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These Things Take Care of Themselves
(Part one of two)
by Liz Bach
Dean felt like such a fucking idiot, sitting there with his back against a cold, damp, cinder block wall. It was dark in the corner where they'd dropped – make that thrown – him, and whatever he'd landed in looked black. He hoped it was water, but for all he knew it could have been oil or blood. For sure it was rancid. And cold. And it had soaked into the thick, coarse weave of his favorite pair of jeans. His hands were bound behind him. He was practically sitting on them, and when he struggled against the twine or rope or whatever they'd used to restrain him, his fingertips slid against liquid – and probably mold – in the space where wall met floor.
He'd been twisting and tugging for what must have been close to half an hour. After tossing him in, they'd left him there alone, slamming the heavy metal door shut behind them. For the first ten minutes he'd tried to stand, but everything from about his mid-back down felt numb and immovable. The lack of pain – or any other sensation for that matter – was disturbing to say the least; but he suspected it was more a result of something they'd injected him with than any actual damage. That knowledge was small comfort, though, in the face of being rendered pretty much useless. Unless he could find some way to get his arms loose and drag himself out of there undetected, he was a lame duck. An impotent, lame duck stranded in a pond of mystery fluid. A ridiculous, impotent, lame duck stranded in a pond of stinky, mystery fluid after letting two very human yahoos in Walmart hunting jackets get the drop on him outside a defunct water treatment plant.
"Nice jackets!" Dean hollered out inanely, with one more wrench against his bonds.
The fact that he couldn't thrash and kick and throw himself around like a six-year-old in the midst of a sugar-induced meltdown was almost as frustrating as being stuck there in the first place. So instead, he let out an enraged grunt and threw his upper body back hard against the wall. An action he instantly regretted as the cement jarred his skull and shoulder blades with a percussive pain that had him seeing stars. He closed his eyes tightly and slumped further into the corner, willing himself not to pass out. The self-inflicted blow to the head might not have done much toward effecting an escape, but it did knock some sense back into him. He was going to have to pull himself together if he was going to get out of this and find his brother.
They'd been exploring a lead Bobby had thrown their way. It was Busch league compared to the Apocalypse, sure, but even this small time shit needed taking care of, right? Sam was trying, yes, and if they had any hope of being as effective a team as they once were, Dean was going to have to learn to trust his brother again. But if this hunt meant one more ride on the training wheels, Dean could live with that. In fact, if Dean was honest, attempting to ease back into the fray (despite already being mired smack in the middle of it) was just as much about Dean himself as it was about Sam. He had managed, however unwittingly, to drive Sam off in the same spectacular fashion John Winchester had years ago, only with even direr results. And he couldn't afford to have that happen again. On so many levels.
Lucifer had told him no matter what details Dean altered, there was to be no derailing the train of the Apocalypse. Dean couldn't be sure whether the words were just another Zachariah-shaped manipulation or bitter truth from the devil's own tongue, but he did know they were unacceptable. After years of taking orders, Dean was taking the rest of his life – however long that turned out to be – into his own hands. And he planned to alter every freaking detail in the process.
Sam's words in Canton had galvanized him, but they'd also reinforced the fact that there was no more room left to fuck up. They had to get things right this time, or all of mankind would suffer the consequences. So this hunt, despite the way it made Sam roll his eyes, was meant to bolster something in Dean. Something that had been damaged over the past year. Something that connected him to his brother in a way that made the bad guys a hell of a lot less formidable if it was working properly.
One of Bobby's connections had called him with a head's up. There was a page two article in a local paper about city workers discovering what appeared to be a makeshift shelter in one of the rooms of a long-abandoned water treatment facility outside Battle Creek, Michigan. The workers had reported a sickening odor, which they'd followed through the dark, empty corridors into what had once been the foreman's office. According to the workers, they stumbled upon a gruesome pile of what looked (and smelled) like human remains. But when the cops arrived to investigate, all they found was a sketchy, crude hermitage: several piles of dirty clothes, a couple watches, and an empty duffle bag littered the cement floor. A length of rope and a dirty tin camping spoon were strewn in one corner. Despite all evidence of recent inhabitance and hasty desertion, there was no trace of any blood or skin or hair – or teeth – as the workers had described.
"A shapeshifter?" Dean had deduced with interest.
Sam looked up from behind his laptop and raised an eyebrow. Dean shrugged and returned his focus to Bobby's voice on the other end of the line.
"Sounds like it. Look, I know you boys got bigger fish to fry, but maybe this is just the kind of thing you were looking for, kid. You know, to help you 'n your brother get back in sync."
"Yeah, Bobby," Dean agreed. "I think you're right. Thanks. We're gonna get right on it. We're actually not that far out from the area."
When he hung up, Sam was looking at him darkly.
It had taken them only two hours to get to Battle Creek and fifteen minutes of scouting to decide to split up. And then, despite the training wheels, Dean had still managed to completely wipe out. In his defense, he'd been looking for a shapeshifter, not a couple of self-righteous hunters. One minute he was letting them walk right up to him, ready to share intel and come up with a plan for disposal. The next he had a thick arm wrapped around his neck and a damn needle shoved through the fabric of his jeans and into his ass. Whatever they'd shot him with burned going in, and then a sharp strike to the back of his head sent him crumpling into darkness.
When he could look up without seeing two of everything, Dean lifted his head to finally examine his surroundings. The room was relatively small, maybe twelve by eighteen. The door had a single pane of glass near the top, just large enough to see the face of whoever was coming through. There was a square card table set up in the middle of the floor, and two metal folding chairs on either side. The cement walls were thick, and they trapped an unusual amount of humidity inside the room. Dean imagined there were still huge reserves of water standing stagnant somewhere in the bowels of the building. Dank runoff from some nearby river or lake that just kept slowly collecting, growing sludgy and fetid over time.
He was slumped in the corner farthest from the door, and only a weak shaft of light filtering through the dirty window illuminated his surroundings. Aside from him, the table, chairs, and the ooze he was currently seated in, the room was otherwise completely barren.
Until the door suddenly swung open. It crashed against the wall behind it and a familiar, thick arm shot out from the hallway to keep the door from ricocheting back shut. A man about Dean's height but well over Dean's age stepped into the room. He was still wearing the flannel hunting jacket, and a shotgun hung from his other hand. He was solid without being either particularly muscular or fat, and he had short, thick, curly hair that had gone completely white. The angles of his face were craggy and weathered, but his eyes were still sharp with a cruel bitterness befitting an experienced and disillusioned hunter.
"Ready, Winchester?" he demanded without preamble, his voice echoing off the empty walls. He moved further into the room and reached up to snag a thin chain hanging down over the table. A bulb snapped on, and Dean suppressed a flinch at the new light.
Dean could hear a scuffling just inside the hallway. But before he could think of an appropriate smartass remark, a body was flung into the room and bounced off the cinder block across from the door. Return momentum knocked the body into the white-haired hunter, who reached up and steadied it by clamping a fist in its hair.
Another hunter, this one slightly smaller and younger with a clean, army buzz cut, followed into the room and let the door slide shut. He, too, had a shotgun, held with both hands in toward his chest, like a soldier. He stepped to the other side of their newest capture, but didn't look at him. Instead, he smirked down at Dean.
In fact, they were all three looking at him now: the two hunters and Dean's brother, whose arms were cuffed behind his back. The beefy hand in Sam's hair wrenched his neck at an uncomfortable angle, and he was breathing heavily, looking down his nose to where Dean sat helplessly with his paralyzed legs sprawled out in front of him.
Forget training wheels. Apparently, what they really needed was a fucking tricycle.
Dean noticed at once the shock of blood staining the side of Sam's face. It ran down from a matted clump of hair near his temple, through his sideburn, to somewhere beneath his coat collar. The stark light from the naked bulb made Sam's normally tanned skin appear washed out, and there was a slightly wild look in his eyes that made Dean's stomach clench.
Sam was scared.
"I asked you a question," the white haired man barked loudly, with an abrupt tug at Sam's hair. "I said, are you ready?"
"For what?" Dean demanded at the same time Sam ground out a pained, "Kiss my ass."
Both the younger hunter's and Dean's eyes widened at Sam's response, but the fourth man just sneered.
"I was hoping you'd say something like that," he admitted, quieter this time. He grabbed one of the chairs out from the table and shoved Sam down into it, letting go of his hair. "Gonna make this a helluva lot easier on Rabbit and me."
Rabbit clutched his gun tighter and swallowed visibly.
"What the hell is going on here?" Dean interrupted, squirming with his entire upper body against the rope behind his back. "And while we're at it, who the hell names their kid Rabbit?"
The white-haired hunter turned his attention to Dean and regarded him with narrowed, judging eyes. "You always did have a mouth on you," he frowned.
Now Dean's eyes narrowed. "Do we know you?" he asked cautiously. He was stalling, trying to give Sam time to come up with some bright idea to pull both their asses out of the fire.
But Sam was just sitting there, staring at the tabletop.
The white haired hunter actually smiled at the question. "I kind of can't believe you don't remember me, Dean," he said, almost casually. "I guess you were pretty young, now that I think about it. Your brother here was still practically in diapers."
Dean didn't respond, just waited for the man to continue. His eyes were on their captor, but in his periphery he was watching Sam.
"'Course, back then you were both just bright-eyed little tykes. Who'da guessed one of you'd end up turning tricks for the devil?"
Sam suddenly squeezed his eyes shut, and his head dropped forward, hair falling into his face. When Dean looked closer, he saw Rabbit had finally released one of his hands from the shotgun and was now twisting Sam's right arm high against his back.
Dean felt a heated fury surge through him, and he broke out in a sweat. "Don't you touch him!"
The older hunter snorted and his lips twisted in amused contempt – half frown, half smile.
"Calm down," he said, his voice low. It was a warning. "Don't worry. We're not gonna lay another finger on him. We're gonna let him take care of this himself."
Dean didn't know what it meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. Liked even less the way Sam's head stayed down even after Rabbit let go of his arm.
"Who are you?" Dean insisted. And damn it, he still couldn't feel his legs.
"Name's Becker. Knew your daddy back in the day."
"Well, isn't that nice? What the fuck do you want with us?" Dean was rubbing his wrists raw, and still no give in the ropes.
Becker poked his tongue into one corner of his lips, then rolled his eyes. "I think it's pretty obvious what we want, champ." He let out a huff of air. "Look, I don't like doing this. Especially to John Winchester's kid. But this…freak. This thing that used to be your brother. He brought the Apocalypse down on us. On the world."
Becker moved to the side of the table and crouched down on one knee. From that angle, he could look past the bangs into Sam's face. His eyes were still screwed shut, and from this close, Becker could actually see Sam was shaking. He had no sympathy for the moisture he could see gathering in the kid's lashes.
"And somebody's gotta put him down before he does anything else we'll all regret."
Dean felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. It felt like a physical punch. Only once had he ever felt helplessness this profound, and he didn't know if he could live through it again.
"You don't understand," Dean started breathlessly. He renewed his frantic efforts with the rope, his struggles only seeming to pull them tighter.
"Oh, I understand enough," Becker assured him, standing back up and motioning for Rabbit.
Rabbit gingerly laid his shotgun on the floor behind him, then reached for his inside jacket pocket.
"I understand your brother cavorts with demons, Dean. I understand we have him to thank for letting the cat – or Satan, as it were – outta the bag. And I understand we can't afford to have him drawing breath if any of us hopes to survive this thing."
"Wait!" Dean interjected. "Just wait a goddamned minute, okay?"
"No, Dean. You wait a goddamned minute." Becker moved away from the table and dropped to a kneel just beyond Dean's motionless legs. "Look at it this way, kid," he advised through clenched teeth, almost as if this was actually difficult. "I'm doing you a favor. I'm doing something no one should have ever expected you to do yourself."
Dean wondered if Becker was close enough he could spit in his face.
"I'm gonna make this problem take care of itself."
"You keep saying that. What the hell does that even mean?"
Becker turned and nodded up at Rabbit. Then he turned back to Dean.
"I had a little talk with Sam here. Don't worry. He knows you're not flat on your ass ignoring his…predicament…for shits and giggles. The stuff we shot you up with wears off after a couple hours, so when this is all over, you can walk outta here, and we'll never bother you again." Becker's expression hardened further. "That is, as long as Sam doesn't back out of our little agreement."
Dean's eyes shot over to his brother, but Sam still wasn't looking at him. He'd opened his eyes, but now he was staring down at the shiny barrel of the revolver Rabbit had laid out before him. It was a Colt, but a more modern model than the one that had saved Sam's life more than once in the past.
"What agreement?" Dean demanded, turning back to Becker.
"It wears off after a couple hours, yeah. But if we were to shoot it into a beating heart…?" The older man sighed. "Let's just say a couple hours would be about two hours too late."
Dean's nostrils flared, and his whole face and neck went red with rage.
"SAM!" he bellowed, trying to garner his brother's attention the only surefire way he knew how: by invoking their father at his absolute, militaristic worst.
And it worked.
Sam turned to him with that same stain of defeat in his eyes that still haunted Dean to this day. Back then he'd recognized without understanding what that look was meant to convey. Sam was apologizing. He'd been apologizing when he was nine years old. When he was twelve. When he was sixteen. He'd been apologizing years in advance for what he couldn't possibly have known he would do one day after he'd turned seventeen.
And here he sat now, with the same look on his face. Apologizing. For what he'd done, and for what he was about to do.
Not for dying. As angry as he'd been – hell, still was – Dean wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't oblivious to his brother's pain. There were nights when he'd roll onto his side just to watch Sam breathe, and he'd be struck by a nearly debilitating gratefulness that his brother was still with him. He knew there were moments when Sam wanted desperately to be dead.
No, Sam wasn't apologizing for agreeing to kill himself in exchange for Dean's safe passage out of the plant. He was apologizing for making Dean watch. For making Dean sit there, utterly helpless to stop him. Unable to look away. Because looking away was tantamount to abandoning his brother with a gun in his hand. And there was no way – in hell or anywhere else – Dean would desert his brother to die alone. Dean was finished being cruel; it had backfired so spectacularly in the past. If there was no other way, he would be there with Sam when he pulled the trigger.
But that was only if there was no other way.
"Sam," Dean implored, softening his voice. He struggled to push away from the wall with his bound hands, trying to edge himself closer to his brother, even as his lower body refused to obey him. "Sammy, don't. You don't have to do this."
"Yes, he does," Rabbit corrected, the first words out of his mouth since entering the room. He reached down and unlocked the cuffs from Sam's hands. Then he backed up, as if Sam was a ticking bomb set to explode.
"No, he doesn't," Dean insisted angrily. Furious. "You don't, Sam. There has to be some other way –"
Becker barked out a sharp laugh to that. "What other way? He dies now, you live. He doesn't? You die…and then I'm gonna kill him anyway."
Becker leaned forward and grabbed onto the front of Dean's shirt. Then he shifted so he could see Sam, once again holding Dean in front of him with a thick arm around his neck. He set down his rifle and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a syringe with a vicious-looking five-inch needle at its end.
"Now," he said, looking Sam in the eye. "We had an agreement."
Sam nodded slowly, then looked at Dean.
"It's okay, Dean," he said calmly – almost serenely. Decision already made. His hand was steady as he picked up the gun and brought the barrel to press firmly against the side of his head.
Dean's heart was pounding. He thought he was going to have a heart attack. Surely Sam had something up his sleeve. Surely at that very moment Sam was hatching some sort of plan Dean was going to have to kick his ass over later.
A Colt Python is a double-action revolver. Pulling the trigger both cocks the hammer and releases it to discharge the bullet.
"It's okay," Sam said again, looking at his brother with an intensity that convinced Dean it was anything but okay. "Just promise you'll stay with me."
What else could he do?
He nodded.
And promised.
Sam pulled the trigger. And Dean didn't for even a split second look away.
Wow. Even I didn't know I had it in me. ;)