Note: I had a little trouble getting started, so I had my sister give me a prompt. "Rawhide. Midnight." (It was a typo.) LOL. So, after we got through being silly, I wrote about 'rawhead, midnight, and cows.' XD
Season: Hypothetically after the show. AU.
Spoilers: "Faith" and "Everybody Loves a Clown"
- - -
"Experience"
Rob was afraid of the dark. He would never let on to anyone, especially Grandpa Bobby or Mom, but he'd never quite gotten over the childish fear.
He couldn't stand in complete darkness for more than a few minutes without feeling a prickling antsy sensation at the back of his neck. It was why he didn't like to be in enclosed, dark spaces. When he was young, he'd avoided dark closets and tunnels. He'd been afraid of getting stuck, which was dumb, but he'd been a kid.
Now he was eighteen, but he still couldn't quite get used to sitting alone in the dark.
So when he saw the paper, the story about a kid who'd gone missing on a ranch, and the report that there was no way it could've been a break-in. Something must have gotten in some other way, was his first thought, and his second was, 'Something.'
He didn't get the sense that it was a hunter kind of job very often, but he was getting it loud and clear then. The problem was, Uncle John didn't want to go. No chance, he said. It was too dangerous, he said. Or, it was probably nothing, anyway, he put the nails on the coffin.
But Rob couldn't get it out of his head, some little boy stuck in a dark room somewhere...
He couldn't just let this one go, and he knew it was stupid when he did it, but he went.
It was a long drive, but he didn't stop at a motel. He just parked on the side of the rode when he got tired and napped for a few hours. He stopped for gas and snacks, and then went on. He got to the ranch sometime in the early morning.
Some cows eyed him when he got out of the truck and started down the lane. He'd parked far away from the house, but not too far. It felt somehow intrusive to park up front like he did at Bobby's.
He knocked on the door, glancing around as he waited. After a moment, it opened, and a young woman looked up at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but they met his squarely and didn't waver. "Yes?"
"Hi..." He cleared his throat and offered her an apologetic half-smile. "My name is Rob Colt. You don't know me but..." Here it came, the big whopper. "... I had a vision. About your son."
She looked far from believing, and he sensed the imminent shutting of the door. "I don't expect you to believe me, but would you let me ask you a few questions? I'm not looking for money, or anything like that."
Now she looked reluctant, but the door was still open. He threw in a bit of truth--"I saw him in a dark place... But I believe he's still alive."
She didn't look completely convinced, but maybe she'd decided he was harmless. "Come in..."
"Thank you."
She led him to a dreary living room, curtains all drawn, lighting dim, and motioned toward an ugly orange and brown couch. He sat awkwardly, then waited for her to settle into an armchair. "Well?" she asked, and he jumped a little.
She had her arms around herself, leaning slightly forward like her stomach pained her. He took that as defensive, and tred carefully. "When did you see your son last, Mrs. Farnsworth?"
"The night before he disappeared. There was no sign, nothing. The next morning, he was just gone."
"No sounds?" Rob couldn't figure it out. If it was something, even something would've given a sign.
She started to shake her head then stopped. "The pipes have been acting up. It doesn't fit in, but... they've been sounding awful lately. Then Pete goes missing and... nothing. It's an old house, but that doesn't explain it."
'In the dark...' drifted through Rob's skull and rattled around. The pipes. "In the kitchen?"
She tilted her head, long, blond hair brushing over one shoulder. "Well, the bathroom too... How did you...?" She looked like she might be reconsidering believing him, now.
"I promise to find your son," he said, an intensity in his voice he'd never heard before. More stupidity, he realized, but he knew she wouldn't take his word for it, anyway.
She just nodded. As he rose, she got up and held out her hand to him. He blinked and took it, and she squeezed then let go. She walked him to the door, and he felt helpless and way too young, as she let him out onto the front porch.
But at least now he knew what he was looking for. A rawhead.
- - -
He finally tracked it to its den.
The stench nearly made him vomit, but somehow he held it down. Something like the odor of a clogged sink, mixed with dead rat. One arm over his mouth and nose, and the other aiming the taser in front of him, he climbed down into the old cellar and tried not to break his neck while he was at it.
One stair creaked and he froze. The hairs on his arms and the back of his neck all stood on end. His heart beat so loud he couldn't hear himself breathe.
A minute later, he started forward again, downward... It was pitch black, and he tried to breathe through his mouth so he could point the flashlight in front of him.
He was at the bottom step, finally, and turned slowly, shining his flashlight into the dark. Nothing in a dim corner, old crates piled crookedly, a cobweb stretched between. He swept the light to his left, and jumped.
'Crap!' It was just an old coat, hanging from a nail on the wall. He started to turn back to his right, to swing the light around with him, and that's when it hit.
The light went skidding across the floor, casting frightening shadows as the monster came at him. He'd managed to keep hold of the taser and tried to fire. It was knocked from his hand and clattered against the cold cement.
He was grabbed and his head was bashed against that same substance, and he thought for sure that this was it. No more Rob. And everything went black, confirming his suspicion.
- - -
"He what?!"
Jo winced. Sam... John--he preferred it and she was gonna have to get used to it--was none to happy about her son skipping out on his own. She was worried sick too, but she'd seen it coming a mile off. He was more like her than he was Dean, actually.
Dean tried to follow rules that nobody even cared about anymore, while she'd always known they were too weak to need breaking. What good did rules do? You still got hurt in the long run, so why waste your time living in fear?
But she'd loved him for his steadfastness. He didn't easily waver from his beliefs, and he never gave up on the ones he loved.
So she'd hoped Rob would be more like him than her, but maybe he'd gotten a streak of Sam in him too.
"He can take care of himself, John," she said, gently, "But if it helps, I know where he went."
John stopped clenching his jaw so hard. "Where?"
Jo smiled. She didn't feel so worried, now.
- - -
It was dark when he cracked open his eyes. So dark he couldn't even see the hand he managed to lift in front of his face. Something was wrong with his other arm. It stabbed painfully when he tried to move it, so he stopped.
He touched his face, and felt blood. He touched his head, and hissed. That was where the blood was coming from.
He sat up, gingerly, and tried to figure out where he was. His heart began to pick up speed when he couldn't readily find a wall. Then it started beating even faster when he did. Because the door was locked, and the room was about five feet by four. Some kind of storage closet.
He jerked on the door, using his good hand, then cried out when injured arm protested anyway. He sat back down and placed his back against the wall. Why couldn't he get enough air?
'You're a candle in the window... on a cold dark winter's night...' Some lines from a song ran through his mind, and he tried to remember the rest. Some familiar voice singing it to him as he fell asleep in the backseat of a big, black car.
'God, I'm an idiot. I'm a danged idiot!' He'd come to rescue some kid, and gotten himself locked up and near-dead. There was no chance he was getting out of this alive.
A noise emerged from the other side of the door, and he shrank back against the wall. He couldn't even will his hand out to fumble around for some kind of weapon.
'Weapon...'
His mom's dagger. He'd brought it with him just in case. He'd blanked because of fear. He dug it out of his boot sheath, and sat there, clenching it and staring at the door, trying not to blink.
He was getting light-headed from hyperventilating. Or maybe it was the head injury... He tried to steady his breath by mentally singing.
Another sound--crying. The boy? He rose to his feet with a pathetic, broken lurch and yelled through the door, "Leave him alone! You hear me? Leave him alone!"
The crying stopped, and his door flew open, suddenly. He was starting to think he had no self-preservation instinct.
He couldn't see, still, and stumbled back against the wall. There was a loud growl, and a blur of non-movement. Rob stabbed blindly with the knife, but ended up flattened against the floor. It'd been strangely patient before, but now he was sure it was going to kill him.
He still fought it. But he'd lost the dagger, and his arm was broke. He didn't have much of a chance. But he knew his mom would reanimate his corpse just to kick his butt if he didn't at least give it all he had.
So he punched and kicked wildly, trying to find something to hit, even if it didn't cause a dent.
His knee struck something, and the rawhead made a noise that was possibly a grunt of pain. But it still grabbed him by the hair and hauled him back into the closet. The door slammed shut, and Rob tested the knob, only to find it locked again.
As he sank to the floor, he realized why it hadn't killed him outright, and he had to laugh a little. It hurt his newly busted side, but he couldn't help it.
It was because he wasn't an adult yet. At least not in *its* eyes.
- - -
It didn't take John much time to find out it was a rawhead, to track it down, to figure out a plan of attack.
But this was Rob, and he hesitated in actually playing it out. What if something went wrong? What if the kid got hurt? What if...?
He didn't complete the last thought. It was better to deal with the situation as if Rob were still alive and in need of help. If he gave up, then it was as good as finished.
The smell reminded him of something. At first, he thought it was just the old, dead animal stench that was familiar. But then as he paused on a creaky stair, he realized. It was from before.
This intangible, half-deja vu feeling of having done something or been somewhere before.
And it was because he *had* done it before--in that other life. The one where he was Sam Winchester. He ignored the memory and pushed on, keeping his his flashlight shielded with the same hand in which he held the taser.
It didn't take long for things to get ugly. The beast knocked him clear across the room, and he would've lost the taser if it wasn't for his death grip on it. He'd been prepared for an attack; he was always prepared.
It came at him, and he fired. It shook in place, jerkily, for a moment before keeling over. John pushed up against the wall to aid him in getting to his feet. He wasn't as young as he used to be.
"Rob?" he called, and shone his flashlight around. There were a couple doors.... right next to each other. He tried the first one and shone the light in, afraid of what he'd find. There was a little boy, about ten, balled up in a corner.
John knelt and held out his hand, "Hey, it's all right, come on." The kid blinked at him a few times and then hurled himself into John's arms.
He lifted and carried him out, and then took a breath before he tried the other door. Rob.
He was unconscious, or asleep, John wasn't sure. And something flashed in his brain, a figure, limp and near-death. 'Sam, get 'em outta here!' He wasn't sure whose voice it was, but he could guess.
He'd heard it before in his dreams.
"Rob," he called, and had to set the boy down when he didn't respond. Pete clung to his leg, but not too much that he couldn't kneel and inspect his nephew.
A broken arm, probably not the only thing. His blond hair was matted with blood, and face was swollen and bruised. When John touched it, there was no response.
He shook the young man's shoulder, all the while thinking, 'I shoulda never taken him on. It made him cocky, and now he's got himself hurt. I shoulda just sent him home to his mom. Stupid kid. Stupid kid...'
Rob's eyes came open, finally, drooping like they were too heavy to lift. "Dad?"
"No, your uncle, kid. John." At least he was alive.
"Dad..." Rob said again. "Where'm I?"
'Concussion?' John thought, 'We must sound the same. Me and Dean.'
"Come on, help me get you up. You're no good like this."
"Mom's knife... Dad, she'll be ticked at me..."
John glanced around, shining his light here and there. He spotted the knife, laying beside the rawhead and figured the creature must've kept it for a souvenir. He lifted the kid and went to get it, scooped it up and let the kid down, asking, "Can you help me, Pete?"
His little chin quivered as he nodded bravely. John helped Rob to his feet, and Pete pushed from the other side.
- - -
Rob was fine staying at the hospital, something that surprised John for some reason. He thought it probably hearkened back to the good old days. Something having to do with his brother or dad... maybe even both.
But the doctor bandaged him up, declared him with no internal injuries a day later, and they were back on their way to Bobby's.
John decided to stop at a motel because of Rob's injuries. He was sleeping a lot, and not talking, something that spooked John more than the sleeping. Little glimpses of another time kept crowding in. He was remembering more and more, but it was all out of order, confusing, jumbled.
Dean had talked and talked, about anything, everything, and when he'd got done talking, that was a bad sign.
Rob was a little different. He was still nervous around John, and held back a lot. But he talked like he was happy to be talking, happy to have someone to talk to. When he didn't talk, it was because he was processing, absorbing, trying to figure things out.
But he always started over again, not too long after he stopped. He was like a puppy that got scolded for jumping up on a leg. He behaved for a moment or two, then went right back to jumping.
But now he was so quiet, the truck sounded loud. Not as loud as a certain car, but deafening because of the implications.
The motel was nice, and John wasn't sorry he'd decided to stop. Rob let him pry him out of the car and walk him into their room.
He got him situated on his own bed then went to wash off the stink of the rawhead's lair.
- - -
It was midnight when he woke up, and realized Rob was lurching toward the door. He jerked it open like he couldn't get out fast enough, and John went after him, and found him outside retching onto the pavement.
He caught him and supported him so he wouldn't topple over, and maneuvered him over to the wall of the motel. "Do you feel sick?" He demanded, and felt the youth's forehead. He was a little warm, but nothing near a fever.
"Can't... breathe..."
"Your rib?" he asked, sharply, but Rob shook his head, wouldn't look at him.
"Hey, focus here!" He grabbed his chin and made him look him in the eye. "What's goin' on?"
"It's too dark... in the room..." He was breathing a little better now, not-quite hyperventilating. He looked pale, but maybe it was just the moonlight.
"You've got to pull it together, son," he said, more gently. "Are you claustrophobic?"
Rob laughed a little, almost frantically. "Not before..."
John swore mentally. The closet. He'd been holed up in there for at least a day and a night. If he'd had any fear of the dark beforehand, now he had to be dealing with some major phobia.
"Come on, you can't sleep out here," he said, "You've gotta face your fears."
"Uncle John...?" He was resisting.
"Yeah?"
"Stay up with me? Just for a little while?"
John remembered Dean, holding him up a thousand times before, asking him to speak, to talk about things, to not keep secrets. He never left, even when Sam did. But he went back because he knew one thing. Dean wouldn't ever turn his back on him; he'd always be there. So he couldn't turn away either. No matter what their differences, no matter their weaknesses--they always stuck together.
"Just come inside first, son. We'll take it a step at a time."
Rob's breath caught in something like a sob, and he nodded. John helped him through the door and back to his bed. He sat with him in the dark for about an hour, and midnight became early morning, and Rob finally stopped shivering and fell asleep.
- end -
