The Legacy Line
Spoilers: Yes probably, seasons 1-6, somewhere between — you pick
Warnings: violence, language, research, secret societies, it's just a story... don't overthink it.
Summary: Dean disappears, and it's up to Sam and Bobby to find him before he ends up a victim of a group searching for original legacy line.
This has not been beta'ed, accept the typos as part of the creative process. I always finish a story to its completion before I post. And, my stories have to sleep a few weeks before they see the light of day – sometimes things just aren't as good as they first seem and rewrites are always necessary. My stories tend to be long... 40 pages or more. Please remember this is fiction — and fiction includes: fake towns, fake people, fake medical procedures, fake assumptions and nonfiction rules do not apply. Main characters aren't mine, no money is being made… just lost time writing due to crappy internet services and weather.
Chapter 1
Long days and longer nights were always a part of the hunt and at times left Sam and Dean exhausted. The frequency of events had intensified –- and the need for hunters grew –- even as their numbers decreased due to the violent and deadly nature of the job.
Against common sense and logic, Dean and Sam continued their drive toward Hastings, a small town just south of Elk, South Dakota. Dean had argued that pushing themselves to the next town was the best route, after all, he was the one driving, and the damn car was his. Sam retaliated and raised several scientific facts about sleep deprivation and exhaustion: after 24 hours impaired coordination, memory, and judgment were affected; at 36 hours blood pressure and emotions were compromised; and after 48 hours disorientation and microsleeps would occur. Sam and Dean were both pushing the 36-hour mark and Sam and pointed to several hotels with flashing vacancy signs. What had started as light banter had turned to bitter frustration as Dean pressed the gas and Sam pointed toward another vacancy sign. Wisely — after Dean threatened to remove an appendage — Sam grew quiet as the long arduous drive continued. He stared out the window, slumped against the passenger seat, right elbow on the armrest of the door and both hands in his lap.
Sam had been wearing the same clothes for three days and he knew once they reached Hastings, that he would have to purchase a new pair of shoes. Having run through a field of cow shit coupled with a trip through the sewer system in Red River, the stench in the car had grown overwhelming after 300 miles. Sam hid his smile as Dean rolled down the window again. Running around barefoot was not an option, not with the weather threatening to turn. Rain and snow showers were headed their way. Sam was sure the reason for Dean's occasional clearing of his throat was due to the stink of shit stuck on Sam's shoes. There was something akin to satisfaction in Sam's smile, knowing as soon as they reached Hastings, Dean would be searching for carpet cleaner, new floor mats, and air freshener.
The stench would not be a problem had Dean agreed to stop for the night. Hence Sam's passive aggressive tactic to annoy the shit out of his brother. If Sam was going to go without sleep for another night, Dean was going to have his car smelling like the inside of well-used Honey Bucket.
They had tried listening to their dad's music collection, but the enjoyment had worn off with the lack of sleep and while ACDC was a classic, the electric guitar, drums and grating voice could only push them so far. Having the windows cracked not only helped with the stench, but it had helped keep them awake. If Dean could be a jackass, so could Sam. The fresh air was enough to awaken tired nerves, but also continued to cause friction as the drive increased in distance and another small town and vacant hotel was left behind. All in a gallant effort to make it to Hastings before another body was discovered.
Sam did not know how Dean did it — manhandle the long hours. Studying for finals at the end of semesters had taught Sam how to pull all-nighters, but three days and a strenuous hunt was pushing it. Sam looked toward Dean and watched jaw muscles tense and relax as he rubbed his chin with is left hand, his elbow rested on the window well.
Mile markers bowed, and the wind swept beneath the car as they sped by.
Once the first few drops of rain hit the windshield, Dean flipped on the wipers and took a deep breath before the full force of the rainstorm hit. At this point, pride was keeping him awake, not the warm coffee tucked carefully between his thighs, or the fresh air rushing through the narrow gap in the window. Sam clenched his jaw. Being stubborn was a Winchester trait, and one that had been carefully cultivated through many generations, and as a result had become their most dominant characteristic.
Sam scratched his jaw, leaned back, and watched the windshield wipers work in overdrive.
Dean had received an urgent call from Bobby about the bodies of four young men with similar spinal injuries. While the initial reports classified each death as accidental, the number of bodies were increasing. All were discovered within close proximity. They all shared a similar puncture wound to their spines. Bobby had not elaborated on the phone but promised an eye-opening story once they reached their destination. Dean being Dean, had fueled himself up with coffee and Red Bull and ignored everything practical. While he had the heart of a lion when it came to his family, he was also the dumb-shit-stubborn-as-fuck bull trapped in a china shop — Sam simply waited for the inevitable.
"Shit," Dean sighed when the lights on the Impala flickered. He leaned forward, checked the lights on the dash, and then carefully guided the car off the road as the engine stalled.
"What happened?" Sam sat upright and watched Dean slip the car into park and flip on the hazard lights.
Baby had been purring like a kitten, the tank was nearly full, and Dean maintained her engine like he did his guns, only better. The damn engine had more polish than Steinbeck's first novel.
Dean grabbed a flashlight from the jockey box and then opened the door. Rain continued to pour, and it slammed against the windshield and hood as gusts of wind picked up. Sam watched the mile marker next to his door bend as the reflector caught a glimpse of the vanishing moonlight. He took a deep breath as Dean lifted the hood. Sam opened his door and stepped into the weather. He wrapped his jacket around himself when the cold wind took him by surprise.
"What is it?" Sam asked, and watched Dean check the battery connections. Sam tucked his head toward his right shoulder as another gust of wind forced the rain toward them. "Maybe we should wait in the car until the weather clears."
"Sonofabitch." Dean bit on the end of the flashlight to free his hand and checked the battery connections and then checked the fuel line. He paused a moment, grabbed the flashlight from his mouth, took a deep breath, and pushed himself away from the grill. He ran his hand over his face, wiping the rain from his brow, and clenched his jaw.
"You know, if we'd stopped and got gas in the morning... after a night's rest, you probably would've seen that when you checked her oil in the morning." Sam raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips into a tight smile.
"Really?" Dean turned, and looked at Sam. "You want to start that now?" His masseter muscles flexed, and he breathed through his nose.
"Dean, we're out in the middle of nowhere. It's pouring rain. The car is dead. We're both exhausted, and I don't know about you — but I'm hungry." Sam shrugged, swallowed, and flared his nostrils as he took a deep breath. "You always do this." He signed, looked toward the road as another gust of wind caused the branches on the trees to moan and snap. He shoved his hands into his pockets, clenched his fists, and pulled his shoulders tight. "You're not dad — you don't have to do everything like him."
"I'm not having an Oprah moment with you right now!" Dean placed his hands on the hood and slammed it closed. He shoved his left hand into his pocket and then flashed his light down the road. The rain bounced off the road as it hit, and a gust of wind continued to push through trees, causing them to bend and bow with the torrent. A branch snapped and fell to the ground. Dean looked from the branch and back to Sam. "Bobby asked us for help — you want to stop at a Holiday Inn and get your nails done — fine — I'll drop you off at the next vacancy — but in the meantime, I'm going to walk to the next town and grab a part."
"Dean —"
"What?" Dean frowned and clenched his jaw. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "How many times has Bobby called us for help?"
Sam shrugged. "I don't know." He winced against the onslaught of rain.
"Try never — he always calls Jo or Harry, but he never calls us — he sends us cases, gives us shit when things to south, but he never asked us for help — that's why I haven't stopped for some shuteye."
"You think he's in trouble?"
"I don't know what to think — but I do know that if he's askin' us for help," Dean shrugged, "he needs it, or something we have."
"Dad's journal?"
Dean frowned as his frustration grew. "I don't know, Sam, but I want to get to Hastings to find out." He clenched his jaw and then spotted headlights in the distance. "Stay with the car — I'll call if there's a problem."
Sam took a deep breath as Dean started the journey toward town. Sam exhaled and chewed his bottom lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a road sign. He ran his fingers through wet hair and turned back toward the car. For a moment the rain paused, nearly stopped before a loud crack of thunder echoed, and another downpour started. He slipped into the passenger seat of the Impala and grabbed the blanket folded on the back seat to wrap up in. He could barely see the movement of Dean's flashlight as he continued toward town. The light flashed to the right as another branch snapped and fell.
The oncoming headlights outlined Dean's form as he walked, and Sam wiped the inside of the window to improve his view. He hoped the driver would stop, ask if Dean needed assistance, hell, have an extra part in the trunk of their car. Sam sighed as the car drew closer, lights shown brighter, but when Dean's form disappeared into the darkness he sighed. Sam squinted as the car drove passed, sending rainwater toward the car.
Sam frowned, leaned closer to the windshield and wiped at the condensation, frantically he grabbed the door-handle, pushed it open and nearly fell as he stepped from the car. "Dean!" He dropped the blanket he ran toward his brother. "Dean!"
Dean flashed his light toward his right as another tree branch succumb to the harsh winds. The cracking and snapping of branches were dulled by the weather's overwhelming presence. He squinted as the car drew closer and the lights grew more intense. While he hoped they might stop, a lifetime of experience reassured him that they –- whoever they were –- would continue their course. Another roll of thunder sent a torrent of wind and rain toward him, and he did his best to avoid the onslaught by hunching his shoulders and keeping his arms tight against his sides, though his jacket was waterproof, it wasn't warm. Four miles to the next town. While it hadn't seemed like a long distance back at the car he wished he had stopped for he night like Sam had suggested. Pride had a way of overruling Dean's sensibilities — it was a character trait he recognized — usually after the fact, and one that he tried to ignore.
Dean clenched his jaw and continued. He brought his left arm up to protect his eyes as the car drew closer and without slowing drove passed. He barely had time to register the high-pitched squeal of a wet fan-belt before he was struck. The black Buick's breaks squealed as Dean was hit on his left side, sending him crashing over the hood and into the windshield as a flash of lightning lit the sky. The glass broke but never shattered. The sudden stop had him rolling off the hood and onto the road's shoulder. Dean gasped for air and struggled to push himself onto his elbows and knees as adrenalin peeked. He coughed and then groaned as nerves took inventory of his injuries. He pressed his forehead against his forearms, closed his eyes and focused his efforts on breathing. Blood, mixed with rain, flowed freely from a gash above his left eye and across his face.
Car doors were opened, and voices echoed. Two sets of hands grabbed Dean by his upper arms and started to drag him toward the car. He struggled, looked up, but was met with blurred vision and heavy rain. He tried to pull his arms from their grip, and then gasped when he was forced to the ground onto his belly. He heard Sam call his name as his hands were quickly cuffed behind his back. He was lifted by his shoulders, forced into the back seat of the car and the door was slammed shut behind him. Someone shoved him upright and forced a black hood over his head. He kicked the person seated next to him and was rewarded suddenly with his head shoved against the window.
"Do that again and I'll make sure you never walk again." The stranger kept his hand against Dean's right cheek and scalp.
"Fuck you," Dean said, and gasped through the hood. The material moved as he inhaled and exhaled, his breaths frantic. Blood from the cut above his left eye soaked through the cotton material and smeared against the window glass.
The stranger pulled his hand away and Dean slumped against the door. His left side burned in agony, as well as his shoulder, and hip. He could feel his hands pulse as the lacerations and road rash flared. His fingers felt slick. He continued to have a difficult time catching his breath. He could hear the hum of the engine, the squeal of the fan belt, and tires against the pavement.
Thunder again roared, and the window wipers were flipped to high speed.
"Who are you?" Dean asked and shifted as the pain of his shoulder grew more intense. He heard someone chuckle and then the radio was turned to a sports station.
"Best if you don't ask questions." The voice had a hint of an accent and came from the front passenger seat. The seat squeaked beneath his weight as he shifted. "Gag him."
