shoved it closed. “He was only doing his job, Dean.”
“He didn’t have to be such an ass. What did he expect, waking people up in the middle of the night?”
Shoving his wrist against his mouth to stifle his chuckle, Sam headed for their duffels. “You’re such a charmer.” He watched Dean limp across the room. “Where are you going?”
Dean threw both hands in the air, “To take a piss. Sheesh.”
By the time Dean was back out of the bathroom, he was moving with more of his usual fluidity. The grumbling, however, was on the upswing.
“What?” Sam was getting a bit annoyed. He was dressed and ready to head out.
“You gotta stop that shit, Sam.”
Sam looked down at the pile of duffels near his feet, then raised his eyes to meet his brother’s. “Packing?”
Dean’s frustrated growl caught Sam off guard. “No. Shit like opening the door without knowing who is on the other side.”
He looked from Dean to the door and back again. “I don’t think they’d knock. They’d just bust through. They didn’t strike me as that smart.”
“They might be. That one, the older one, he might be.”
“Sorry.” Sam was willing to admit when Dean was right, even if in a round about way.
“Just…be more careful, don’t do it again.”
“Did you recognize him?”
Dean shook his head. “No.” Sam watched as his brother drew in a deep breath, rubbed at the back of his neck, and focused on a point over Sam’s shoulder as he pulled on his jeans. “Did you?”
Sam had to wonder which was more difficult, Dean asking the question or Sam having to answer it. “He knew me. I didn’t know him.” His voice barely made it out of his tightening throat. A shiver wormed its way through him. He was acutely aware of Dean’s eyes on him.
“He said he knew Steve Wandell.”
Sam nodded. “Were there any…did you see pictures…or anything?”
“No, nothing. What do you remember?”
Expecting that, Sam shrugged. It’d been Dean’s way ever since he’d been possessed, skirt around the details until he knew what Sam remembered, which parts Sam had seen, what things Sam hadn’t been awake to experience. “I remember sitting at a desk, watching myself—” His breath unexpectedly catching, emotion welling up, Sam stuttered to a stop.
Dean finished dressing, all the while keeping quiet, watching Sam, giving him time, waiting for him to get the words out.
“I saw how I killed him.”
“Meg killed him, Sam. Not you.” Dean was adamant, firm, on reminding Sam he hadn’t been in control. He wasn’t who’d committed those acts.
Sam swallowed roughly, nodded once and met Dean’s eyes. He took in a deep breath. “On the computer, the recording of Wandell being killed, you asking me about clearing the hard drive, then…” he shrugged, “Blank.”
Dean glanced at the floor for a second, before looking back up. “Then I guess you didn’t see me smash the computer. I kept asking you how to clear the hard drive, when you didn’t answer I busted it into pieces.”
“She’d let me see things, snatches here and there.”
Reaching down for one of the duffels, Dean snorted when Sam took it from him, and shouldered the rest, but didn’t make any further comment. “I find that bitch and I’m sending her so far back down into Hell she’ll never find her way out.”
Sam smiled shyly when Dean’s fingers wound around his bicep, ushering him out the door. Dean pulled the motel door shut, gave the knob a jiggle to be sure it was locked. Sam gave his head a slight shake. Leave it to Dean to worry about looters.
Once inside the Impala, Sam immediately relaxed; sliding down until he could rest his head against the back of the seat.
He sat silently, staring out the passenger window while Dean maneuvered their car onto the road, at first following the signs and directions for the evacuation route.
It seemed to Sam, no matter how much time went by, that week would forever come back to bite him in the ass. At more than one turn Sam was reminded, he’d spent a week, lost a week, and knew very little of what he’d done. There people out there wanting retribution for actions not his own, but committed by him all the same.
Sam gave himself a pep talk. He could do this, he really could. He’d had his doubts the first few weeks after Meg, after being possessed, and it still hurt, still haunted after all this time. Sam spent a lot of time at first, pouring over newspapers, tracking things online, watching them on TV, searching out any detail that might lead back to him. Scrutinizing any description of wanted men with even the vaguest similarity in description to him. He hadn’t followed through with Jo, Dean saw to that, but maybe with some other poor girl? Maybe he’d beaten someone, or robbed them. Sam himself wouldn’t do those things, but he wasn’t a fool. His body was quite capable of inflicting more than a little damage on someone.
He’d seen the after affects of what he’d inflicted on Dean.
Dean let him do those things, hadn’t fought back. Sam had no delusions, if Dean needed to, wanted to, Dean could beat him. Others, however, there were plenty of innocent people Sam could overpower with out breaking a sweat. It was those people, the store clerks, or the people in a bar Meg decided to use Sam to get some cheap thrill from. Those were the ones, the unknown faces that haunted him.
His brother’s constant reminder, Sam had no choice, wasn’t responsible and hadn’t been who’d committed those unknown, forced acts, became an anchor. It took Sam a while to get used to himself again. He felt like a stranger in his own body. How Dean had even put up with the jumpy person Sam was in those first weeks, Sam could only guess.
Dean had a side to him, a way about him, few others ever saw. Sam saw it, so did the occasional child they’d met during their hunts. He had a stability, a sturdiness that simply exuded calm and confidence. If Dean Winchester said it was so, Sam believed him. He often wondered did people who tamed wild horses, or melt in with lion prides have the same quality. Dean projected a calm that offered by its mere existence a safe spot to lick one’s proverbial wounds, to rebuild and regroup and heal.
Sam had sure felt like some wild animal, captured and unsure, he’d been more nervous and outright skittish than ever before. If it hadn’t been for Dean, he’d have never gotten beyond that, or most other things in his life, Sam was sure.
Dean’s hand thumping his chest, made him push straighter. “Hey, give me a hand here? You still in there?”
Straightening farther, Sam coughed and cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“There’s not as many cops along this part, now is the time.”
Fumbling between his feet for the maps, Sam finally found the one he wanted. He unrolled it and spread it over his lap. Digging for a minute in the glove compartment, he extracted their
“That thing isn’t going to work,” Dean snorted. “Hell it got confused when we drove through some thick trees last week.”
What Dean had against some of the newer technology like MP3’s instead of tapes and
“Told ya.”
A quick shrug, “Whatever. For the record, it didn’t get confused, you did. It works fine. I want to save the battery charge.”
Trailing his flashlight beam along the map, Sam glanced up and back down a few times to the beat of Dean’s impatient huffed breaths. “Sam.”
“I’m working on it.” Another look into the wet, murky night before he pointed past Dean’s nose, “There, another couple of blocks, on the left.”
Shoving Sam’s arm down, Dean growled then muttered, “I see it.”
Before Sam could stop him, Dean flicked the side of his head. Fingers winding in Sam’s hair, he gave a quick tug and drew his hand back to the steering wheel. Sam pretended not to notice; though by the way the corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled for a few seconds, Sam knew he hadn’t covered his quick grin fast enough.
As he eased the big car to the left, Dean cut the lights. They slipped off the main evacuation route to a side street, heading west but south, not north. After a few false starts, turning down streets either blocked or plain wrong, they finally found their way. Going farther inland, but still heading into the rain bands, they found the school they’d pegged as having activity consistent with the boogeyman demon.
This school wasn’t an abandoned orphanage, this was a modern, and much to Sam’s relief, sturdy looking building. They’d found a few around the area, this one being the center of activity outside the orphanage.
“Think we were followed?” Sam reached in the back, snagged his jacket and the laptop bag. Not only did it carry his computer, but the paper files as well. He stuffed an extra flashlight in it; the other, smaller flashlight went into his pocket.
“I have no idea. It’s impossible to tell.” Dean guided the Impala around the building, to the side facing away from the street.
They stopped and sat looking at the building. Dean squinted through the window. “One story. Not a lot of wiggle room if the flooding gets here.”
Sam clicked the
Dean nodded, driving that way. There wasn’t much water on the street yet, but they knew that would change in the next few hours. The part of the city they’d come from, the more eastern section, already had water rushing the roadways. In the dark it was nearly impossible to tell the depth. The car finally came to a stop on the third level of the garage, well in the middle, away from the open sides.
“Think that school is old enough to have a bomb shelter?”
Sam shrugged one shoulder, shoved out of the car and moved to meet his brother at the trunk. “I don’t know. I didn’t get far enough to find out when it was built. It should have plenty of inside rooms though.”
Each of them had a few duffels, carrying not only weapons and hunting equipment, but survival supplies as well. Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s instructions to stick close because it was expected, not because he intended on doing otherwise.
The winds tore through the parking garage; bits of debris, street signs and things Sam couldn’t identify blew between the garage and surrounding buildings. The school was maybe a football field in distance away, but it looked like a million miles.
“The water starts coming in; we’re getting out and back here. The only place we’ll have to go is the roof, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to sit this thing out on a roof.” Dean was talking to Sam, but stalking around the car, giving it one last inspection before they left.
Sam repositioned the duffels, hiking them farther up on his shoulder and ignored the way Dean turned, sized him up and down the same he did the car. Checking for cracks, making sure everything was in working order. Sam trailed Dean down the three flights of stairs to the entrance of the parking garage. They were hit nearly at once by winds strong enough to push them back, make them struggle for footing.
Dean had a length of rope around his shoulder, he slid it down and unwrapped it part way.
“It’s not long enough.” Sam shouted over the wind.
Nodding, Dean looked up and down the street. “It would be a dead give away where we are anyway.”
Hitting Dean’s shoulder for his attention, Sam pointed to a group of cement dividers running the length of the street between the garage and school. He took the end of the rope Dean shoved at him, moving back into the garage, finding a place to secure it. Dean moved into the open, taking a minute to check all directions. Sam smiled, most kids learned to look both ways while crossing a street. Dean, ever the hunter, taught Sam to look more than left and right, there was up and down too.
The rope whipped in circles, but held fast tied between the dividers and the garage. If they had to come back in deep water, they only needed to make it half way before they’d have the rope guide.
Getting across to the school wasn’t nearly as bad as the return trip might be, Sam was sure. After making fast work of the locks, no power so no alarms, they slipped inside. At once the roar of wind and the pelting of sharp water against his skin stopped. A few steps into the building muted the churning environment outside.
The majority of the outer windows were glass block, and the construction was cement and stone cinderblock. This place had been made to survive the storms assaulting it over the years. The natural ones at least.
The unnatural storms inside the school’s walls slammed into Sam with force far greater than any hurricane. Fear, desperation, loathing, utter helplessness rolled over him in waves, halting his progress down the main hall. They’d been preyed upon, the children here over the decades. The unloved, unwanted, unprotected. His eyes trailed up the walls, to the ceiling, across and down the opposite wall.
“Not exactly Rydell High, is it?” Dean’s flashlight scanned along the walls, the drawings done by one class adorned a large section between two doors. “It’s here, isn’t it?”
The skin along Sam’s spine took on a life of its own, prickled and raised. Damp, cold beads of moisture oozed under his shirt. Dean’s back was to him; his eyes focused on the artwork, yet he’d known, sensed the change in Sam immediately. Exactly how Dean did that, Sam had never been able to work out. Right now it was on the top of the Dean Winchester fine qualities list.
When Dean turned to look at him, Sam finally managed to croak out, “Yeah.”
Sam’s mind skimmed back over what he knew to be truth, he actively projected the thoughts and emotions back into the maelstrom of evil and hate assaulting him. He and Dean, they were loved, wanted, protected. Even if only by each other. That was enough, more than enough.
Strong, sure fingers wound around the back of his neck, making him start. Even though he had neither heard nor felt Dean moving, he’d sensed his presence closing in, growing stronger, and enveloping the both of them in his bubble of steady calm. The hand settling on him was more unexpected and sent a shiver through Sam. It was as sure a sign of Dean’s fear as anything. It’d been Dean’s habit as long as Sam could remember; if Dean was scared, Sam was reeled in, kept close. Dean was consistent if nothing else, forever the hunter, the warrior, the protector.
It was something about his brother Sam truly blessed.
He was close enough to his brother that when Dean spoke, Sam felt the vibrations snarl out of his chest.
“Not us. Not us. You can’t have us.”
Sam watched as Dean’s eyes glittered bright and skimmed the hallway around them, issuing his own challenge right back at the thing they faced.
As if some blanket was pulled from the air, the oppressive weight pushing in on Sam from all sides evaporated and he could breathe again. He took a few minutes, simply relishing in the ability to fully expand his chest, pull air into his lungs that wasn’t cold and putrid with despair. As before they’d stop the immediate threat using herbs and wards, however, finding a place to hide them in the cinderblock walls was going to be tricky. Spreading any seeds outside right now would be useless, and the odds of them being around after the floodwaters receded were small. Sam knew they’d have to return to the orphanage, the center of activity of the entire area.
Dean had moved away a few feet. The beam from his flashlight glided over the drawings hanging on the wall. “Some of these kids are really good.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Disturbed, but good.” Pulling a paper from the wall, Dean swiveled on his heels, holding it out to Sam. “There’s more of the same here, this one has one more detail than the others.”
Sam took the offered drawing. It was done in comic book style, though what the story was being told was lost on Sam. It was the faces of the characters that drew his attention. Of the three on the page, to a last they all had solid eyes, two with black eyes, one with red. No pupils, just solid color. In the background was an image that made Sam pull in a fast breath and clamp his fingers down on the page to steady the sudden shake of his hand.
Forcing his eyes away from the paper and up to meet Dean’s, Sam had nothing to say. Dean took the paper, folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. “I’d say there’s no question now, it was here.”
“It still is.”
Sam’s mind shuddered at the thought of why some thirteen-year-old child would be drawing a picture like that, a picture with an oily black thing slithering in the background. A thing that several times now assaulted both Sam and Dean, had slithered over Sam’s skin, leaving in its wake still a feeling of slime, cold and humiliation. A monster capable of infiltrating his mind, forcing pain and violation while trying to provoke the same.
He couldn’t help thinking of some poor kid, boy or girl, he had no idea, and it didn’t matter, sitting alone, afraid night after night, enduring until every last defense was stripped away, gone. A child feeling unwanted was the prefect prey for this predator.
This type of possession was far worse than anything Meg could dish out, Sam was very sure. Even if the act wasn’t physical in the traditional sense of the word, but an emotional, mental act, rape was still rape.
Chapter 8
He concentrated on keeping Sam focused on their job, just as he’d done after Meg. Sam would talk to him about it, Dean had no doubts about that, but he knew the kid needed to process what they’d discovered, as well as his own emotions first. Sam had one reason for not telling Dean these sorts of things and it was simple: Sam didn’t know himself. Once he’d worked it out, Dean would be flooded with what ifs and details aplenty. So, while Dean kept his focus on Sam, he worked to keep Sam’s focus on their hunt.
Right now what they both needed was a victory, no matter how small, and answers to provide something more solid for them to both focus on.
As they moved quietly down the center hallway of the school, Dean felt how Sam drew close to him then moved away. They’d get just far enough apart to be a few paces from one another, and Sam would silently close the distance between them. Some of Sam’s movements coincided with the spacing of pictures along the walls; others seemed to be from the air itself.
Dean knew Sam felt this thing, and through Sam’s unspoken reactions, their ability to communicate without words, Dean felt it too. More precisely he felt Sam’s reactions to the demon. It was following them, or maybe flowing around them, surrounding them. Dean finally settled on that last action in his head. They were in an eye, the unnatural storm circling on all sides, waiting for its chance to move in and attack.
Something hitting the roof of the building and sliding across to clatter down the far side reminded Dean there was another storm outside, just as deadly, and just as powerful. They both stopped in their tracks, eyes up at the ceiling.
“What do you suppose the odds are we end up riding this storm out in a parking garage?” Sam’s voice was soft, but steady.
Dean snorted. “Better than us winning the lottery.”
That got an honest laugh from Sam. “I think we have to buy a ticket first, Dean.” His flashlight sliding over the walls, Sam pointed to a spot a few yards farther down. “Look there. Maybe that’s protected enough we can throw some of the seeds out there?”
“Suppose they have planters here?” Dean stepped away, following the line of Sam’s flashlight.
In the center of the building, surrounded on all sides by hallways and classrooms was a courtyard, maybe twenty by twenty foot square. The wind was caught in the small space, leaves and other debris whipped around in mini-vortexes. Rainwater hammered the sides, but not the ground, caught in the torrents of air and pushed back up.
Dean aimed his flashlight up, jaw dropping down at the same time. “That’s just cool.”
Sam leaned over his shoulder, fingertips against the glass for balance, and looked up. “Yeah.” He turned, and looked down the hall. “There.” Pointing to a door leading to the courtyard, “Got any of the seeds and herbs?”
Digging in one of his duffels, Dean dumped a handful into Sam’s waiting palm, along with a few of the herb packets. A few quick, long strides carried his kid brother down the hall.
“Sam, don’t—”
Pushing the door open, Sam stepped out, immediately covering his face with this free hand. Bent nearly in half, Sam made his way a few feet from the door, toed a gouge in the dirt and dropped everything down. He tamped the ground, covering the seeds and satchels as best he could then turned back the way he’d come.
The winds picked up even more, pushing Sam sideways as much as he propelled himself forward. Arm up and over his face, his hair whipped one way then the other, Dean knew that had to be disorienting.
Bracing the door open with one foot Dean stretched as far out as he could shouting, “Sam!” above the roar of wind and rain.
Sam nodded the slightest, he’d heard. His own yell of “DEAN!” nearly lost on the wind before it reached Dean’s ears. The second Sam was within reach, Dean’s fingers wound in his jacket, pulling him closer. Once Sam was closer, Dean got a good grip on his arms, then one arm around Sam’s back, hauling him back inside, using his foot to swing the door shut at the same time.
Spinning his brother around, shoving his back against the wall, Dean leaned against him for a few seconds, panting. “What the hell Sam?”
“One…of us…had…to…” Sam gasped, holding himself upright against Dean’s shoulder.
“We have rope you idiot.”
Sam looked up at him, his face dropping. “Huh. Shit.” He sagged a bit.
Dean patted the back of Sam’s neck, and shifted more of his weight against the wall. “Some days you’re just dumb.”
“What about the rest, air conditioning vents?” Sam was ignoring him.
“Those get cleaned out.”
“Any other ideas, cause we sure can’t ding holes in these walls.”
“No.” Dean sighed. “Let’s take a look around, if we can’t find anything better, that’ll have to do. Maybe it’ll be enough until we can get back to the orphanage, take care of this around here for good.”
Nodding, Sam wiped one hand over the back of his mouth and pushed off the wall. They moved down the center of the hall, all the while Dean acutely aware of how the edges of his vision were clouded with black, how Sam kept looking behind them and side to side as he walked. The damp air chilled, making them both shiver. They had no real proof the plants and herbs would work, but it was the best they had right now unless they could openly confront the thing, as they had in Battersfield.
There was only one way to do that, Sam had to be bait. They both knew it. Dean wasn’t anxious to repeat that little scenario, and he suspected Sam was even less enthusiastic about the prospect of having the boogeyman slithering over him again.
They’d found no spell or way of destroying the thing. So far the only thing they knew that worked for sure was their staying together and an iron rod. Not a lot of weapons.
A room near the corner of two intersecting halls had rows of heavy cabinets along its far end. Dean shoved his weight against them, leaning the entire thing just far enough away from the wall for Sam to get his hand in and drop some one of the herb packets between cabinet and wall.
They followed the hallway to the next corner. Moving so he was behind Sam a bit, Dean shot a quick look over his shoulder. The black was still there, but not as close. Keeping one hand on Sam’s back as they moved, he pressed his fingers against his brother’s ribs, getting him to pick up the pace. Offices lined this hallway and its intersecting one at this corner.
Ducking inside one, they scouted around. Everything in the outer office was light and moveable. The inner offices were much the same.
“This is a bust.” Sam said.
Dean took another look around, twisting his torso left, then right. “In there.”
Sam nodded, heading for the room Dean pointed to, a sign across the door informed them it was a utility room. In it were access doors for plumbing and wiring.
Sam cracked a grin, “That’ll work.”
Pocketknife out Sam had the panel unscrewed and pulled away from the wall in no time, setting it carefully to the side. Dean took another of the satchels, and stuffed it into the wall, shoving it down between the pipes where he hoped it wouldn’t be found. He sat down, leaning heavily against the wall for a few breaths, rubbing his leg.
Pounding from the winds outside and something large hitting the outer part of the wall had them both starting.
“Do you think we need to do all four directions, like a haunting?” Sam laid one hand against the pipes, stopping their vibrating and rattling, before he replaced the panel. Dean knew that was Sam-speak for suggesting Dean take a break.
“I think we should, just to be safe. It’s not gonna hurt anything. Besides, we’re stuck here.”
Sam silently gathered their things, and without comment slipped one hand under Dean’s arm, helping him up. Dean gave himself a mental swift kick in the rear, he was trying to get Sam’s mind off the fact they were trapped in here with this demon intent on invading them both.
“Let’s get it finished and find somewhere to lay some salt and settle in.”
Dean nodded, agreeing. Jerking his chin toward the hall, “Next stop.” He didn’t shake off Sam’s hand, even though he didn’t need the extra support for balance. It made him feel better just then to know Sam’s exact position, and since Sam didn’t do much to take his hand away, he knew Sam felt the same, knowing precisely where Dean was.
The third corner was the cafeteria, where they stashed a satchel behind the freezer. At the fourth was the school gymnasium, and lockers hid the herb packet. They finally settled themselves in one of the rooms near the offices; there were no windows in that section. Sam laid out salt, while Dean took stock of the supplies they’d brought.
His leg throbbed; it was more annoying and tiring than anything else and did little except sap his energy to leave him feeling drained and worn out. Leaning against one wall, Dean stretched his legs out and closed his eyes, telling himself it was for just a minute. His senses reached out, keeping him constantly aware of Sam’s movements. The blackness still lurked in the halls, though it did seem to be avoiding the areas they’d left the herb packets. Letting gravity pull at him, he relaxed his shoulders, felt tension ease from his back.
Shuddering back to consciousness when something brushed the back of his head, Dean was surprised to find Sam’s face right above his.
“Oh, whoa, sorry.” Sam smiled at him, braced one hand against Dean’s chest. “I was just…you looked uncomfortable.” Sitting back on his heels, Sam pulled his other hand from the wall behind Dean’s head.
The soft wall.
Reaching back, Dean felt the denim jacket, balled into a pillow, between him and the wall. “We have to—”
Sam at once stopped him from moving away, sitting straighter. “Dean, take a few and rest.” Settling a foot or so away, Sam pulled one of the files from his computer bag. He cocked one eyebrow, one shoulder pulled up and dropped down, I’m sitting right here.
Dean nodded in acknowledgement, understanding Sam’s silent statement. He’d stay put, within reach, keeping watch until Dean was rested and it was his turn.
His eyes drifted shut again. Cracking one eye open a few breaths later, he meant to tell Sam to give him another minute or two, and they’d get some food from their packs, work out a better plan for confronting the boogeyman demon, still not completely convinced the herb satchels would stop the thing. Slow it down yes, maybe keep it at bay for a bit, but stop it, they had no way to be sure. His heavy eyelids and muddied up brain had other ideas, however.
Eyes popping open, Dean stared at the floor. Brackish water slipped across staining it dark, leaving streaks that reflected no light. The pounding in his ears he realized was in time with the slamming of his heart against his ribs. He watched, fascinated, as it moved toward him, parted and covered the flooring near his legs.
Gaze traveling upwards, Dean realized the roaring of the hurricane had died suddenly, making him wonder if the eye was passing over. But when had the storm landed? When he and Sam came to this building they still had eight or twelve hours before landfall. The air around him chilled and darkened.
Sam. Where the hell was Sam?
The water snapped around him, ribbons of it reached out, licked at his legs. When he looked straight at it, it retreated a few inches, watching him. Dean watched the water.
Palms against the floor, Dean pushed away from the wall, sat straight. As he drew his legs to him, preparing to stand, the water followed. It gathered itself into one wide river slipping through the room. When Dean stood it, swished back in his direction, then glided over the floor, away from him.
Tentative steps carried Dean after the water, this wasn’t water; water didn’t do this.
Sam was in the room somewhere. He couldn’t leave Sam, couldn’t leave him alone. Yet, his feet wouldn’t listen and carried him forward, trailing the water.
As the door came closer, the water became a single sheet, lifting up and covering the opening like a wall. A black, oily wall that reflected no light. It split apart at its center, and there was Sam.
His brother’s mouth worked, but no noise came out. Dean knew though, Sam was shouting, screaming his name. Arms reaching out, Sam was forced back. The water encased him in a blink of Dean’s eye. It was pulled into Sam’s nostrils with his every breath, dashed into his opened mouth, covered him completely.
Except for Sam’s eyes. He pleaded, begged silently with nothing more than what he could convey with his eyes. “Stop it, end this. Dean? Please. DEAN!”
Dean couldn’t move, he struggled to reach his brother, but his arms hung limply at his sides, his legs now refused to move.
A sharp pain cut through him when he was yanked up and away.
“We gotta get outa here!” Sam’s voice was deep, urgent and desperate. His hand slid under Dean’s arms, yanking him to his feet.
Arms flailing, his own hands gripping Sam’s shoulders, the world tilted and spun for a few seconds, the room glided into and out of focus, as did Sam. “S’mmy?”
“Nap time’s over.” Sam sidestepped a bit, the sound of his feet sloshing water made Dean frown and look at his own feet.
Water, real water, swirled in mini whirlpools and lapped around them dampening his jeans. The salt laid down earlier floated, fanning out in all directions, no longer a barrier of protection.
“Dean!” Sam gave him another, sharper, harder shake and shoved duffels into Dean’s hands. “The surge is moving in.”
“Crap.” Dean’s brain finally clicked on. Shouldering the bags, he shoved Sam ahead of him. “Put a move on.”
Sam huffed something insulting and nearly tripped over a chair getting his feet moving in the right direction. When they hit the doorway, they stopped. Sam turned and looked at Dean, eyes widening, they darted between Dean and the thick, oppressive black looming in the hall, waiting for them. “I think we trapped it but it can draw too much energy from the hurricane.” He stammered out between sucking in ragged gulps of air.
“This is bad.” Grabbing Sam’s hand and making him fold his fingers across Dean’s arm, take hold of Dean’s wrist; he used his free hand to latch onto Sam’s neck and took a step into the hall.
Sam immediately jerked his weight back, pulling Dean back into the room. “Dean, what are you doing?”
“We’ll drown if we stay in here, and we can’t sit on the roof in a friggin hurricane.” He shifted his gaze away from Sam long enough to give another assessment of the thick, oily black just inches from them. “Sammy, trust me. I don’t know how, but I know we can do this.”
“Dean, of course I—” Sam’s attention skipped from Dean to the hallway and back again. “But it’s—”
“You have to trust me Sammy. You have to hang on and no matter what happens, what you see or feel or hear, you hang on to me.” His words rushed out so fast he had a hard time keeping up with himself, it was a marvel Sam was able to. Dean couldn’t stop the quake from working its way through him, knew by Sam’s expression he felt it too. “You don’t let go of me. Sam. You don’t lose me.”
Even as Sam’s eyes grew wider, his grip on Dean’s wrist tightened to a steel band encircling Dean’s arm. “Dean?”
“Do you trust me?”
Sam’s lips pressed to a thin, determined line. Eyes locked on Dean’s he nodded once. Dean forged ahead, head bent down, both hands firmly clutching his brother; he threw them both into the black.
Chapter 9
Keeping Sam ahead of him, so he was between as much of the demon and Sam as possible, Dean charged straight into its core. He kept going until they hit the wall opposite the room they’d just left. Or more specifically, Sam hit the wall and Dean hit Sam. Sam might’ve had inches on Dean, but Dean had pounds on Sam. So the fact Dean forcefully sandwiched him between himself and the wall had to hurt. The soft grunt and softer whimper that slipped from Sam confirmed Dean’s suspicions. Dean’s little brother wasn’t actually very little, but being shoved into things by Dean was going to hurt.
The knowledge of what he’d be about to do twisted in Dean’s stomach, making him want to vomit. He’d have to hurt Sam on purpose in the midst of a thing that hungered after and fed off such an act. Its desire for their pain, their fear, sat thick and sour on Dean’s tongue and oozed to the back of his throat.
Dean was counting on the fact Sam was tough and strong, he’d weather the physical abuse about to be doled out, even if it did come from Dean. Bruises, physical ones, healed fast. Dean’s primary concern was keeping physical contact between Sam and the boogeyman to a minimum. That meant they had to keep moving. Keep moving meant they were going to run into things they couldn’t see right now.
It was Sam’s reactions, the small flinches, quick intake of breath, the sudden cringing back against Dean that told him which way to turn, what direction to take. Sam reacted strongly to this thing and it to him. Through his brother Dean tracked its strongest and weakest points, found them a path through. As terrifying as this thing was to Dean, it didn’t have the ability to nearly paralyze him as it did to Sam.
They were right in the belly of the beast.
It skimmed over them; Dean felt a cool touch slime cross his cheek. He twisted to the side, blocking Sam, knowing it’d made contact when Sam turned and pressed his forehead to Dean’s shoulder for the briefest second, hissing in a breath between his teeth. He felt the ebb and flow of the energy surrounding them, how it would move in, poke and prod, test for weakness, then pull back unexpectedly.
Sam pushed off the wall, Dean’s fingers tightened on his neck. Sam’s tight and small nod—I’m okay, Dean, go, go!—Gave Dean the courage to forge ahead.
Clinging to Sam as if he was some tether and Dean was a drowning man, Dean turned them toward the longer, main hall. Their dash cut short by a glancing hit to the corner of the wall. Dean felt the breath forced from Sam’s lungs in a soft whoosh, he bent over, clutching Dean’s wrist to his middle, trapping it between his arm and torso. Dean felt a ripple of pain go through his brother, braced one hand against his back, rubbing a few times before applying enough pressure to force them into movement again. It used their stop to immediately close in. Trying to force distance between them.
Sam must’ve felt it too. His fingers at once tightened even more around Dean’s wrist. Dean felt how he sucked in a sudden breath, how the muscles along his back went rigid. Dean realized the black was shifting more of its energy around him and to Sam. It was changing tactics, testing a direct assault on Sam.
The black pooled along their feet, when it started shimmying up, Dean spun around. Sam was nearly yanked off his feet, unable to see or know just what Dean was doing and he nearly lost his balance. They froze for a few seconds, hanging onto each other’s arms, getting their footing. This time when Dean shoved forward, Sam’s feet were already moving. Sam was as able to read Dean’s body language as Dean was Sam’s, he simply had less contact.
They stumbled a few more feet before regaining coordination between them, then sprinted in the direction of the exit. Dean felt some of the pressure building in his ears decrease. The black backed off, whether by design or surprise, Dean didn’t know. The next wall they slammed head on into had a door to the outside along its length. Again plowing Sam into the wall with his momentum, Dean cringed and fought the sting of tears when his brother yelped, then recoiled and moaned something too close to a soft sob for Dean’s liking.
It tried insinuating itself between them again, pushing them apart. Dean hung on tighter; moving so one arm was securely around Sam’s middle. He nudged at Sam’s leg with his knee. That small bit of encouragement sent Sam inching forward. All the while he gripped Dean’s wrist with one hand, his other hand out in front in an effort to deflect them from walls, find an out.
The pressure behind Dean’s eyes and in his ears escalated. The air around grew thick and a bone chilling damp closed in. A force pushed against them, tried pushing them back. It was as if the hurricane force winds outside had been shifted inside the school’s walls. He felt how the fingers of Sam’s free hand inched along the wall, pulling them. Dean pressed against Sam’s back, pushing his weight forward as his brother dragged them together, making their way to the door.
The shudders wracking Sam repeatedly reverberated through Dean to course up and down his spine. The black tried forcing them back, but they held fast to the wall and each other. For a few minutes they neither gained ground nor lost it. The air around them vibrated with hate, anger, a sheer desire to terrorize.
Sam suddenly letting go of the wall, twisting in Dean’s grip, backpedaling and shoving against Dean to move, let him know the black, the demon had snaked around and was coming straight at them. It was done toying; about to lose its prey to the outside. Dean realized the door was right there, looming in front of them. Sam’s entire body seized, the breath forced from his lungs with a sickening squeak.
The building pressure turned to a roar, surrounding them, coming from all directions at once. The black intensified, obscuring even Dean’s view of his brother, his only contact with Sam remaining was the grip he had on him. Dean felt exactly the instant when the black tried to claim Sam again, felt how it wound around his brother in a grip nearly as powerful as Dean’s. Felt Sam’s panic as he struggled to free himself, resist whatever form of horror was being forced into his thoughts.
Pressure wrapped around Dean, an invisible all encompassing vice. It pressed in from all sides, making it nearly impossible to expand his ribs and fill his lungs. The roar surrounding them threatened to explode his head. His eardrums pounded mercilessly, trying to find a way out of his skull. He dipped his head, pressed his face against Sam’s shoulder in an effort squelch the sheer agony his head suddenly became.
The black shoved cruelly between them, tried forcing them apart with spikes of cold pain that stabbed into Dean’s belly. Sam stumbled and dropped in his arms, nearly causing Dean to lose his hold. Another small wheeze brushed out of Sam in time with another tremble coursing through him. Sudden panic, like that of the rabbit sitting in the hawk’s claws, knowing it was about to have its neck snapped shot through Dean. It draped over and around him fast and intense.
Dean knew exactly where it was coming from. His own panic fed off Sam’s. Literally throwing Sam forward, their only contact remaining the iron grip Sam had on his wrist, they smashed against the door.
Sam spent a few seconds fumbling with it before shoving it open. They tumbled out into a hurricane.
Released without warning from the pressure, Dean staggered and dropped to his knees, taking Sam with him. Rolling away from the door he kicked at it with both feet. It swung shut with enough force it shattered. Wind slammed into him, knocking him to one side. The rain slapped his skin, tiny darts biting and stinging his skin.
Sam’s entire body rippled and jerked with dry heaves alternating with him trying to inhale. How he still held fast to Dean’s wrist was a mystery to Dean. Clutching Dean closer, Sam managed to get one arm around Dean’s shoulders, giving him enough support he lurched to his feet. The black of his vision, the roaring pressure in his head retreated only to be replaced by the battering of wind driven debris and rain.
+++++
Sam barely managed to get Dean’s feet under him, help heft him upright when he went down. His legs felt like Jello, his body a useless mass of quaking muscle. He desperately tried to stop his insides from fighting for freedom, but the spasms intensified despite every bit of his efforts. Gravity beat against him, hunching him over, barely able to hold himself away from the ground on one shaking arm. Bile stung his tongue, flooded his mouth and burnt a path through his sinuses to drip from his nose.
Pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, Sam wondered if Dean even realized he was shouting through clenched teeth. Finally seeing Dean’s mouth move, gulping in wind-driven air, it was a few tense seconds of Sam’s silent pleading before Dean lifted his eyes and met Sam’s. Pushing against each other, using each other’s solid weight to brace against, they struggled to their feet.
Water sloshed and splashed around their feet, going nearly to the middle of Sam’s shins. Already he felt strong currents eddy around his legs. Dean slid one arm across Sam’s back, tugging him closer.
“We gotta get out of here.” Dean’s voice sounded like he was trying to shout with a throat full of sandpaper. Had he not been practically on top of Sam, spoken in Sam’s ear, Sam doubted he’d have even heard.
Sam could only nod and spit more phlegm into the water at his feet. Fisting Dean’s jacket in one hand, he tugged, jutted his chin in the direction he wanted to point out.
Dean nodded and straightened a bit more, seeming to get more of his coordination back, his footing steadier. The cement barriers were just ahead. Behind them in the school the sounds of shattering glass from the courtyard in the school erupted in the air. Most of the outer windows were glass block. Screeching from the building grew louder only to recede in the next second, then grow in volume a few seconds later as the sounds circled the inside of the building.
Through the windows they watched as the black fled along the halls. Sam felt its anger even outside. It raced faster and faster around the inside of the building, fleeting glimpses of it appeared in one part, then another within seconds. Unable to cross the barrier of the outer wall, Sam surmised because of the herb packets, it projected out a wave of loathing and destruction that nearly drove Sam to the ground.
Dean pulled him up far enough he could get his legs moving. Shoving against Dean’s chest with one hand, Sam rasped out, “Go!”
Barely able to see where they were going through the wall of rain, they only knew they were moving away from the school, the boogeyman and its evil and hatred. Sam vaguely registered the sharp pain from hitting the cement pylon before he slipped between two of them, holding tight to Dean’s jacket and jerking him along.
He never felt Dean’s hand hitting him square between his shoulder blades until his arms connected with the ground and his newly acquired lungful of air was forced out with a harsh grunt. Sliding down behind one of the barriers, Sam rolled to one side and covered his head with one arm. Dean landed on top of him, forcing him closer to the ground and against the cement barrier.
Pulling his jacket up, and over both their heads, Dean blew out one word, “Duck!”
It was all the warning Sam had before the center of the school exploded up. Glass, brick, metal shards and plants fountained skyward along with an eruption of dense black, giving everything the impression of some bizarre volcano blowing out lava and a plasma cloud.
Howling and screaming on the wind, the demon swirled over the school before disappearing, carried off on the gusts of Hurricane Willa.
“C’mon, Dean.” Sam stumbled to his feet, grasping Dean’s hands and hoisting him up.
They made their way along the rope they’d tied, each with one hand gripping rope. With the other hand each man held his brother, using their combined weight and bulk to pull each other along against the wind.
Sam was exhausted by the time they reached the entrance of the parking garage, staggering in he dropped at once against an inner wall, not even caring water churned against his legs.
Dean leaned over him, hands on knees, doubled over his middle, chest heaving as he panted in deep breaths. “Well, we know how to trap it, and repel it.”
Turning his eyes up, Sam could only nod once before he was forced to roll away, retching. The pain from how his abdomen contracted and closed in on itself intensified, skirted to his back and nearly knocked him flat.
Dean’s hand pressed flat against his back quieted the spasms a bit, gave Sam something to focus on. His softly spoken, “Hey, Sammy, easy,” helped even out his breathing, stopped the spinning of his head and most importantly chased the horrible panic from a few minutes before away.
Chapter 10
Sam had never been so happy to see the Impala, sitting in a parking garage, waiting for them near one of the center support columns. Dean’s hand on the back of his neck steered him toward the car, Sam just trudged along, mostly moving his feet on autopilot, picking up the pace when Dean’s fingers pressed against him with a bit more urgency every few minutes.
He tossed the duffels he carried into the back seat as soon as Dean had the car unlocked, then turned and slid to the ground, leaning against the back tire. He let his head thump back against the car’s cool metal.
“Sam. Come on.”
Sam’s eyes snapped open, he’d fallen asleep, or so he supposed. It took him a few seconds to figure out why his arms were being tugged on, why Dean was pulling on the sleeves of his jacket. “You got a jacket.” He protested feebly, more because he should than because he wanted to.
“Sam.” This time a kick to his foot accompanied the jerking of his jacket sleeves. “You’re soaked. You need to get on dry clothes.”
Cracking open an eye…when had he closed them again?…he tried to glare at Dean, which was pretty much impossible since his brother was now hopping around on one foot pulling off boots and jeans. He’s shucked his own jacket and shirts; they lay in a damp heap on the ground. He looked too silly to be glared at.
Sam grumbled and straightened, tossing off his own shirts, toed off his boots and wriggled out of his jeans. Even though they were in the sub-tropics in a hurricane, the threat of hypothermia from damp skin was real and deadly. Most people assumed since it was warm and humid your body stayed that way too. Sam had once found out the hard way, that was not always so. The parking garage offered them protection from the rain. The wind still blew straight through, but the overhang along the sides of the garage dampened its effects, and the fact they were in the center, next to a support column nearly as wide as the Impala was long. It was dark, shaded and cool enough that as soon as the air hit his bare skin Sam shivered. The sensation set off fireworks of aches and pains from the muscle spasms earlier. He didn’t think he’d ever stop hurting.
“Here.” Dean dropped clean, dry clothes; sweat pants, t-shirt, hoodie and socks onto Sam’s lap.
“Thanks.” He offered up a small smile when Dean held out one hand for him to pull up against. The driver’s side door to the car stood open. Sam made short work of dressing and slipped in, scooting across.
Dean finished changing. Before he shoved into the car, he rummaged in the trunk for a few minutes, shut it and tossed their clothes in the back seat to dry. Reaching across the foot of space between them, Dean bumped Sam’s chest with something. “I know you’re beat, but not yet, you can’t go to sleep yet.” The something bumped his chest again, more insistent this time.
Sam’s hand fluttered up, felt along Dean’s arm until finding the object he was being poked, rather demandingly, with. Fingers wrapping around, Sam looked down, smiled again. Taking the bottle of water from Dean, he unscrewed the top and chugged down half in one go. Surrounded by water, soaking wet, Sam hadn’t realized he was so thirsty! It wasn’t cold, but it was pleasantly cool and revived him a bit.
Rolling his head to the side to look at his brother, “Thanks.”
Dean had left two more bottles between them, and was busy slurping down his own water. He nodded, slurped some more before letting the bottle rest against his leg and wiped one hand over his mouth. “Running around in the middle of a damn demon makes a man thirsty.”
“I don’t ever want to do that again.”
Dean snorted a laugh, “Oh hell no.” He turned his head, looked Sam up and down then bounced a fist off Sam’s knee a few times. “You okay?”
Nodding, Sam twisted around, most the joints he owned popped and snapped, heartily protesting the action. He grabbed one of the duffels they’d carried from the back seat, pulled it forward and dropped it between his feet on the floor. “I hurt.”
He did, and right now he wasn’t too proud to admit it. Rummaging through, he pulled a few packs of beef jerky and a bottle of ibuprofen out. He tossed Dean one of the beef jerky packs, then sprinkled a few of the pain pills into Dean’s waiting palm.
Sam chewed on a few pieces of beef jerky and finished his bottle of water before carefully resealing it all and setting it on his lap. He let his hands rest alongside the bottle and half eaten packet of jerky. Ever since Battersfield he’d wanted to tell Dean, to explain how it felt, what had happened, what had been done to him. However, he couldn’t. It wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d tried so desperately in the past few weeks. He simply didn’t know how to form the words, what to say, how to make it sound like something other than gibberish.
Everything spun around in his head, and he just wanted it to stop.
Maybe he just needed to take the plunge. “It…um…I’m not sure how to explain. It made me see things, forced me to see and feel how it took everything important to me, everything I loved and changed it into something vile and wrong. When it was Meg, she only let me see what she wanted. It was like watching my body do something in a movie. I didn’t feel any of it. I was disoriented a lot because one minute I’d be somewhere, doing something. Then in the next be somewhere completely different, doing something different. Does that make sense?”
Dean looked at him, steady and sure. “Yes, it does.”
“With this thing, it wants me to know, to feel. It forced its way in to every corner of my mind, and tried to make me want to feel that way. The more I resisted, the more it forced, the more it tried to turn my memories and feelings into something evil.” Sam stopped, taking in a few deep breaths; grateful Dean sat waiting, quietly. “It hurt, the more I said no, tried to not believe what it forced me to see, the more it just hurt. Every part of me, this all encompassing pain.”
Dean’s hand rested heavily on his shoulder, when Sam looked over, his brother didn’t say anything, just curled his fingers around and squeezed. It was the most reassuring gesture Sam had ever experienced.
+++++
Dean managed to stay awake for a while after Sam finally dropped off to sleep. While he could hear the winds outside, and occasionally a strong enough gust blew through to push against their car just enough to be felt, they were protected and safe from the brunt of the storm. He sat staring out at the empty garage, mulling over Sam’s revelation. He didn’t wonder how and why the children affected over the years had become what they’d become.
This thing was tearing Sam to pieces from the inside out, and he was a grown man, one trained to deal with the supernatural. A child would be utterly defenseless.
They’d learned a valuable lesson today. Get it out of its haunting place, then place the wards to keep it out. Trapping it had nearly proved deadly. Dean doubted it would have been able to escape without the extra energy the hurricane leant. What destruction it might have caused, trapped in the school, Dean could only guess.
Hand still resting on his brother’s shoulder, feeling the warmth from Sam gave him comfort, he let himself relax.
When he woke up, he was alone in the car. Sam’s form was easily seen a few yards away, near the edge of the garage. He was looking out. Sun shone through, and if Dean ducked down just right he saw a hint of blue sky.
Climbing out of the car, Dean stretched. Sam turned, and pointed to a corner of the garage. Dean’s eyes followed, and he smiled. At least they’d holed up in one with public bathrooms. Ten minutes later he was ambling across to where Sam stood, still gazing out.
Bumping his arm against his brother’s Dean yawned and leaned over to look outside too. “The eye?”
Sam nodded. “Guess we slept through landfall.” He turned so his back was to the outside, quietly closed his cell phone and put it in a pocket.
“You got cell reception?”
“No. There was a text message saved from Concha. I sent her a description of the hunters we ran into.”
“Well, we’re gonna be stuck here for another day at least. We can get some work done. She give you any leads?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what, Sam?” Dean twisted and turned, cracked his back. One hand against the wall he did a few deep knee bends, not really looking at Sam.
“They didn’t go to jail.”
“Who didn’t go to jail?” Genuinely confused now, Dean straightened and faced Sam. Then it clicked. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh. Is that all you say, is oh?”
“What do you want from me, Sam?”
“You lied to me, Dean!”
“No, I didn’t. You came to the conclusion Dante turned those men in, that they were in jail. The only thing he said to me was they were taken care of, and wouldn’t be contacting anyone.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? You always do this. You keep shit from me because of some need to protect me. I’m not a little kid. Those men died because of me. I had a right to know.”
“Yeah, they died. What do you want me to say?” Dean tried to calm the shaking he felt inside. “Grow up, Sam. Do you think they were going to listen to you, to either of us? They were plotting premeditated murder, Sam. Yours!” He paced away a few steps, meaning to drop this, then changed his mind. He was going to say what he thought for once. “Did you ever stop to think I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to have this conversation? Because I didn’t want to see that look you have on your face right now? That who I was protecting was myself?”
Sam drew back, blinked at him, stood for a few seconds with his mouth hanging open before he smacked it shut. Dean had obviously thrown him off guard.
“They’re not going to listen to you, to either of us. They don’t care about anything other than your face is who they saw. Don’t forget Sam, most of these guys, they don’t seem to care about the victims, if they live or not. You’re the one telling me all the time everything isn’t black and white with what we hunt. Things aren’t so black and white with the hunters either. They intended to hunt down and execute an innocent man. I’m sorry, but I can’t find it in myself to feel the least bit of regret that they died.”
He didn’t give Sam a chance to argue. Turning away Dean went back to the car. He scouted the area, finding a metal trashcan, figuring he could make a fire in it. Dragging it closer to their car, he positioned it near the support column, giving it cover from the winds that would restart again shortly. Next he turned his attention to their supplies. They had some canned food, plenty of dried beef, fruit and bottled water. Satisfied they’d be fine for a day or two if needed Dean shifted his gaze to Sam for a few seconds.
His brother had silently moved away from the edge of the garage, and was now settled on the ground, leaning against the car, he sat cross-legged with files in his lap. Sam stared at them, fingered the edges of some of the papers, but Dean could tell he wasn’t paying attention to what was written.
“Hey, Dean?” Sam’s voice was soft, when he finally looked up at him, his eyes lost their anger.
Dean stopped and stood looking down at Sam.
“Stop lugging this stuff around by yourself okay? Tell me from now on, that’s all I’m asking. Okay? Please?”
“Yeah—”
A clunk near the opposite end of the garage had both them looking that way. Eyes dropping to meet Sam’s, Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam shook his head just the slightest. He didn’t see anything either.
“Hey!” Dean barked.
“You probably just gave some homeless guy a heart attack.” Sam whispered, standing and brushing off his jeans. He moved quietly, but on guard toward the sound.
Dean skirted around the other side of the column, edged along the side of the garage. The wind pushed at his back, he could see the sky darkening. The eye wall of the hurricane was moving in for round two. Sam stopped near one far corner, turned in a circle, looking around. He turned back to face Dean, held his hands out, palms up and shrugged. He mouthed the words, nothing here, the wind?
About to agree, Dean glanced down over the side of the garage. Frowning, he turned back toward Sam, motioning with one hand at the outside. At once Sam moved silently to the far side of the garage, peering out. He turned back, shaking his head and shrugging. He opened his mouth, about to say something when a shadow slipped from behind another column.
“Sam!” Dean hissed, but Sam must’ve caught the movement. The hair on the back of Dean’s head bristled and rose.
Turning to his right Sam registered shock on his face for the briefest instant before it morphed to anger. He’d barely moved when something thin and strong wound around Dean’s neck, jerking him down and back. He was driven to his knees as his air supply was being cut off.
“Dean!”
He caught a glimpse of Sam darting at him. Coming in from his left was the older hunter from the orphanage. The man he’d tied, gagged and left in the hall stepped up behind Sam, shouting, “Stop!”
Sam, of course, ignored him. The man used a metal rod across the back of Sam’s legs, bringing him down. Rolling to the side, howling with pain, but back on his feet, Sam spun to confront the man. Dean felt a swell of pride, his little brother wasn’t going to give in.
“Think again, kid.” The older hunter barked out.
Sam whirled around to face him and Dean. The color dropped from Sam’s face. He froze, eyes shifting from the hunter to Dean and back. Dean closed his eyes for a beat, swallowed the bile rising in his throat and suppressed the shudder from inching down his back when the pistol a foot from his head was cocked.
Dean moved his head the tiniest amount, do what he says, Sammy. Sam responded in kind, no matter what I won’t watch you die. The rope around his neck loosened. Lurching forward, catching himself from falling face first onto the cement with his hands on his knees, Dean coughed and gagged. Even though he knew the answer, he asked anyway, more in a bid for time.
“What do you want?” He slid his fingers under the rope and pulled it away, heaving out another coughing fit.
The old hunter ignored him, attention on Sam. “Here’s how it’s going to be, boy. I’m after something, two somethings, one of which is you. Saw another one the other day in that beat down building. So, until I get that other something, I got you. You’re gonna do what you did before and bring it to
He moved away from Dean and toward Sam, pulling something from his pocket, holding it up for them to see. Satellite phone. He and the man next to Sam traded places. He tossed the satellite phone to his partner, then held up a second phone.
“His phone,” the man nodded to his partner, now behind Dean, “Rings, and your brother gets a slug right through his head. Understand?”
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice came out harsh and tight.
Moving behind Sam, he yanked Sam’s arms behind him, cuffing him. A jerk on Sam’s hands tore a hiss from Sam and a growled, “Hey,” from Dean. The older hunter paid no attention to Sam, eyes locked with Dean’s.
The skinny kid, his arm in a sling and one of the men Dean had seen in the diner, but not the orphanage, moved in from near the garage entrance. Sam was shoved into their hands. The more recently arrived man pushed Sam ahead of him, turning long enough to smirk and nod at Dean.
Sam went willingly, but not before he too turned and looked over his shoulder. Eyes locking with Dean’s he nodded a bit, pulled his lower lip between his teeth, visibly struggled to keep his mouth shut and his breathing even.
Once Sam and the men were out of sight, the leader stepped closer to Dean, glared down at him for a minute. “Filthy traitors.” He ground out. Without taking his gaze from Dean he spoke to his partner. “Give me an hour head start, then he’s dead.”
A sadistic chuckle rumbled behind him, close to Dean’s ear. “You got it.”
Dean watched the hunter follow the others, follow Sam. They could go a long way in an hour. Dean could do a lot of damage in an hour.
Chapter 11
“Explain to me how using my brother to bait a demon is okay.”
“Explain to me how it’s okay your brother killed a man in cold blood. Another hunter. I saw what your brother did. The stories about him, I ignored them until I saw for myself.”
Dean twisted to look the man directly in the eye. “And if I told you he was possessed? For a damn week.” His head swirled, how had this guy seen what had happened?
That bit of information did seem to give the man pause. He straightened, glared down at Dean and for a minute Dean thought he was reconsidering.
“How is it your brother survives a possession that long when most others don’t survive more than a few hours?”
The statement, and the truth of it, sent Dean’s hopes of reasoning with the man, or any hunter, crashing through the floor. Then again this guy wasn’t high up on the intelligence level. He seemed to think holding a gun on Dean would keep him sitting still and compliant. Fool.
Dean shifted around, pretending to get into a more comfortable position. “So, we just sit here for an hour until you put a slug in my head and I’m done?”
“Yep, that’s the plan.”
“Okay.” Dean shifted again, hearing the man behind him shuffle back a few steps. “Mind if I stretch my legs?” He settled on the ground, now facing the man. His eyes flicked to the car and back again. Twice more he did the same thing, making the man before him fidget, his own gaze moving quickly to the side before resting on Dean again.
“Not going to work. No one is behind me.”
Dean shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He smiled amiably, leaned back on his elbows.
Bellowing from the Impala’s horn reverberating through the parking garage made the man jump and spin around. Dean smirked, curled his legs under him and threw himself at the man, tackling him. Fingers gripping the man’s wrist, he slammed the hand with the gun into the ground, using his weight to pin the man for the few precious seconds he needed to disarm him.
Other arm free, the man’s fist smashed into the side of Dean’s head, sending a spray of small lights twinkling along the edges of Dean’s vision.
Closing his eyes to the pain in his head, Dean smashed the man’s hand again and again, until he felt bones break. The man’s face screwed up, his teeth and jaws clenched tight. Dean ignored what he was doing to the man. It was this guy or Sam. No contest there. The man shoved the heel of his hand against Dean’s ear, throwing him enough to the side Dean landed on his elbow, sending more pain to ricochet up to his shoulder. The gun, now free of the man’s broken hand, dropped to the ground. Dean swung his arm across the hard concrete, crashed into the gun and sent it spinning away.
Throwing Dean off, the guy rolled to his feet, injured arm clutched against his side. Dean barely had time to stagger to his feet before the guy was coming at him, head down, shouting. Catching more than stopping him, the man forced Dean back until he hit the low outer wall of the garage hard and fast. Free hand fisting in Dean’s shirt, he yanked Dean forward and slammed his head into the wall.
More stars exploded across Dean’s vision. His weight would have sagged to the ground had he not been pinned between his assailant and the wall. Bending him over backwards, the guy grabbed Dean’s belt, started hoisting him to the top of the wall. Pushing his hand against the man’s jaw, Dean grunted and threw his weight back and to the side.
Head spinning, Dean’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the cement flooring as more of his weight was tipped backwards. Unable to breathe properly with the man’s weight bearing down on him, Dean’s vision went from exploding white to hazy gray. In one last-ditch effort to free himself, Dean hooked one leg under the man’s foot, got a hand between himself and the man and shoved.
In a sudden whoosh the man was gone, sent tumbling over the edge of the wall and to the street below.
Panting in ragged, sawing breaths, Dean rolled to his side, grimacing when he saw the man’s body spread out, the way his skull caved in on one side and the blood oozing out. His senses reeled and spun wildly along with the rest of the world. The pounding in his head was in perfect time with the pounding of his heart against his chest.
Dean took two stumbling steps away before he fell back against the wall and down to the ground. Gray turned to black and pulled Dean under.
+++++
Concha stopped long enough to verify the man on the ground was dead. Not only was he dead, he was gross and dead. Moving quickly, she made her way to the garage entrance, putting one arm over her face for protection from the wind and rain hitting her. Once inside she stopped, leaned back against the wall, gasping for breath, trying to steady her shaken nerves and rattled stomach.
Satellite phone chirping, she dug it out and answered. “One is dead.”
“I’m on one of the others, but we need to know for sure how many.” Dante’s voice, always sure and calm came through loud and clear from his end. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Craven said they took Sam. Dante, you need to be here. Dean needs back up, not me.”
“Conch, you’ll do just fine. Stick with Dean, do what he tells you, and it’ll be fine. As back up goes, you’re on the top of my list.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, how was she to tell her brother, the consummate soldier, the most perfect damn warrior on the planet, his faith in her did more to bolster her than anything. “Thank you.” Would he ever stop to remember she wasn’t the hunter here, he was, Dean and Sam Winchester were, not her. She gathered information, she tracked.
“You can hunt with me, you can hunt with Dean. Listen to him. He’s gonna need the information you have, and he’ll know what to do with it. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have a location.”
“Dante.”
“What?”
“With your shield.”
She could hear him shuffling the phone, probably moving it so he held it between his chin and shoulder as he drove. The very slight hitch in his breathing, she nearly missed. “You betcha. You too. Never on it.” The last was spoken softly, his voice thick and deep.
Ending the call, Concha held the phone pressed to her forehead for a few seconds, drawing in deep breaths. With your shield or on it. The only option was with it, never on it. For them it was ‘good luck’, ‘good hunting’, and ‘I love you’ all rolled into one. She wanted Sam to come back with his shield too. Running through each level until she found the Impala on the third level, Concha’s legs couldn’t carry her fast enough. Gaze sweeping the area, they landed on Dean.
Be alive. She begged silently. Just goddamn be alive.
“Dean!”
+++++
He desperately wanted out of the dark place. This wasn’t the demon; he understood that, it was his head. Pushing and struggling to surface, it seemed the more he tried the more he was dragged down.
Dean!
His name sounded strange to his ears. Wrong, the voice was wrong. Sam’s voice was deeper, not so much of an edge, softer. Persistent tugging on his arm accompanied the voice insisting he get his ass up off the ground. Warm hands, softer than Sam’s, not as strong as his brother’s but with strength, wrapped around his arm, touched his forehead.
“Come on, Dean, help me out here.” That voice again, clearer, closer, stronger. It wasn’t Sam, but it was familiar.
The dark faded to a hazy gray, bits of the world swam across his vision.
“Dean.”
“Whuaaaa…?” It came out more of a groan. Getting one hand to move, he got his fingers to his head, rubbed at his forehead, then between his eyes. Women who were pushy and he had no intention of sleeping with where annoying.
“Off the ground you go.”
His arm was moved across the back belonging to the voice, a shoulder was hooked under his. Figuring out a second too late that closing his eyes for the standing up was a wise move, Dean staggered against the body next to him—not Sam—nearly toppling the two of them.
“Work with me, Dean.”
His weight was shifted, the body—not Sam—pushed more tightly against his. He dared to crack open an eye. “Concha?”
“Yeah,” She laughed the word out, then eased him in the opposite direction. “Come on, big guy, we can do this.”
Dean staggered while Concha steered, until his butt was firmly on the hood of the Impala. Sliding up and away from her, he grinned. “We’ve done this before.”
“Getting to be a regular habit, though you were...hmm…how can I put this politely? Drunk out of your stupid gourd the last time.”
Rubbing at the back of his head, Dean grinned, “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
Concha snorted. Backing away, she held her arms out, not letting go until she seemed satisfied he was steady enough to not slide off and crack his skull on the pavement. Dean watched as she stretched on the ground and shimmied under the front end of the car, first near one wheel, then the other.
“What are you doing?” He watched her move to the back of the car, repeating the action by the rear, left wheel well. “How’d you know where I was?”
“Craven.” Her voice floated from under the car, followed nearly at once by a satisfied, “Ha!” Straightening, she held up one hand for him to see. “And this is how they found you.” She flipped the object she held at him.
Dean trapped it between one hand and his chest more than caught it. He stared down at it for a few seconds before pulling his eyes up to meet Concha’s. Fingering the duct tape that had held a cell phone under his car he never took his eyes off hers.
She shrugged. “Dante told me to check. Apparently it’s a trick used to track people with cheap equipment. We’ve used it with each other too.”
Folding forward until his elbow rested on his knee, he held his head in the other hand and groaned. “They’ve known where we were all along. On the way here, we stopped at the same motel. I spotted them when we went to eat. Never saw them after that.”
Straightening, he eased off the car, bracing against it and made his way to the back door. He fumbled for a minute with the door handle, getting it open and reaching in for two of the bottles of water. Turning to lean against the car, he stuffed the phone under one arm, held out a bottle of water to Concha, and downed the other one.
“Thanks.” She drank some and set the bottle carefully on the car.
“They’re using him as bait.” Dean drew in a deep breath. “He, uh…doesn’t exactly call it, this demon. It’s more like it’s attracted to him, hunts him…us.” His throat and voice failed him. Turning away from Concha, Dean wiped one hand over his mouth. “It forces its way into his mind, makes him see things. It hurts him.” He had no idea how to explain, make Concha understand what he didn’t understand himself.
A hand coming to rest gently against his shoulder drew Dean’s attention to Concha. “We’ll find him. Sam’ll be okay.” She let her hand drop away. “I figured you’d want to know who you’re dealing with.” Her lips turned up in a small, quick smile as she pulled a messenger bag from her shoulder.
Dean watched as Concha opened a file, spreading it out on the same spot on the car’s hood he’d just vacated. He stared down at the picture, the older hunter. Anger welled up through his chest, expanded out and pushed until he had to clamp his lips shut. Then he decided to hell with it, he let the rage out. Letting the phone used to track and trap he and his brother drop to his palm, Dean shouted wordlessly and let it fly, intent on seeing it smash to bits against the wall.
“Aaahhhh…don’t do that!” Concha’s hand shot out, the phone did a complete one-eighty and swirled around mid-flight and into her waiting palm. “We can track them the same way, and we don’t want them to know we know.” She shoved it in her bag. Pointing to the open file, “Stewart Calgary.”
Dean leaned heavily against the car, nodded and waited silently for her to continue.
“Military, black ops, Secret Service, until nineteen-eighty-three.”
That got Dean’s complete attention, his eyes jumped to her face.
Nodding, Concha offered him another small smile. “Yeah I thought that was interesting too. He had a spotless record until late in eighty-three when he and his partner were on some assignment that went very wrong. His partner died,
“How’s he fit in with Wandell?”
“His partner.”
“You just said his partner was killed.”
A blush crept across Concha’s cheeks. “Life partner.”
Dean blinked at her. “But he had a daughter.”
Shrugging, looking everywhere but at Dean and waving her hands in some useless gesture she mumbled out, “I don’t know. He got around?”
“Great.” Dean’s hand scrubbed a hand over his face. “Just great. So, he’s really, really unhappy with Sam and me.”
“Yeah. Anyway, hooked up with Wandell, dropped out of society, did the normal hunter thing. I’m thinking it was Wandell who broke him out of the hospital.” She speared her thumb over her shoulder. “Your pal out there, is…was Tom Martingale. He,
“He might have taken better care of the kid.” Dean couldn’t help but remember how gaunt and thin the boy was. He might have been Martingale’s nephew, but somehow Dean doubted the older men cared a great deal for the boy with them.
Pulling yet another file out, Concha tapped it. “This is Rick Molloy. They’re all known associates of Gordon Walker. The other two, petty thieves I think they recruited to help. Maybe wannabe hunters, not sure.”
“Gordon. Where is he?”
“Still in prison, but he’s not restricted from outside communications or visitors, so I have no idea what, if any, his involvement is. Or if he passed on any information to these yahoos, but I’m thinking
“He,” Dean interrupted, pointing at the outside wall. “He said he’d seen what happened to Wandell.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. When I started putting out feelers, asking questions I got a video file emailed to me. Apparently Wandell’s daughter as well as Martingale had automatic feeds sent to them from Wandell’s computer.”
“I busted it up.”
“I’m thinking these were sent every hour or so, at least every twelve.”
“It was a day, maybe two I think before we got there.”
“I have—”
“I’ve seen it.” Dean folded his hands together, rested his forehead against his clasped fists. His breath came in shaky drags. “He’s just a kid, Concha. And all these people, they’re the monsters, not Sam. They want him dead, just use him and let him die because of one video. Not caring what that thing will do to him in between time.”
“Dean, I tried everything I could to enhance the pictures, get a clear shot, some proof that Sam was possessed, but I couldn’t. I’m sorry. And I didn’t want to send it to anymore people.”
Dean nodded, grateful for her efforts. “Thank you. Sam’s not a monster, a cold-blooded killer. He was possessed.”
She smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder again. “If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here now. Dante’s…crap.”
“What?”
Holding her watch out, Dean shrugged and shook his head, confused.
“He’s five minutes late checking in.”
“How’d you get here?”
“You kidding me, Dante knows lots of people in the military, and the military has vehicles that can be driven through a hurricane.”
“Good.” Dean forced himself straight, pushed the bile and nausea away, forced his vision to stop spinning. Everything was collected quickly, what he didn’t need in the immediate future was tossed into the back seat of the car. The rest he repacked in two duffels, being sure the spotting scope was tucked in safely beside his shotguns. “Can we get through?”
“I think so.” She nodded slowly. “Yeah, if we’re careful. I have a truck outside specially fitted for this type of weather and driving in water. Dante was following them. I can trace that phone, but I need a computer connection.”
“I have a pretty good idea where they went.” Dean shouldered the bags, headed toward the garage entrance with Concha on his heels. “Those monsters aren’t going to hurt my brother. They’re not taking Sam.” He turned his head far enough to see her face. She was pale and a bit wide-eyed and reminded him far too much of his brother as Sam watched some nasty creature bear down on Dean, a look Dean had seen much too often in his life. Reaching out, it was his turn to pat her shoulder. “Those monsters aren’t taking your brother either.” He said kindly.
Concha relinquished the truck’s keys without comment. Dean pressed his foot onto the gas pedal, careening through the first level of the garage at as high a speed as he dared, until they splashed into the open, greeted by wind, rain and a few inches of water on the road.
The monsters were in his sights. The monsters weren’t going to win.
Chapter 12
Dante pulled his truck off the road, took out a cell phone—two could play at this game—and tracked the final distance on foot. He was only slightly hindered by the assaulting wind and rain pounding against him, threatening to force him back. Stepping sideways almost as much as forward, Dante bent into the winds and pressed forward.
The one man he’d been trailing met up with two others. Dante immediately identified them as Stewart Calgary and Rick Malloy from files his sister had shown him. It wasn’t until he reached the old building near the shore they were holed up in that Dante saw two others. A skinny kid, maybe twenty at the most with his arm in a sling and another, taller, thin figure with bangs stuck to his skin, was a familiar one.
Sam didn’t give them any trouble, but the skinny kid still saw fit to hit him across the kidneys with a baton, eliciting a harsh shout Dante heard even from the distance he was keeping. Sam stumbled forward, lost his balance and dropped to one knee. Malloy grabbed hands firmly cuffed behind his back and Sam was hauled to his feet. It was unnecessary cruelty, and unfortunately something Dante had seen and dealt with before.
Dante couldn’t get close enough to get shots off at them, and with four he doubted he could take them all down before one of them dealt some fatal attack on Sam. He’d sent his sister off to help Dean, entrusting her to his abilities; there was no way Dante was going to pay him back by delivering Dean a dead brother. Sam could take a hit to his back. A shot to his chest was another matter entirely. For now, Dante was forced to hang back and watch, waiting for the chance to strike efficiently. Inside they met up with a fifth man.
Slipping into the large building ten minutes or so after the other men, Dante realized it was much bigger than its outside appearance suggested. It wasn’t the most stable building either. Dante sidestepped around several spots where the floor groaned under his weight, floorboards weak or shattered. Taking longer than he’d first thought to locate the men with Sam, Dante was again forced to hang back or be spotted. His only chance was the element of surprise, so he chose to keep to the shadows, watching.
As long as they didn’t do actual life-threatening harm, Dante had time. He was one to their five unless he could free Sam and he couldn’t count on that happening. Odds were just a bit too much against him right now. Hopefully backup in the form of Dean and Concha would be arriving before too long.
Sam was taken to a portion of the building near the back and down one level from the main level. It was dark and damp, a musty odor hung in the air. Lining each side was three small rooms with bars for doors. It was some sort of prison, but the rooms were small, more suited for children than for adults. Each room had a bench along one wall; it was too narrow for most adults to fit on. The walls lining the corridor and rooms were grooved from years of water trickling down. An abundance of rivulets coursed the walls and floor, most likely from the hurricane.
Concha had mentioned an old orphanage dating from around the Civil War, and Dante wondered if this was it.
Dante watched as Sam was shoved into one of the rooms in the middle of the corridor. His jacket, shirts, socks and boots were taken, leaving him shivering in nothing but jeans. The poor kid couldn’t even sit comfortably, and had to hunch on the floor.
A minute later the man who’d left with
It made sense now, why Sam was nearly stripped and why his cuffs were removed. Even if he managed to find a way out of the locked room, he couldn’t go anywhere without completely shredding his feet.
Why they were doing this escaped Dante. It made no sense. They’d had both brothers back at the parking garage. Why not just kill them then and there? Why do this? This was doing nothing more than baiting Dean, which was a stupid idea. The man was dangerous, especially when his brother was threatened. Why take those risks? It seemed stupid and inefficient to Dante, and Stewart Calgary’s file read anything but stupid and inefficient. The man wasn’t an amateur. He’d have to have known better.
So there had to be another reason.
For now Sam was safe. He wasn’t comfortable, but he hadn’t been overly harmed. It was warm enough Dante didn’t have to worry about him getting hypothermic for sometime yet. He’d be cold, hungry and thirsty, but alive. If the situation changed, Dante would get more aggressive. For now he wanted to gather more information and hopefully be able to wait for Concha and Dean.
Moving as quietly as possible on the now glass and metal shard covered floor, Dante crept back to the main level once the man and kid vacated the corridor. Finding a vantage spot he estimated had to be over the lower corridor, Dante settled back and watched.
It didn’t take long, and in pretty short order Dante had a few answers that were nothing less than horrific.
+++++
Sam doubted this time the spirit of a small boy was going to help him escape. He knew the child hovered about, Sam felt the temperature drop when he neared, was literally surrounded by the presence of that child and others.
This part of the orphanage Sam was in now was where they’d punished some of the children. Others, mentally disabled most likely, had been kept locked away here. It tore at Sam’s heart, how they’d been alone, afraid, unprotected and unwanted. In his opinion that had to be the worst thing to do to a child. It had shattered them, the children here. The walls of his prison might have been leaking water, but it could have just as easily been blood and fear from children dead more than a century.
Reaching out gingerly, Sam touched the moist walls. Putting one finger to his lips, the diluted salty water made him grimace. Natural condensation mixed with seawater oozing in from outside.
He could hear the men above, follow their movements from their shadows, but none of them came close enough to the barred ceiling for him to see them directly. So far there’d been no mention of Dean, and as far as Sam could tell none of them had used that satellite phone. They probably didn’t have to. The phone no doubt served its purpose of keeping Sam compliant on the trip here. He suspected all along they never intended to make any calls and that the man remaining with Dean had been given a deadline.
Dean had to have extracted himself before that deadline passed. He had to.
Sam would kill them, every one of them. He wouldn’t be fast. He would be merciless if Dean was dead. They’d be luckier if Dean still lived, because when Dean came hunting down Sam, he would deal with them quickly and a lot less painfully than Sam. If these men had taken Dean, Sam had no reason to stop the evil he was sure he carried inside from spreading and taking over. Or maybe it was giving into the boogeyman demon, using his fear of losing Dean to taint his thoughts and soul. Either way the result would be the same. The thing wasn’t here, yet, but it would be and already it was trying to infiltrate his mind, Sam could feel its affects. The difference was, this time, Sam wasn’t sure he’d even care.
His immediate problem was getting out. He couldn’t get down the corridor, not without having his feet sheared off. It didn’t matter; he had no means to pick the locks on the bars.
Sam understood they blamed him for Steve Wandell’s death, especially
Meg, not you. Dean’s voice intruded in his head.
Sinking to the small bench, not able to lean back because the walls were sharp jags of cold against his bare back, Sam squeezed his eyes shut for a minute and took a few deep breaths. Even down here the sounds of the hurricane winds and rising surf were a constant barrage against the old orphanage.
If Dean could believe in him so much, couldn’t Sam believe it himself? Dean wasn’t dead, Sam was sure he’d feel it if that happened. Dean wasn’t dead, and Sam wasn’t going to give up. He pushed away thoughts of murdering these men, that wouldn’t be anymore right than what they were doing to him and Dean.
For now he had to concentrate on getting out and not leaving himself open to another attack by the boogeyman demon, it was only a matter of time before he’d have to face it, Sam was sure.
He didn’t have long to wait. When the first tendrils of black slipped through the bars of his door, Sam guessed he’d only been in here a half hour at most. Sam ignored how the cold, wet stone walls bit his back, how his skin scraped raw and sliced open in tiny, painful cuts with every move. He tried unsuccessfully to suppress the shivers, reciting over and over in his head he’d been protected, loved. He and Dean both had been.
The black moved across the floor and surrounded him, despite how Sam tried curling in on himself to protect himself from it. He pressed his eyes shut and clamped his teeth together against the whimper it tried forcing from him with its first onslaught. This time it surrounded him, not caring if no one else was there to share Sam’s pain or watch him suffer.
Sam opted for self-preservation and to fight. The black slithered over him making the muscles of his back and stomach clenched in painful waves, then it surrounded him. It wound through his hair and forced itself into his thoughts.
+++++
Dante had to shove one hand into his mouth to stop the surprised gasp. There was nothing that prepared him for what he saw. He’d seen possessions, lots of times, but this wasn’t a possession. This, attack, he had no better word for it, was something entirely different.
None of Sam’s captors were in the immediate area. None of the human ones. This thing Dante understood held Sam captive in a way no human possibly could. Curling in on himself, Dante watched Sam’s eyes press shut, saw how pain dominated Sam’s features. It was a black cloud, solid, not wispy and smoky like other demons. It circled Sam and settled over him.
Sam jerked and pressed more into himself. Dante heard how his breath was sucked in fast, saw how his chest heaved, his limbs twitched.
A quick check of the area to be sure he was still alone in that section of the building and Dante was hovering over the bars blocking the ceiling of Sam’s cell.
Get him out. Get that kid out! It thundered through Dante’s brain.
The bars to Sam’s cell were locked, no key in sight. Yanking a set of lock picks from his pocket, Dante reached for the lock. He nearly swore out loud when he realized it wasn’t the original padlock that kept the bars secure. Near one corner of the access door was a chain looping through the bars and pulled tight to a heavy hook driven into the stone wall an inch or so from the bars. From the looks of it, it’d been there a while. The chain was held in place with a combination lock.
Shit. Shit!
He rolled away from it and to the next one. That cell had no secondary chain and lock. The padlock was completely rusted over; no doubt the reason why at some point the other one had been replaced with the chain lock.
A solid kick with the heel of his boot, and Dante nearly followed his foot into empty air when the ceiling trap door swung away, clanging off the wall. Dropping lightly to the cell floor below, Dante pressed against the bars leading to the corridor.
“Sam.” He hissed. There was movement in the room beside his, but no answer. Fumbling in another pocket, Dante pulled out a small bottle of Holy water, slipped it between the bars. He stretched as far as he could, tapping the bottle against the bars of Sam’s cell. “Sam.” He raised his voice as much as he dared. “C’mon, kid, get over here, take this. You can do it.”
The rustling of material dragging over the floor started and stopped a second later. A strangled noise came from Sam, Dante heard him retreat back from the bars.
Huffing out his annoyance, he had to get the kid to move and take the bottle. It was the only amount of protection Dante could offer until he could get Sam out. To get Sam out he was going to have to get rid of some of those men. He was sure he didn’t have much time, they’d come back to see what their captive was up to soon.
“Sammy!” He barked the word out from his gut, not a shout, but a sharp command.
Again there was the sound of movement across the wet stone floor. This time Dante was barely able to make out long bangs hanging down, swaying a bit. One trembling hand gripped the bars for a few seconds, then dropped away. “D-d-deen-n?”
Dante’s heart was squeezed in his contracting chest. “He’s on his way. I’m going to get you out, but I have to get rid of a few of our friends first, buy us some time.” He tapped the bottle on the bars again. “Holy water.”
Shaking fingers touched his as they wound around the bottle, and Jesus, Sam was cold. Not the type of cold from damp skin, nothing like what he should have been in here. It wasn’t cold in the building, cool, but not cold. It was humid and warm outside. They were in a tropical hurricane. Cold, frosty, freezing cold shouldn’t have been in the equation.
Grabbing Sam’s fingers in a firm grip for a few seconds, “Hang in there, just a bit longer, I promise.”
Sam pulled the bottle away from Dante’s grip and between the bars. He heard another sharp intake of breath from Sam, heard the movement as he shoved away from the black spilling through the bars when Sam moved closer, then backed away. Dante closed his ears to the soft, pained hiss of breath from Sam followed by an even softer trembling moan.
One smooth, fluid jump and Dante was pulling himself from the cell to the room above. Just as he got one leg up and was pushing to stand, one of the unnamed men entered the room.
Chapter 13
(A/N: This chapter contains one scene, at the end and in italics, that is a hallucination. It is violent and involves two children. In order to conform the rules of some sites I have altered the scene from its original form. If you wish to read the full, uncensored version it maybe found here. The rest of the chapter is the same. As always thanks for reading!)
Dean slid a glance at Concha as he shut down the engine. The truck she’d brought was made to go through rough weather and deep water and got them closer to the orphanage than he’d dared leave the Impala on their first trip.
Leaning forward, one hand against the dash as she peered out the front windshield, Concha seemed oblivious to him watching her for a few seconds. She didn’t look too freaked by this all, though Dean wasn’t thrilled with trusting his brother’s life to anyone. Even if those people were Concha and Dante. The position she was sitting in now made his heart ache and this throat close around itself. It was a position Sam commonly took up and did nothing but further remind him that Sam had been taken.
“You okay?” She asked without looking at him.
“Yeah.”
“This place is sort of creepy.”
Dean shoved out of the truck, “Yep, and watch your step, it’s not the world’s most stable building either. The floors are rotting in places.”
She stepped up beside him as he scanned the scene. They were maybe a football field from the orphanage, parked inside the line of trees. This time he was coming at it more from the side then head on, as before. He saw not only the orphanage but also the pile of rubble he’d landed in, and the churning ocean. From this angle he saw the land the orphanage sat on jutted out slightly and curved enough it was a bit more protected from the surge moving inland.
Wind and rain pelted them, forcing them to bend into the current of air rushing at them. Stopping near the final trees before the open expanse of land between them and the orphanage, they knelt down.
“Hello, Auggie.” Dean smirked, pointing out the skinny kid standing near the main entrance. “See anyone else?”
“No.”
Dean twisted on his heels, scanning the area. “He’s going to see us coming, no cover.”
Concha stood, handed Dean her rifle and the bag she had slung over her shoulder. “Not a problem. I’ll distract him.”
Before Dean could stop her, she yanked her shirt from her jeans, pulling it up and tied it over her mid-drift then darted into the open. Waving at the boy, Concha called out, “Hey! Help!”
Halfway between where Dean lurked, covered by the trees and the orphanage, Concha stumbled, dropping to her knees. Dean shook his head and couldn’t stop the slow smile when the kid darted forward. As soon as he reached Concha, he grabbed her arm, helping her to her feet. She leaned against him, breathing into his ear, at the same time moving so the kid’s back was to Dean.
“Oh my God, I got lost and my car broke down.” Concha panted near the boy’s face, placing one hand on his chest, Dean saw how she let it slide toward his belt buckle.
The boy put his arm around her. Looked from her to the orphanage and back again, obviously unsure what to do.
Silently Dean left the trees and smoothly, noiselessly closed the distance between them. “Auggie, shame on you, being that easy.”
When the kid turned far enough to see who was behind him, Dean grabbed his shoulder, spun him around and punched him hard enough to knock him out. He hoisted the kid over his shoulders and headed back to the trees. Dropping the boy onto the ground, he took off the kid’s jacket and used it to tie him to a tree. “He’ll either get out of this in time, or become fish food.” Dean shrugged when Concha arched one eyebrow.
Blissfully, she shut her mouth and followed Dean to the orphanage. They slipped inside without incident.
“Any idea where they might be?” She whispered in his ear.
“No, I—” He glanced down at her and sighed, using one hand to put her at arm’s distance. “Put your clothes back on please.”
Concha slapped his shoulder, but untied her shirt and let it drop down so it rested below her waistband.
“We were over there, but that’s where the floors are bad, or one of the places.”
“Maybe more to the back of the building?”
It was as good a place as any to start, so Dean led the way in the direction she’d pointed out. Keeping close to the wall, they moved as quietly and quickly as possible, peering into each door they came to. Finally, in a smaller hallway running the length of the building near the back, they heard voices from one of the rooms.
“I’ll go check on him.” It wasn’t
“Okay. No idea how long it’ll take. But I don’t want to give it time to get a hold of him enough to kill him. We might need to use him again.”
Dean recognized
“I told Jack to go round up August and find out what happened to Martingale, he’s late checking in.”
“Damn. We’re going to move on this and get the hell away before
“You think he got away from Martingale?”
“I have no idea, but not chancing it. If that demon doesn’t show, just leave the boy down there. This place will flood before this storm is over, that’ll take care of him. We’ll worry about the older one when he and if he shows up.”
Dean felt a cold, hard knot form in his middle. They had Sam somewhere, baiting a demon and then were planning to leave him to drown. He growled in a sharp intake of breath. Concha’s hand on his shoulder stopped him from rushing the men in the room.
“On second thought, you try to get a hold of Martingale. I want to go check on that kid. I want to see him suffer.”
“Hey, you’re head clear for this, Stew?”
The sheer viciousness of the man’s next statement was heard loud and clear. “He killed Steve.”
Dean caught a glimpse of the man with
When
As much as he wanted to follow
“We need to take him out.” Dean tipped his head at the room Malloy was still inside. Concha nodded, she seemed more than willing to follow his lead. Again he was faced with the situation of confronting an armed man head on. Not the best of choices. “Think you could distract him?”
“I don’t think I’m his type.”
Dean turned to face her fully. “Huh?”
Rolling her eyes, Concha shrugged a bit. “He’s gay. Ya know, doesn’t get all excited by girls.”
Dean actually felt his face fall. “I…um…he…me?” He slapped Concha’s hand away when she started tugging on his shirts. “What are you doing?”
“Show him some skin.” Concha grinned mischievously and gave his bicep a squeeze, “Or some of those muscles.”
She stood blinking at him. Dean stood blinking right back.
Using both hands on her arms he moved her back a few steps. “Just be sure to get him and don’t let him shoot me.” Grumbling, Dean straightened his shoulders, “or defile me,” and headed for the room. “Things I do for that damn kid.” If it’d been he and Sam, they’d have probably just rushed the guy. All this stealthy crap was for the birds. Dean wanted his brother back.
Slipping from the hall to the doorway, Dean let his arms drop to his sides, and remembered to take the snarl out of his voice and drop it low. “Interested in a trade?” He leaned, casually he hoped, against the doorframe.
Malloy snorted, turned and looked Dean in the eye. “Another of my friends dead because of you Winchesters.”
Dean moved into the room and tried to imagine Malloy as a woman: a really ugly, mean, dangerous, never-gonna-get-laid woman. Spotting a desk against the far wall, Dean headed there; casting what he hoped was a sultry glance at Malloy as he moved past the man.
“I came here to talk to you.” Dean leaned back, aiming one hip at the corner of the desk so he could arch back over it.
He missed the desk, stumbled backwards and nearly landed on his ass in the corner of the room.
Malloy visibly bit back a laugh. Well, at least Dean had distracted him somehow. In the next instant Malloy was grabbing at his neck, mouth working, voice wheezing as he stumbled backwards.
Recovered from his botched attempts at sexy, Dean pushed off the wall and launched at Malloy. Arm across the man’s neck, he moved them back, pinning the man to the wall with his weight. “Here’s the deal,” Dean snapped out, voice harsh and with every ounce of threat he could put in it. “You tell me where Sam is, and she,” he tipped his head at Concha, “doesn’t put a bullet in your brain.”
Concha smiled sweetly and held up a pistol, complete with silencer.
“At the end of this hallway is a passage down to some cells. He’s down there.” Malloy coughed and choked.
“Get your clothes off.” Dean snarled.
“Huh?” Malloy paled a few shades
“Seriously, dude, you aren’t worth my time, so get over yourself. Clothes. Off now.” In one move, Dean stepped back, took his own gun from behind his back and aimed it at the man’s head.
Shaking and muttering, Malloy shed flannel and jeans.
“That’s enough, I sure don’t want to see you naked, might traumatize me for life. And there’s a lady in the room.” Dean snatched the jeans and flannel. Using one of Malloy’s socks as a gag, he used the other clothes to securely hog tie the man, leaving him on the floor in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers. Kneeling next to the man so he could speak right in his ear, Dean chuckled. “So not my type. If my brother isn’t down there, I’m coming back for you.” He tapped the barrel of his gun against the man’s temple, then cracked his head hard enough the man slumped into unconsciousness.
“We’re going to have to work on your seduction skills.” Concha sort of giggled the words out.
“My seduct—?” Dean straightened his spine and rose to his full height. “There isn’t a damn thing wrong with my seduction skills and I can give you references.”
Concha snorted out, “Whatever. You fell off the desk.”
“It moved.” Dean was moving and out the door, down the hall before she could say anymore.
They were nearly to the entrance to lower section and the cells—Dean didn’t even want to think why an orphanage would have underground cells—when a crash and the sound of shattering of wood from one of the rooms drew their attention that way.
+++++
Dante and the guy froze in their respective positions for a few seconds, simply staring at one another. The man must have been jolted from his surprise at the same time as Dante, because when Dante rushed him, the man met him head on. Dante was bigger, but he never let his guard down because of that. He’d learned long ago, his sheer bulk wasn’t always going to give him the advantage.
The man roared wordlessly, hands out; he hit Dante with his full weight, trying to get hands around Dante’s neck. Bringing one hand up between the man’s arms, Dante slammed the heel of one hand into the man’s jaw. He reeled away from Dante, but didn’t go down. Sort of bouncing off the wall, the guy got a kick to Dante’s middle, doubling him over and forcing him to stumble back with a grunt.
Hitting him again, this time the man took Dante down. They rolled and scrabbled on the floor, punching and each trying to pin the other. Dante finally got a few good shots with his fists to the man’s head. Rolling to his knees and pulling the man up with him, Dante landed a good, solid punch to the man’s face.
The man was mostly unconscious when Dante shoved him over the edge of the cell door he’d just come out of, dropping him down. Not caring if the guy was alive or not, Dante stood, leaned on his knees, panting for breath. He staggered a few steps to Sam’s cell, looking down.
“Sam.” He wheezed, one arm gripping his midsection. When he looked down, he saw Sam all right. Sam and that damn boogeyman demon thing. What small amount of Sam he could actually see barely twitched at the sound of Dante’s voice. Dante wasn’t even sure Sam heard him. Brown hair, a foot and one hand was all of Sam Winchester not covered by the black cloud.
He had no way of knowing for sure, but it looked as if Sam’s situation had gotten worse.
Movement from the hall outside spiked his adrenaline again. Dante straightened and spun to face more assailants. It took a minute before his brain caught up to what his eyes were trying to tell him. Sagging a bit, leaning hands on thighs again, Dante caught his breath and pointed to the cell bars in the floor next to him. Pointing to the nearest one he panted out, “One of them in there.” Arm swinging a bit farther, “Sam’s there.”
Dean’s face morphed into something close to flat out fear as he rushed through the room, dropped to his knees near the bars. Gripping them, he gave them a jerk, “Sammy?”
“I tried already.” Dante tried desperately to ignore the look on Dean’s face, in his eyes when he saw Sam completely surrounded by the boogeyman demon. It was nothing short of sheer horror and panic. “The corridor below is covered with glass and metal shards. That’s how we have to get in.”
Dean’s head swiveled around, nodding.
“Old trick shanghaiers used in
“Where’s
She’d no sooner gotten the words out than the second unnamed man appeared in the doorway. Dean was quick as a viper, drawing his handgun drawn and widening his stance. He took aim and fired. The shot hit the man in the chest. The two steps he took beyond that probably were nothing more than muscle reflex. Dante was sure he was dead when he hit the floor.
Dante had maybe a second to comprehend
The gun fired.
Dante didn’t give it much thought. He stepped in front of his sister.
+++++
Sam was pulled down farther, though he still had the vague feeling of lying on a hard stone floor. Squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as possible did no good. It still forced itself into his mind. The more he resisted, the more it pushed in, thrust itself upon him, overpowering and brutal.
A hot fire of pain started in his belly and rolled outward to his chest and limbs. Beads of moisture and sweat dotted his skin. The air around him was frigid, making him shudder uncontrollably. The contrast between the fire his insides were and the bitter cold encasing his skin sent his mind and sense reeling into overdrive.
The bottle of holy water rolled uselessly from his numb, shaking fingers. The packet of herbs he carried, as well as his rune were in his pocket, but they might as well been on the moon. His limbs refused to work well enough to grasp them.
He was battered with images. There was no avoiding them. No matter what he did, he was forced to watch.
…It started simply enough, Dean striding through the halls of some building, a school maybe. Sam couldn’t be sure. A second later it didn’t matter. Shotgun in one hand, Dean marched down a hall, anger and hate on his face. More anger, more hate than Sam had ever seen on his brother. Dean barely stopped in front of a door before kicking it open, firing the shotgun into the room.
Sam heard screams and pleas, sobbing and shouting. Dean was in and back out again, now dragging some girl, ten at the most, by her long, wavy blonde hair. She kicked and struggled, but Dean ignored her. He ignored how she’d fall and her knees would scrape bloody against the floor as he yanked her along. She scrambled to her feet, beating small fists against his brother’s broad back.
When Dean turned far enough to punch her face, Sam cringed back then surged forward, barking at Dean to stop. Dean ignored him. He literally threw the girl into a room.
No matter how Sam tried, he couldn’t block her sobs. Or the sound of Dean’s shotgun ending her sobs. The feral look of gratification on Dean’s face when he left the room was worse than Sam’s knowing what Dean had done.
Sam’s mind begged it to stop, begged Dean to stop. This wasn’t Dean. Dean protected children. He didn’t hurt and kill them.
Next Dean had a boy, maybe fifteen. One of Dean’s arms around his throat, the kid didn’t stand a chance against the power his brother owned. All the while Dean laughed, low and maniacal. It was a cold, evil, hollow sound. Not Dean’s laugh, it was Dean’s voice, his face, but that wasn’t Dean who beat the boy to a pulp with his fists, leaving him dead on a linoleum floor.
“His true nature. What he was meant to become,” a chilled voice whispered through Sam’s head.
“NO!” Sam’s mind screamed. Dean was good, a bright light, and a safe harbor to anyone in need. He wasn’t this.
“He will be.” The ice cold whispered, “Killer of innocents. Destroyer of innocence.”
Sam could do no more than whimper repeatedly, “No, I’ll never believe it—no.” He fought back, tried pushing it away and succeeded in only causing himself more agony…
Sam curled on his side, pulled his knees to his chest, and tried tucking his chin between his knees. Every movement sent slivers of agony coursing through him. It hurt, the more he denied it the more powerful the pain. It seared through him, wormed its way into every bit of his being, relentless and all consuming. Pain turned to a roar vibrating through his ears and head. It grew louder, coming from everywhere at once.
Trying to move his hands to cover his ears, Sam’s limbs seemed stuck in place. The roar escalated. Something crashed above him. Then it seemed the entire world broke apart.
Chapter 14
Dean watched in complete horror as
Concha’s mental reflexes must be damn fast, Dean reasoned, since the shot should have hit Dante point blank in the chest. Instead, the air around them shimmered for a second. The bullet still hit, but dug into the flesh just under Dante’s collarbone, not his heart.
At the same time Concha’s strangled yell of, “Dante!” reached his ears so did the sound of the wall groaning and collapsing. Dante’s hand went to his shoulder; he spun around, thrown off balance, dropping to one knee.
The assault of wind and rain and surf finally won over the old building. Part of the wall disintegrated, water rushed through. It wasn’t deep, just a few inches swirling around their feet. Dean knew it would only get deeper. When he looked up
Dante hissed and staggered to his feet with her help.
Dean grabbed his other arm, leaning around to see Dante’s back. “No exit wound. You need a doctor. I gotta get Sam out of there.” He yanked the keys to the truck he and Concha had driven in, and pressed them to her hand. “I’ll help you get him outside.”
“I can…we’ll be fine.” Dante panted out. He was mostly straight, but Dean could see how much he was leaning against his sister.
The rest of the wall crumbled, dissolving from top to bottom. More water rushed in, swirled around and sloshed backwards. The wood and horsehair plaster of the old walls were swept toward the ocean and out of view.
“ ‘M gonna hafta get in the other way.” Dean tugged on Dante, forcing him and Concha forward.
The hallway outside collapsed completely. The stairs leading down to Sam’s prison partially blocked with debris. It was some kind of miracle, Dean was sure, that more water wasn’t rushing down into the cells below. The incoming water was still only an inch or two deep in this part and much of it blocked by the ruined walls. It was trickling down through the ceiling bars, but not fast, and it was going to take a while if that rate kept up to become an immediate danger. Dean estimated he had twenty minutes, maybe a bit more.
They made their way to the front of the old building. Leaving them there, Dean sprinted along the outside of the orphanage. A glance back was all he needed, seeing Concha help Dante into the truck.
He shouldered through a door near where he guessed the stairway to the cells should be. The floor creaked and moaned dangerously. Some places where Dean stepped the wood dipped and cracked under his feet.
Moving as fast as possible, and not crash through the floor, Dean started pulling wood and plaster from the stairway. The more debris he cleared away, the faster the water was pouring in.
“Hang on, Sammy.” He panted between clenched teeth.
Flickering just inside his vision made him stop and look around. He’d left Craven’s spotting scope in the Impala, but it wasn’t Craven. The temperature dropped enough to be noticeable. Dean straightened and turned slowly on the balls of his feet.
Moving cautiously he crouched down, one arm leaning on his knee, hand dangling down. He didn’t want to frighten it, which would have made him laugh in another circumstance. “Is there another way inside?” Dean flipped his wrist so the fingers of his hand pointed to the decaying stairs.
Large brown, translucent eyes stared out at him from under a mop of curly dark hair. Dean had to consciously stop himself from reaching out and brushing the bangs away from the eyes. This must have been the same spirit who’d led Sam to safety before, Ezra. The apparition of a small boy nodded at him.
Dean scooted a bit forward. “Please. You helped him before. Help me help him now. He’ll die, he’ll drown.”
Ezra looked down, and Dean swore he saw tears well in the spirit’s eyes. Ghostly arms wrapped around the small body. The boy’s spirit didn’t otherwise move, but Dean felt his fear.
“That’s how you died.” Dean shot a glance at the stairs. More water was coming in faster now. “I can only imagine how frightening—”
The ghost shook his head; curly bangs flapping in all directions.
“He’s going to die. He can’t die. You had someone who loved you. You loved her, didn’t you?”
A nod.
“He’s my little brother.”
The ghost looked at the stairs and seemed to fade and diminish a bit.
Dean turned his head far enough to see the stairs. “I won’t let it hurt you. I need to stop it from hurting him. We can stop it from hurting others.”
The little boy motioned with one hand for Dean to follow, flickering in and out, moving through the orphanage it led Dean outside.
Struggling against the wind driven rain, Dean bent nearly in half. The wind forced him two steps sideways for every step forward he took. His T-shirt clung to his skin, his looser button down snapped against his arms and sides with enough force to sting. The material of his jeans rubbed against the cut along his calf causing sharp barbs of pain to stab through his leg.
Ezra led him to the far side of the orphanage, stopping near the corner farthest from where Sam was. A dark patch Dean saw a few seconds later was the opening to an access tunnel partially covered by shrubs. Slipping inside Dean skidded down the steep incline a few feet. It opened to an area large enough to stand upright in. There were two trucks parked a few yards into the tunnel.
Sprinting to the trucks, Dean made a quick search turning up rock salt, iron bars, iron shavings and spray paint. He carried with him his pistol and extra rounds, all consecrated, but these would be helpful, as would one of the pickups. A wad of twenty-dollar bills nearly the size of his fist he found in the glove compartment of one truck went into his pocket.
The spirit flickering into and out of phase first on his left, then right made him stop and look down. “I can get to my brother from here?” Dean squinted into the murky tunnel ahead. It wasn’t exactly dark, he could see, but it wasn’t especially bright either.
Ezra motioned him to follow. Taking a few steps Dean hesitated when the spirit stopped a few feet along and near a wall. Putting one hand on the wall, he looked down at the ghost boy. The wall was solid, stone and earth shored up with heavy timbers and metal. Ezra flashed into the wall near where it met the ground and back out again.
“Sam’s not in there.”
Large, solemn eyes peered up at him from under the curly hair. Ezra shook his head, patted the wall and wiped one hand over his eyes.
Running to the pickup trucks, Dean snatched a crowbar from the bed of one of them. Once back to that section of wall, he hit at the stone and earth a few times until large chunks crumbled away. Small amounts of water trickled through to wet the already damp ground around his feet. He knew his time was running short before flooding in the cells started up in earnest.
Not much had been cleared away when he saw bones. Another hit showed him two skeletons; one adult size and one the size of a child. Dean stood staring down at them for a few seconds. He nodded slowly.
“Okay, kid.” He said softly. “I get it now. I can take care of you, of both of you.” Dean crouched down so he was eye level with the small spirit. “But first, I have to get Sammy out. When he’s in one of those trucks,” he pointed to the pickups, “Then I’ll do everything I can for you two. But Sammy won’t last in there much longer with that thing. Even if he could, the water is coming in. You two protected each other from that thing. That’s what Sammy and I do. I need him. I need to get him out. He’s my little brother.”
Ezra nodded and took off down the tunnel.
Spinning and racing after the ghost, Dean swore under his breath and shouted, “Hey, wait up!” Dean dearly hoped there was gas or kerosene in one of those trucks.
It was a short distance, maybe a couple football fields’ worth, before Dean came to a barred door. The little ghost charged through. Dean grabbed and yanked, sighing, of course it was locked. The hinges were rusty, but not rusted through.
“Wait here.”
Dean charged back down the tunnel and used the iron rod to smash the driver’s side door of one of the pickups. Brushing the glass away and out of the truck, he jumped in and had it hotwired and running in seconds. Gunning the engine, Dean floored the pedal. The truck careened through the tunnel and smashed into the metal bars. The front end of the truck dented and crumpled, but it kept running. The gate skidded over the hood to land along one side.
“Piece of new ass shit truck. My car would have gone through without a scratch.” Dean muttered. When the tunnel narrowed to just enough room for a person to walk through Dean slammed on the brakes.
He waved Ezra into the truck. “Get in here.” Dean grabbed some of the rock salt and dropped a ring around the truck. Waving one arm at the boy’s spirit, “Stay put!” he ordered and tore down the tunnel to the entrance to the cells.
Glass and iron shards crunched and ground under his feet, making him slip and stumble. His jeans soaked up the salt water seeping along the floor. The wound on his leg turned into one constant prickly ache Dean did his best to ignore. Charging up a short flight of stairs going from the tunnel to the cells was nothing short of agony.
There was another door, a heavy wooden one, but it wasn’t locked. Dean was through it, and in the corridor lined with cells in no time. Panting hard, breath freezing and blowing ahead of him in small wisps, Dean at once felt the drop in temperature.
Enough water had gotten into the area that some of the glass and metal shards were moving across the floor, but the water wasn’t deep enough yet to float the debris away. Dean was somehow going to have to get Sam through this mess.
The second Dean’s fingers wound around the bars of the door to Sam’s cell the black cloud covering him expanded and lashed out turning the bars frigid cold. “Son of a bitch!” Dean spat, jerking his fingers away from the stinging cold. “No!” He shouted. “No. You don’t get Sam. You don’t win this time.”
Drawing his pistol, Dean fired at the door’s lock. It popped open. Running inside after putting his pistol back into his waistband, Dean’s eyes caught a glint of silver on the floor. Without breaking his pace he scooped the flask off the ground, opened it and threw it at the oily, black cloud.
It hissed and erupted outwards again. This time Dean swung the iron rod he’d carried with him and threw the rest of the flask’s holy water. Gaining height, it seemed to become darker, oilier as it surrounded Dean, blocking his escape. Not that he was planning on leaving without his brother.
Wielding the iron rod in front of him, clearing a path, Dean dropped to the ground when his toe hit Sam’s side making him stumble.
At once the two of them were covered by the oily black demon. It slithered over any bit of skin exposed on Dean’s body, crawled over his face and slithered along his neck. Everywhere it touched tendrils of chilly, slimy frost stung and bit. His skin crawled with the sensation of thousands of tiny feet dancing across, leaving wet, cold trails.
Wrapping both arms around Sam’s chest and back, Dean tugged Sam to his knees, giving a shake. “Sam! C’mon, Sammy, I need you with me.” He felt the small, sticky drops of blood mixing with sweat along Sam’s back. His shoulders, back and sides were covered with dozens of small cuts and scrapes. Dean winced at the though of how the salt water and salty spray in the air must feel when in contact with the small, open wounds.
Sam’s head rolled to the side, then righted only to have his chin drop to his chest and jerk back up again. His eyes fluttered open, but Dean could tell he was barely conscious and probably not focusing. Sam’s arm moved against Dean, and at first Dean thought Sam was trying to push him away, so tightened his hold. Sam fumbled at one hip, then dug in his pocket. He pulled his fist out and pressed his hand to one of Dean’s.
Dean stared down at what Sam was trying to give him. His brain took a few seconds to process the information. “Good boy.” Dean exhaled and fisted the object, which very well might be the key to their freedom.
Before he could open the herb packet and use it Dean was assaulted from all sides. The boogeyman demon pressed in on him; making his ears pop and his head want to explode from what he saw. Now he understood Sam’s words of how this demon took everything he loved and turned it to something to be despised.
Sam wasn’t using his visions to draw demons to a trap, or hunting them down to be sent back to Hell. He drew them out, drew them to him and sent them out in wave after wave to slash and burn at everything living. People with their skin flailed off in small strips set on fire, but not burnt until they died, just burnt enough to cause excruciating agony. Dean could see it in their eyes, their faces; he could see how they suffered with no hope of end.
Demonic power flocked to Sam, swirled around him and he was delighted to use that power to cause as much pain and suffering as the demons could dish out. If there was one thing Dean knew, demons could provide a lot of pain and suffering.
No one was spared the demonic rampage, not children, the elderly or the pious. They were taken, assaulted and tortured. All the while Sam did nothing but laugh.
The destruction didn’t end until bullets from Dean’s gun smashed into Sam and he dropped dead at Dean’s feet.
Dean desperately tried to close his ears to the screaming until he realized it was his voice. Reaching down deep within himself Dean threw out an enraged, wordless shout. Pushing Sam behind him while at the same time pulling Sam’s arms over his shoulders, he turned his head far enough to be sure Sam heard his words. “Hang on, kid.”
Opening the herb packet, Dean flung the contents in a half circle in front of them. His other hand reached behind him for his pistol. Drawing it he fired repeatedly into the oily cloud, turning a bit to again create a half circle before them. Sam’s body jerked and jumped against him with every crack from the gun. Soft, strangled noises were sobbed out against Dean’s neck.
“NO! Never!” Dean shouted at the black cloud of evil. “Not Sam. Not me. Not US!”
When Sam started a slow slide down to the ground, Dean stopped and spun around. “No, Sam. We’re getting out.” Hooking his arm under Sam’s and around his back, Dean hitched him up higher on his hip and back. The best he could do carrying Sam’s weight that way was a stagger, but at least it was forward.
He’d vowed to never do this again, and here he was. There were maybe three or four steps between them and the boogeyman’s black cloud of evil. Dean crossed the space, dragging Sam with him. At the last second he reached up and gripped Sam’s wrist dangling over his shoulder as tightly as possible.
For the second time Dean plunged them into the black.
The first time had been a piece of cake compared to this. Then Sam was awake, moving under his own steam and helping Dean navigate through. Now, Sam was more dead weight against his back than anything else. Barely conscious, and even less lucid, Sam’s arms were draped over Dean’s shoulders. He was awake enough to scramble along after Dean. There was no way Dean could keep Sam’s feet off the ground or stop his movements. Bits of glass and metal gouged tiny cuts across the top and along the bottom of Sam’s feet. His back was already a mass of cuts and raw, scraped skin from the walls.
Dean didn’t think the wounds were life threatening, but they were going to be painful, and if not treated and cared for properly they’d get infected.
The boogeyman demon wasted no time trying to trap them. He knew by the words mumbled from Sam, how his body shook constantly, the thing was targeting him first. Every few breaths Sam was begging, pleading with Dean to stop something. A litany of wrong, don’t, stop, no please, no, was interspersed with half sobs, and Dean’s name.
Closing his ears to the way Sam’s voice broke, how he sounded completely shattered, Dean pressed forward. He ignored the way his shoulders, back and legs burned with the effort of supporting his as well as Sam’s weight and went as quickly as possible back the way he’d come.
The water was halfway to his calf by now, glass and metal bobbed and swirled in eddies around them. Dean felt it more than saw it. Bits of glass and metal worked their way between his skin and jeans; itching and snipping at his flesh. Whirls of red pin wheeled in the water. Drops of his blood, of Sam’s, mixed with the shards and saltwater.
The demon swirled around them; Dean felt its rage, its sheer desire to destroy them. Moving through air so cold it burnt his skin and made breathing torturous. Images, one after another of horrible acts committed by Sam, some by Dean, flashed in front of him. He wanted to stop, to drop to the ground and curl in a ball, he wanted it all to go away.
Dean concentrated on one foot in front of the other. Each step forward a victory. He didn’t see the steps ahead, and stepped into air. Knees buckling before he regained some of his balance and having to use the wall as a brace he and Sam more fell down the steps than anything.
Finally he reached the wood door and the tunnel beyond. The handle and hinges looked like iron. Hopefully they’d slow the thing down long enough.
The water hadn’t gotten this far. A small amount trickled along the bottom of the stairs. Dean reasoned it must be draining off somewhere along the stairs. Or maybe it was held at bay by the demon, Dean wasn’t sure. What he did know was there were no water or sharp bits of glass and metal beyond the wooden door.
Dropping Sam to the dank flooring, Dean barely took the time to watch him curl on his side, muscles jerking with spasms. Saliva oozed from the corner of Sam’s mouth, tears leaked from his tightly closed eyes.
Charging ahead, Dean ran to the pickup. He grabbed a container of salt from the truck bed and raced back to the doorway. Leaping Sam’s form, Dean wasted no time getting a thick line of salt laid down in front of the closed door.
Back to his brother, Dean leaned down and wrapped both arms around Sam, pulling him up. “C’mon, Sammy, you can do it.”
Sam winced and was trying to walk and turn his feet to one side or the other. His head lolled and bobbed one way then the other as if his head was too heavy for his neck to hold up. His arms flapped uselessly, tremors wracked his entire body.
Dean shoved Sam into the truck, shutting the door behind him. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he pressed his hand flat against Sam’s chest. “Hang in there.”
Sam nodded, one hand fluttered in Dean’s direction before dropping to the seat. His head turned; then without warning he shuddered away from Dean and hit the passenger door. Sam stared wide-eyed at Ezra.
“It’s okay, Sam.”
Haunted eyes in a too pale face lifted to meet Dean’s.
“I said I’d help him.”
Sam nodded once and licked his lips. In the next instant his eyes slipped shut and he slumped in the seat, unconscious.
Dean cranked over the truck’s engine, threw it in reverse and careened back the way he’d come.
Chapter 15
Dean didn’t stop driving backwards until the other truck was in sight. Slamming to a halt he was out and around to Sam’s side. Yanking the door open, Dean gently eased one arm between Sam’s back and the seat. He did his best to ignore how Sam tried to arch away from his touch and the way his brows pulled together, pain etching his face.
“C’mon, Sammy, we’re getting out of here.”
Sam mumbled something but the actual words were lost somewhere in his throat. Dean caught one hand that flapped in his direction. Sam managed to get his other arm over Dean’s shoulders. Carefully, Dean eased Sam from the truck.
The minute Sam’s feet hit the ground his knees buckled and his weight headed down nearly dropping Dean to his knees. His leg throbbed and threatened to stop supporting them both. Gritting his teeth and tightening his fingers around Sam’s wrist, Dean grunted, gulped air into his lungs, and staggered from the partially wrecked truck to the other one.
Thankfully, the door was unlocked. Dean’s hands were full of his brother so busting the window and clearing out the glass would’ve been difficult. He shoved Sam inside. “Just give me two minutes, Sammy, then we’re outa here.”
“Dean.” Sam’s voice was a wet whisper. Dean narrowly avoided slamming Sam’s hand in the door when Sam reached out and grasped his wrist. “Don’t leave…please…”
Putting Sam’s hand over his stomach, Dean rubbed his arm for a few seconds. “I have to. I promise I’d—”
“It’ll—”
“No, Sam, it won’t. I promise. It won’t. I’ve got it covered. Just a few minutes and we’re gone.” He pushed Sam’s wet bangs from his eyes and combed his hair back into place along the back of his head.
Before Sam could grab him again, or offer more protests, Dean shut the door gently. Grabbing one of the bags of salt from the truck bed, Dean laid a hasty line around the truck Sam sat in. Taking an extra bag of rock salt from the truck, along with the cans of gasoline he dropped them into the bed of the damaged truck. Climbing into the pickup’s cab, Dean drove as fast as possible to the spot farther along the tunnel where the skeletons were.
He spent all of a minute uncovering as much of the bones as possible and liberally coated them with salt and then gasoline. The rest of the salt and gas was spread back and forth through the tunnel and over the damaged truck. Dean started the truck, left it idling in park. Lighting a match, he tossed it onto the prepared bones. Another lit match went into the bed of the truck.
The image of the small boy appeared next to him. Ezra smiled. He moved in fits and starts and climbed between his skeleton and that of his teacher’s. He sat there, watching Dean and the fire, his face calm and peaceful. Raising one hand he waggled his fingers at Dean.
Dean returned the silent farewell.
By the time he was climbing into the second truck with Sam, the entire end of the tunnel was in flames. The explosion from the other truck combined with screeching Dean recognized as the demon.
Sam doubled over, hugging himself tightly with both arms wrapped around his middle. Dean knew his brother well enough to know the scream ripped out of him was pure agony.
Slamming his foot down on the gas pedal, the tires spun for a few seconds on the damp ground before the truck jerked forward. Dean gunned the engine. He had to twist and turn the steering wheel at a frantic speed to correct the truck’s fishtailing as he drove up the incline and into the open. Rain immediately assaulted the windows of the pickup.
Dean didn’t stop the truck until he was on the road leading away from the orphanage. Twisting in his seat, he laid one hand on Sam’s back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. His screaming had turned to hitched breathing and soft groans. Entire body shuddering Sam didn’t do much to resist when Dean pulled him upright and leaned him against the seatback. Dean let his hand rest on Sam’s chest.
Between the wind and rains on the outside and the fire eating away the parts within, the orphanage was done for. It crumpled, almost in slow motion, in on itself. Cracking and moaning of walls mixed with the rattle of waves crashing the shore. Minutes later the old wood of the building was claimed by incoming waves of surging ocean and pulled out to sea. Dean saw no telltale oily cloud of black leave, but Sam passing out in the seat beside him let Dean know the link with the demon was severed for now at least.
He made his way back to where the Impala was parked. Twice he’d tried to contact Concha, but the calls wouldn’t go through. Sam, while he never was actually conscious for the ride, he mumbled out half words. Twisting this way and that, he wasn’t still the entire time, radiating so much pain and fear. Dean gripped the steering wheel so tightly his fingers and arms cramped. He hated not being able to shield Sam.
Relief washed through Dean when he was finally able to get Sam into the back of the Impala. On some level his brother must have registered where he was because he quieted and stilled. Grabbing their first aid kit from the trunk, Dean crouched in the open back door, wincing at the pressure to his injured leg, and took a good look at Sam’s feet and ankles. They were cut up, though most the blood had stopped oozing. Small welts and bruising covered the bottom and sides of his feet. A ragged path of red welts covered Sam’s skin to just over the round jut of bone above each foot. He could see bits of glass and metal stuck into his brother’s flesh.
Sighing, Dean leaned back and ran one hand over his face. A few thick swallows, soap and a soft cloth in hand, Dean took a hold of the heel of Sam’s right foot, and began dabbing at the wounds. His relief at being here vanished with the kick to his shoulder he got from Sam. Gripping harder, he tried again with the same results. Holding Sam’s leg as tightly as he could was no good either. Every touch to the tender skin earned Dean a reflexive kick from Sam.
His own achy leg prevented him from staying in one position for too long or give him good enough leverage to hold Sam still.
“Aw…Sammy…c’mon…dude if I don’t get the glass out and get you cleaned up you’ll get sick.” Dean was convinced Sam was losing color and getting feverish.
He needed a way to keep his brother still for this, since Sam wasn’t awake enough to be reasoned with or threatened or cajoled into putting up with it and being still. Something that was a strong enough sedative to stop Sam from kicking was what he needed. Unfortunately it was something he didn’t have. He did, however, have a sizeable wad of cash.
Not sure liquor would work because he didn’t think he could get Sam to drink anything right now, Dean pushed Sam back far enough into the car he could close the door. He slid into the driver’s seat, every bit of him aching. All he wanted to do was sleep. Dean started the car engine and left the parking garage. Hopefully he’d be able to find somewhere to buy what he needed. If not, Dean wasn’t at all above looting, except if he were caught Sam would be worse off than he was now.
The winds had died down and the rain was falling at a steady pace, but not blinding like before. The air around them was hot, muggy and dank smelling, yet both he and Sam shivered.
Driving aimlessly along the streets looking for a decent sized pharmacy or some kind of doctor’s office or clinic, Dean found them back on the evacuation route. He pulled out his phone and tried Concha again, this time getting her voicemail. He left her a message.
The town was in shambles, more buildings were rubble than not. Guilt stabbed a path through Dean’s middle, so many of these people lost loved ones, their homes, everything. Neither he nor Sam could have stopped the hurricane of course, but it made Dean a bit sick to see the mass of destruction and hurt it caused.
Dean could only be thankful, his family, his home had survived, battered and bruised, but they’d survived.
His cell phone jangling gave him a reason to pull to the side of the road for a few minutes.
“Concha? How’s Dante?”
“In recovery. He’ll be fine. We got shipped to a Naval base, but don’t ask me where. You and Sam okay?”
“We’re fine. How about you?”
Her response of she was fine made Dean snort, she sounded anything but fine.
“Back at ya.”
“Fair enough. Sam’s pretty cut up and I’m just beat, but we’ll find somewhere to hole up and get patched up and be good as new in a week.” Maybe two.
“I’ll call you later, I have to go, they’re moving him to his room. Take care.”
“You too.”
Dean closed the phone and leaned his head back, letting his eyes shut. He told himself it was just for a few minutes. When he woke to the sound of gunfire, jerking up so fast he had to think about where he was the rain had eased even more and the sky was darkening. Not wanting to be around anyone shooting off guns right now, Dean got back on the road. He hadn’t gotten too far when he spotted tents and a sign reading Red Cross.
Driving as close as he could to the area with the most gurneys, beds and medical supplies, Dean cut the engine and climbed out of the car. He was slow and stiff and had to ignore how he grunted every time he put weight on his left leg. There were people everywhere but no one was really paying attention to him or his car. Not wanting to leave Sam alone, he decided he was going to have to get his rather large little brother out by himself and over to the medical staff.
Pulling open the door Sam leaned against, Dean caught him before he flopped out of the car. Arms under Sam’s shoulders and around his chest, Dean eased him out of the car.
“Honey, what happened?” The woman’s voice nearly had him jumping out of his skin. Dean had never heard anything so wonderful in his life.
He pivoted on his good leg. “Building collapsed.” It was close enough to the truth Dean figured.
“Does he have a head injury?” She pushed up Sam’s right eyelid, then his left.
“No, I don’t think so. He’s cut up, and dehydrated I’m sure. It was a while before I could get him out. I think he has a fever.” It was funny how demon attack and exposure sounded a like.
She had dark chocolate skin and even darker eyes that crinkled in the corners. Her hair was tight curls and mostly gray. Dean saw she barely came to his shoulders. She was probably someone’s grandmother and here she was in this disaster of a mess. Stepping away, she held out one hand. “I think you’re right. Stay there. Stay right there, I’ll be right back.”
A minute later she was back, gurney in tow. “I can help you get him out.”
“Na…I got him.” Dean pulled Sam out of the car and hoisted him, somewhat awkwardly and ungracefully, onto the waiting gurney. He pushed the gurney over the uneven ground as the woman directed where to go.
The woman’s eyes skimmed critically over Dean. She’d no doubt immediately seen how he hobbled more than walked and how much of his own weight he leaned against that gurney. “You’re hurt too.”
Dean was beyond trying to hide anything at this point. He looked down at his leg, bent and flexed his knee a few times. “I gouged it a few days ago on something. It’s not deep, but it smarts.”
The woman nodded and patted his arm. “A doctor will check you both out as soon as possible.” She headed off to attend other patients.
“He’s going to need some sort of sedative.” Dean tried telling the doctor who got to them an hour later.
“These are superficial; maybe I can do this without anything. Lets get him started on some antibiotics, he allergic to anything?”
Dean shook his head no and watched with amusement as the doctor grabbed one of Sam’s feet. The kick he got knocked the man back a few steps and nearly on his ass. Meeting Dean’s eyes the doctor gave him a lopsided grin.
“Sedatives are good. Be right back.”
Dean sat on a crate near Sam’s shoulders, one hand resting on Sam’s head and watched while bits of glass and metal were removed from his brother’s feet, then back. Nothing was deep enough for sutures and an hour later Dean was feeling much better with his brother’s wounds cleaned. The woman came back and gave them both an injection of antibiotic and some blankets.
It wasn’t until he was completely satisfied everything had been done for Sam he rolled his jeans up and let the doctor clean the days old gash in his leg. Dean took the doctor’s offer of ibuprofen.
Folding one arm on the gurney beside Sam, Dean leaned his head down and watched the people. Most were there for food and some kind of shelter. It was a miracle more weren’t there for medical care. There was food on the opposite side of the camp set up, but Dean didn’t want to leave Sam alone that long, worried how his brother would react to waking up in a throng of people alone.
“How’s he doing?” The kind woman was back. She shoved a Styrofoam container of something steaming into Dean’s hand. “He’ll be asleep for a bit yet.”
Dean stared at what she’d given him for a minute before looking up at her. “Thanks.” The container was full of canned chicken soup and he downed it almost in one gulp.
She patted Dean’s shoulder; “You get some rest now too. Your brother is going to be fine.”
“How’d you know? I never said—” Panic surged through Dean’s chest. How the hell did he get trapped like this? Damn freak hunters after Sam were everywhere.
“Honey, calm down. It’s written all over your face. When you’ve been doing this for thirty some odd years like I have, you learn to tell.”
Dean forced himself to relax. Letting his head drop down again it was all he could do to keep his eyes open. When Sam rolled partially on his side, facing Dean and his arm settled over Dean’s shoulders, his fingers curled into the material covering Dean’s arm, Dean’s eyelids got too heavy and there was no way he was staying awake.
When he opened his eyes again it was because Sam was shaking his shoulder gently. “Where are we?” Sam’s voice was low and soft.
“Somewhere outside Grover’s Point. Red Cross set this up.”
Sam sat up. Dean got stuck halfway when he tried standing up. Grinning a bit, Sam reached out, took his arm and helped him straighten. “They run out of cots when they got to you?”
“Nope,” Dean gave Sam’s arm a light smack before he sidestepped and leaned on the gurney. “How ya feel?”
Yawning, Sam twisted his torso side to side before answering. “Like shit. How about you?”
“Same.”
“It was there. You got me out.” Sam looked up at him.
“I…you shouldn’t have—”
Sam cut him off with a hand on his arm. “You got there. That’s what is important to
Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. The orphanage is gone, totaled. I heard it, but never saw it after I got you away from it. I’ll take you back there, you can see for yourself.” He motioned to Sam’s feet dangling off the gurney. “Think you can walk?”
“They hurt, but yeah. Might need some help. I sure don’t think I’m going to be wearing anything but tennis shoes for a while.”
Hooking one arm around Sam’s middle, Dean guided him to the ground. Sam hobbled along, leaning some of his weight against Dean as they made their way to the Impala. Once Sam was safely tucked inside, Dean leaned in the window. “I’ll be right back.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose, but he stayed quiet, nodding once.
Making his way back through the many people, Dean found the woman who’d helped him get Sam treated. Taking her hands in his, Dean leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Make sure this helps the right people.” He folded her fingers around the wad of money he’d taken from
+++++
The sun was burning off the early morning dew when Dean stopped the Impala as close to the shoreline as possible. Sam was walking slowly, but he was walking unassisted finally after three days. They stood watching the surf, still white capped and high, as it splashed against the sand and rocks.
“Ezra’s gone.” Sam broke the silence.
“He showed me where his bones were, and the woman’s. He helped me find you. There were trucks left by
Sam laughed from deep in his chest. It was a wonderful sound that made Dean relax and spread warmth through him. “You just had to blow something up.”
“Hey! The building was starting to float away anyway. Heck, I did the county a favor and got rid of the debris.”
“What about
Dean turned and pointed to the trees. “Left one guy tied up there, the others were in the orphanage, I don’t know if they got away or not.”
Sam shrugged. Bending over he snatched a branch from the ground and flung it at the ocean. “There’ll just be someone else in their place. My face is on a video and it’s a sure bet others saw it too, even if those guys didn’t make it.”
“We have to be careful, Sam. Not let our guard down.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t you.”
Sam smiled, “I know that too. Some days I have to tell myself that a few extra times, though. I have to remind myself it wasn’t my fault.” He stopped and drew in a breath, looking out at the ocean. “The demon isn’t here anymore. When the orphanage went, the demon must have too. Or it was destroyed.”
“This one might have been, but there’re others, Sammy.” Dean scuffed one toe in the thin grass sprouting out of the sand. “Sam, listen—”
“No. Dean, you listen. Please, listen to me and believe me. You got me out of there. Those men didn’t kill either one of us and you got me away from that demon. You can’t keep it away forever, and I know that. It’s okay, Dean it really is.”
“But what it did, Sammy. I understand now, I saw some for myself.”
“The minute you were there the things it did and I saw, they weren’t real anymore. I could tell as soon as you got there, it sort of lost some power. It was almost as if it panicked. I’m not going to kid you, it hurts me and scares me, but it doesn’t have the power over me it did at first. Maybe neither of us can stop it, but it sure can’t stop us from protecting each other. It can’t keep you from looking out for me, not ever. That’s what is more important to me.”
“There isn’t anything that can do that, Sammy.”
“That I’ve always known. I’m sorry for what I said, about you being obsessed. You’re not Dad, not even close. I know now you’d never turn into what he did. You’re better, and I really mean that.”
Sam’s eyes slid at him, but Dean just smiled and patted his brother’s arm. He knew Sam intended it as a compliment to him and not anything against their father. He understood what Sam was trying to say, what he was struggling to make up for. Dean felt better; Sam’s efforts were more than enough.
This demon and this storm were part of history now, but Dean knew it was only the first rumblings of rougher weather ahead. Sam nudged Dean’s side with his elbow as he slowly made his way back to the car. Dean took another few seconds to watch the ocean before following his brother. Another day and they’d be leaving, heading straight into another brewing storm.
More importantly they’d be going there together.
The End
(Many thanks to Noelani618, Maygin and Sybaelle for their beta-ing brilliance!)
