So, my obsession of all things supernatural has led me to the wonderful fandom OF Supernatural (go figure). I consider it my replacement for Charmed (which I miss...so much).
Anyway, that's not important. What IS important is that I'm back with my first Supernatural fanfic! (I've been writing a lot of "firsts" lately.) So, yes, this is going to focus on the relationship between Sam and Dean (Wincest); which, if you do not like, please. Feel free to click on another story and go away.
I do tend to write very dark stories, and this is not going to be an exception. I stay true to my nature!
Enjoy after the disclaimer!
Disclaimer: If I owned Supernatural...oh, god. Well, let's just be glad that I don't!
Baited
1
"To meeting new people, right?"
"Right."
Sam took a drink of his gas-station-bought coffee before setting it back down on the small table against the window in a motel room. Snow lightly tapped the window, blurring the view through the blinds and causing the streetlights outside to have orange orbs encircling them. Sam stared down at his cup and sloshed the liquid around before taking another sip. The man sitting across from him seemed innocent enough. A middle-aged man, who Sam had met in the main lobby of the cheap, dingy motel, was only a few doors down from where he and Dean had been bunking up for the last two days trying to hunt down, what they had heard to be, Agramon; or at least a lesser demons with similar abilities. However, while driving through, the snow storm had been so bad, the car would not drive through it; so they ended up leaving the car parked in the woods a few miles from the motel.
Either way, the hunt was at a standstill until the demon acted up again.
Unfortunately, being on edge had both of the brothers at each others' throats. Earlier that evening, they had each gone a separate way to find information, or, better yet, the demon itself. Coming up with nothing hours later, Sam had decided to return to the motel and look online for anything even remotely useful.
Again, it failed.
Deciding to grab a cup of coffee and continue looking, he left the room to see if there was any available in the lobby. That was when he had met this man, and found out that the motel's coffee machine was broken and they had to go across the street, in the snow, to the gas station. Chatting about random, pointless topics, the man had been nice enough to buy Sam's drink.
He glanced at the alarm clock on the table next to the bed: Eleven fifteen was shining in red numbers and Sam shook his head, glancing back out of the window. Dean should be back soon and Sam debated on leaving the man's room and going back to theirs. Fatigue was finally beginning to hit him, despite the caffeine running through his system.
Cheap, gas station coffee: Hardly useful for actually staying awake.
"So what'd you say you and your brother are doing this far out?"
Sam jerked his attention to the man, shaking his fatigue, nearly stumbling over his words to answer. "Oh, um, just a road trip."
The man raised a brow, creasing his forehead. "A road trip here? You two must have a lot of time to kill." Sam just nodded a 'yeah' and took another swig of coffee, draining it. What felt like coffee grounds scratched their way down his throat and he cleared his throat after bringing the cup back down. "A strange place to stop; middle of nowhere," the man continued, though it seemed as though he was commenting to himself.
"What about you? This isn't exactly the place to take a leisure vacation off of work." Sam cleared his throat again, trying to get the grounds that were stuck to his throat to go down.
The man chuckled and brought his own drink to his lips. "No kidding." He took a sip before continuing. "I was on my way to visit my folks in Rhode Island; instead, I wind up in this shitty weather where my car decides to take a vacation. They're working on it at the repair shop 'bout a mile down the road. This was the only motel within walking distance." Sam laughed lightly. "Welcome to beautiful-freakin' West Virginia, eh?"
"Yeah." Sam shook his head and pushed the chair back, his head pounding. "Well, it was nice meeting someone out here, at least; but I think I'm going to retire for the night." The man brought his drink to his mouth, not commenting as Sam walked by him towards the door.
Sam grabbed his coat from where it was sitting on the dresser, though it took him two tries before he managed to actually pick it up. His vision was starting to haze. He shook his head again, slipping his coat on. He turned to the door, grabbing the handle. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to recoup and get ready for the cold to hit him in the face.
"Oh, sit down, Sammy."
Sam furrowed his eyebrows and turned his head to the side, looking at the man. Still, he sat in the chair, taking another drink.
"What?"
The man tilted the cup, finishing it and setting it down on the table. "You're not going anywhere, just yet." Sam blinked and his head began pounding harder, feeling as though his brain was about to burst from his skull. He tugged on the handle, only to find it locked. He glanced at the chain lock. He reached up to grab it and unlock it, but he could not seem to grab it and, instead, looked as though he was grabbing at air. The man turned to him. "It's impolite to leave without at least saying thanks."
Sam set his head on the door and looked at him; the entire room seemed to swirl behind the blurred figure and his voice was like an echo around him. "You drugged me?" was the only thing he asked before the room collapsed into darkness.
o-o-o-o-o
Dean fixed the bag on his shoulder, then tightened his coat around him, crossing his arms to keep his body heat in. The car was already gone from his view and he could see the lights from the few buildings in the distance. The wind picked up, slamming ice-cold snow in his face. He ended up walking to the next town closest, about seven miles away, which was not much larger than the "town" they were staying in. He rather thought of where they were as a village than a town. However, he was able to find out that they were getting close: A woman had murdered her husband, convinced that he was going to kill her in her sleep. The couple had a decent marriage, and their daughter had even said there were no problems with her parents' marriage.
Seemed like enough of a fear to use.
He had tried calling Sam, but reception was impossible; whether that was due to the storm or their remote location, he could not say.
His boots crunched in the snow. Sinking in passed his angles and coating the bottom legs of his jeans in melted snow and ice. The weight from the bag on his shoulder was not helping his mood any, and it continued to slide down to where he had to constantly readjust it on his shoulder; however, he had figured, since he had to pass by the car anyway, he might as well grab the only bag left – not that its contents would be of much use, but leaving it in the car seemed like a bad idea. It was full of spare clothes wrapped around weaponry; had anyone have gone through it, they would not have bothered leaving with a bag of random clothes. Thanks to the snow, however, the car was impossible to see; not just due to be shrouded by trees, but the snow storm had completely covered the vehicle, making it to where he even had a hard time relocating it.
As he reached an old, rundown gas station with all of its windows and doors boarded up signaling he had reached the entrance of town, he could see the red, flickering neon sign for the motel and the only working gas station up ahead. Another gust of wind had snow hit his face, his extremities already numb. When he reached the door to the room, he was having difficulty digging the key out of his pocket, his hands having lost feeling. When finally managed to pull it out and insert it into the lock, he had to jiggle it before the latch clicked and he was able to open the door.
"Hey, Sam, looks like we're closer than we thought," he said as he walked in and shut the door behind him. He slid the bag off of his shoulder and tossed it on the table under the window before taking his coat off and setting it on the chair. He knocked the snow and ice from the cuffs of his jeans. "You're not passed out already, are you, Sammy?" He turned to face the set of twin beds, both vacant. "Sam?" he called out, walking passed the beds towards the restroom. The door was shut, the light glowing from underneath. He knocked twice. "Hey, Sam!"
No response.
Dean raised a brow. "If you don't answer, I'm coming in." Still no response. "Fine." He grabbed and turned the handle, pushing the door open. Though the light was on, the restroom was empty. He crooked his mouth. Turning away from the bathroom, he pulled out his cell phone – it had one bar of signal strength. He dialed Sam's number and pressed the receiver to his ear. As it started to ring, his eyes darted around the room, landing on the closed laptop and opened notebook on the bed closest to the door. Walking over, he traced his eyes over what Sam had been writing; mainly speculation of information they already knew.
Sam's voicemail picked up and Dean released a groan.
"All right, Sammy. You ignoring me now? Anyway, I think I found something – next town over. If you'd pick up your phone, you'd know that."
He cut the message short and hung up.
Sighing, he sat on the edge of the bed and flipped the laptop open, logged in the password when the screen popped up and was introduced to what Sam had been researching. Among the screens were a list of names Agramon – or the "Demon of Fear" – also went by in other myths and legends. There were a total of fifteen names, some of which Sam had been looking up.
Barbas, Mabas, Vetis.
Twenty minutes later, he shut the laptop and released a sigh. Still, no trace of Sam and a bunch of useless information. He stood and picked his coat up, deciding to look for his brother. Again, he was introduced to the below-freezing weather as he walked across the parking lot to the main building. He swung the door open, shaking when he entered the brightly lit lobby. The lobby appeared to be just as empty: A few chairs were surrounding a trio of tables, and, on the counter, there were empty cases where breakfast would be in the morning. Some aging fruit was in a basket on the front counter, which was the first thing he noticed when he approached it and knocked – his knuckles made a hollow sound on the wooden countertop.
"Hello?" he called, leaning over the counter to peer into the opened door behind the counter. When he did not get a response, he rolled his eyes and turned around, scanning back over the lobby. He grabbed what was probably a mealy apple from the basket, tossing it up and catching it before biting into it.
"Can I help you?"
He turned to see a man, about his age, coming out from the room. Dean cleared his throat at the annoyed look he was being given.
"Uh, yeah. Have you seen the guy I checked in with?"
The man raised his eyebrows. It was the same person from when they had checked in yesterday; it was understandable why he was being given the attitude. He and Dean did not exactly get the same page. Instant hostility.
"Yeah." Dean perked up; however, when that was all he was given, he gave him a look, meaning for him to continue. "He wanted coffee, but we're out; so he and the man from one-fifty-two went to the gas station, instead."
Dean cursed and shook his head. He tapped his palm on the counter before pushing back. "Thanks," he said, leaving the lobby and heading back out into the cold.
He crossed the parking lot again, this time passing the door to their room and walking down the overhang to room one-fifty-two. He pounded on the door, bringing his hands back to his mouth and breath on them, rubbing them together to keep them from going numb. When no one answered the door after a few seconds, he pounded on the door again.
"Sam, if you're in there, open up!"
Groaning, he dug through the pockets of his coat, pulling out his pick. Glancing around him, he inserted them into the keyhole, digging through and moving the latches to unlock the door. It clicked and he opened the door, half-expecting to find it empty and half-expecting to find someone sleeping.
One of his feelings was right. The room was empty, but someone was definitely occupying it. Seeming as how there were only four cars in the parking lot, it was a pretty safe bed he had the right room. He shut the door, shoving his kit back in his pocket. He glanced around: There were two coffee cups sitting on the table against the window. As he took a step forward, his foot kicked something across the floor and under the dresser where the television was sitting. Walking over, he bent down, reaching under it and feeling around for whatever it was. When he retracted his hand back, his heart jumped to his throat.
With a cracked screen, Sam's phone lay in his hand, showing one missed call and one new voicemail.
o-o-o-o-o-o
Sam groaned and rolled his head to the side. He heard footsteps around him and the sound of dripping pipes. Blood pounded against his skull and his chest felt heavy. He opened his eyes, squinting, seeing the blurs of his surroundings. When he went to rub his eyes, he felt something binding his hands behind his back. Releasing another groan, he clenched his eyes shut before opening them back up; his blurred surroundings began coming into focus and he was able to make out that he was in a basement. As more came into view, he noticed pipes running along the ceiling and cement pillars holding up the foundation of, what he assumed to be, a house. There were doorways that seem to lead to other sections of the basement. He jerked his hands again, turning his head to see that they were tied and duct-taped behind one of the pipes that ran down the wall and into the cement floor. There were no windows, only light fixtures that appeared to dangle dangerously on wires; they emitted little light, roughly forty watts, and the light was absorbed by the dark gray of the cement walls and flooring.
Everything was gray or brass, giving the feel the basement was more of a dungeon.
Footsteps were heard to his left and he turned to see the man from earlier walking around him to stand in front of him. He crouched down, cocking his head and meeting Sam's eyes.
"Who are you?" was the first question Sam released from his throat – it came out somewhat slurred, no doubt from whatever was used to drug him. Another groan escaped his throat, followed by, "What do you want?"
"Suffering."
Sam shook his head, still trying to rid the pounding headache, now accompanied by nausea. He forced his eyes open; though the lighting was dim, it still hurt his eyes. "What?" was his initial reaction.
The man stood up, scoffing. "What's with all the questions? Oh, look," he clicked his tongue. "Now you've got me doing it, too." He paced in front of him, his shoes clicking on the floor. Sam shut his eyes, swallowing to get the taste of acid out of his mouth. "Though, I will have to say: It was shear chance running into you. Luck, really. I'd like to know what you two were after, bringing you here, of all places," he muttered, though it was still audible.
Sam opened one eye, his eyebrows creasing his forehead. His stomach churned and he could feel acid rising in his throat; it took most of his self-control to swallow it back down. He released a breath and let the back of his head hit the pipe. "What do you want from me?"
He finally opened both of his eyes to look at the man when he laughed.
"You?" he chuckled. "I don't want a damn thing from you, Sam."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "Then why? What are you?"
"I don't need to give you a reason." Sam could only stare at him, confusion racing through his mind. The man released a throaty snort, his brown, nearly black, eyes flashed. "You really are clueless." He jerked to Sam, putting his hands on his shoulders and leaning to where he was mere centimeters away from his face. "And I am not a 'what', baby boy." Sam tensed, their eyes locking, almost death-staring each other; this man's eyes seemed so dark, contrasting how he was earlier. There was something that he was unable to put his finger on. "I am a who; don't group me in with those pathetic things you two have been hacking off."
"Yeah, well, you're about to become one of them," he shot back.
Again, the man chuckled. The amusement in his face was gone and he slapped Sam hard across the face, causing him to cut the inside of his cheek on his teeth. Just as quickly, he forcefully grabbed Sam's chin, digging his fingernails into the sides of his face as he made him bring his head to face him.
"Don't screw with me." Sam furrowed his eyebrows and the man released him, pulling back and standing up, his calm demeanor returning. "I know everything about you, Sam Winchester; so, I don't recommend you testing your luck. You should already be thankful I haven't decided to kill you, yet."
Sam turned his head and spit out the blood filling his mouth before asking, "Then why haven't you?"
The man seemed intrigued, then; as though he had been brought back to a fond memory. "Because, my dear boy, I need you alive."
"Oh?"
"Yes," he snapped, shooting a glare. "As long as you're still kicking, your brother's at my will." Sam stared at him intently, trying to read him. Seeing the expression, the man seemed strangely amused. "I told you, Sammy: I have no interest in you. You just play a small part."
Sam clenched his fists, his shoulders tensing as his heart pounded in his chest.
"What does Dean have to do with any of this? Or with you?"
The man shook his head, pulling a small, engraved blade out from underneath his jacket and tapping it on the palm of his other hand. He ran his thumb from the point of the blade down to the hilt. Moving back over to Sam, he crouched back down, meeting him at eye level.
"That's a story for another time, all right?" he said in an awkwardly gentle manner as he brought the dagger up, running in softly from Sam's cheek to his chin.
"You really think Dean's gonna fall for this?"
Sam swallowed hard, tasting the metallic flavor of his own blood as it ran down his esophagus. The man flicked the blade under Sam's hair, moving it to where a piece fell in front of his face.
He laughed, his voice echoing off the cement walls. He shook his head, a smirk staining his face. "Oh, come on, Sammy. You and I both know that you're no idiot; neither am I and neither is Dean. But there's one thing that will always have him running." Sam's stare became more intense and he clenched his jaw. The man reached out his hand, running it down the piece of Sam's hair that hung next to his cheek. "And that's you." He retracted it when Sam jerked his head away. "His instinctive urge to protect his 'little brother' will always have him running. I'm counting on it."
Whaaaa. I think this is my first fanfic where the reason for the title is like...BLATANTLY obvious.
Seriously.
Anywho! If you have comments or questions, leave it in a review! I respond to all reviews, so, if you have a question, feel free to ask and I'll tell you when I update!