Dean leaned against the bunker door to close it, his arms overburdened with bags and equipment. The shriek of the hinges echoed off the halls below.
Braced like this, he stared unseeingly at the steady light pouring in the library below, the only sound his breathing and the hum of electricity.
He was numb with exhaustion. The drive home had been a battle to stay awake, punctuated by the constant influx of calls from other Hunters bringing information, offering advice - some of it helpful, most of it not.
In the nine days since Sam's abduction, his life had been a mindless rush of phone calls, research and adrenaline. Dean had practically torn up the town looking for information. He roughed up a few suspect-looking individuals, bribed away hundreds of dollars, got into two fights, broke into at least five houses and nearly got arrested. He had accomplished pissing off a Hunter from two towns over who turned up to help, and left as soon as he arrived after Dean threatened to empty a clip in his face as motivation.
Dean was beyond tired. The weight of his fear and panic had ground his nerves raw. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. He hadn't shaved in over a week and his hair sat in an unruly mess on his head.
He had fought tooth and nail to find the truth. To find his brother.
Every possible lead was a dead end. It was like Sam had never even been in that goddamn town. And finally, after nearly blacking out from exhaustion, he realised he had been going non-stop for eight days fuelled by coffee, narcotics and pure cold fear. Whatever sleep he had gotten, was fitful and brief.
Dean drew in a shaky breath, willing himself into action, he walked heavily down the stairs, burdened by his and Sam's baggage, and crushing worry.
As he reached the library, he tipped his shoulders to deposit the bags on to the nearest table and did not care that it crushed the pages of at least two ancient tomes in the process. Drawing the closest chair out, he sunk into it. His shoulders felt no less heavy for being relieved of their cargo.
Resting his elbows on the table, he ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, attempting to rub away the gritty tiredness. He could have easily slept like this, right there and then. Just switch off. Forget the hole in his chest, the constant chill in his gut.
"You gotta sleep", he muttered to himself. You are no good to Sam like this.
Lifting his groggy head from his hands with a weary sigh, he leaned back in the chair, his eyes staring unfocused at the table in front of him. Discomfort beneath his hand on the table drew his attention. A notepad.
Frowning, he pulled it closer.
It was covered in scribbles in Sam's handwriting, pentagrams and random sigils. Evidence of his brother's absentminded doodles. The word 'trials' framed by a drawn rectangle, etched so deep it pushed through two layers of paper.
Dean ran his thumb over it, feeling the design his brother had made.
When Sam wrote this down, he was safe. He was unharmed. He was where Dean could look after him. And now…
His hand twitched. It wanted to reach for his phone again so that he could subject himself to the punishment that was the picture of Sam in the hands of unknown captors, and immerse himself in the pain and doubt of his failure to keep his brother safe. And every time he looked at his sibling's unconscious form, the blood on his face, it fired him anew to keep going. To not give up. It reminded him that his brother was out there, somewhere, counting on Dean to save him.
I will find you, Sammy. So help me, I will find you, and I will kill each filthy fang I along the way.
He had called every Hunter he could think of, even those who had sworn to blow his knee-caps off should they meet again. He had, at first, given all the information he could think of - every minute detail - but as each phone call ended with either, 'sorry, can't help you', or 'will let you know if I hear anything', he had condensed his inquiry to simple facts.
Clive from Wichita had called one morning, said he had tangled with a similar situation some years back: a well organised nest, also living among humans, blending in. They had slaughtered six Hunters in a space of two years and then disappeared. He had tried to track them for months but could never get a fix.
Dean got a mail from Garth with random information about similar cases.
No Hunter had ever successfully tracked the nest after they had left town, and no Hunter who had found them ever lived, unless it was the vamps' intention to leave them alive.
Benny had stayed around for a few days, offering support and helping where he could. But when Benny told him, again, that Sam was gone, that the nest had no reason to keep him alive, Dean had swung a fist at his friend. Driven by fear and grief, he needed to believe Sam was alive and Benny's constant reminder of his failure…. It had driven him beyond breaking.
They had scuffled briefly, the vampire easily fending off Dean's exhausted, desperate assault. After Dean had collapsed, his anger spent, Benny has simply collected his jacket from the table and silently left.
Dean had meant to call him after that, to apologise, but somehow he never managed to dial the number. Benny's mere voice over the phone would be proof that Sam was gone. That Sam might be….
Dean pushed off the table and hauled himself out of the chair. Shouldering all the bags full of clothes and equipment on to his shoulders again, he made his way to his bedroom. The silence of the bunker a distinct reminder of how very absent his brother was.
~oOoOoOoOo~
Sam came walking from the trees, hair in his eyes, grin upon his face. The sleeves of his shirt too long over his knuckles.
He was cradling something in his palm.
"Look" he said, extending his hand, revealing a stone arrowhead to his brother.
"What is it?" Dean asked, taking it from Sam.
"It's an Indian arrowhead. They're knapped from obsidian. Volcanic glass. Obsidian is formed when lava cools really fast", he stared wide-eyed at the piece of stone.
Dean snorted "You are such a geek". He smiled proudly at this know-it-all little brother, tousling his hair.
Sam pretended to be annoyed at the act, but smiled while batting away his brother's hand.
"Whatcha gonna do with it?" Dean enquired absently while easily out-manoeuvring Sam's attempts to fend him off.
"It's yours", Sam answered, finally grabbing his brother's wrist. "You keep it".
Dean used Sam's grip his arm to yank him off balance, causing the kid to fall against his sibling. He quickly grabbed Sam in a loose chokehold.
"Thanks, Indiana Jones", he encircled Sam's chest with his free arm, lifting him off his feet "I will use it to hunt monsters."
Sam squirmed in his brother's playful grip, leaning his head back against his Dean's chest, laughing out loud.
Spinning him around with ease, Dean swung his little brother over his shoulder. "Come, nerd. Dad's waiting".
He walked down the path, making sure to bounce Sam more than is needed. Gripping handfuls of Dean's jacket, the boy's giggles punctuated with a hiccup each time his brother's foot hit the forest floor.
Dean slowly emerged into wakefulness. He smelled pine and wet forest. He smiled groggily.
He drew a deep breath, the dream slipping away from him.The reality of the bunker intruding on the residue of his memories.
Opening his eyes, he was met with the slightly mottled ceiling of his bedroom. The smile faded from his lips, lines of worry instantly re-appearing on his brow.
Turning his head, he brought his hand closer to his face. Something was pressing against his closed palm. For a brief moment, his dream lingering, he thought it was the arrowhead. Opening his fist, the silver of Sam's watch caught the light. He must have fallen asleep with it in his hand.
Reaching for his phone, a pen and notepad tumbled off the blankets and clattered on the floor. He had continued working until his body had betrayed him to sleep.
Unlocking his phone with one hand, he reached for the glass of whiskey with the other. Throwing back the tepid spirit, he grimaced at the burn in his throat.
4 messages. Garth…. Micheals….. unknown…. Micheals again.
8 emails. He would check those later on the laptop. He still felt too clumsy to try and navigate the email app on the phone's tiny screen.
He opened the text from Garth
Possible travelling vamp nest. Need more info. Will let you know.
"Thanks for nothing", Dean muttered darkly as he closed the message. Garth had been falling over himself to help. Never having the courage to speak to Dean in person, he sent mails and text messages with every minute speck of information he could find.
Dean had yet to respond to a single one.
He tapped on the thread from Micheals.
Hunting vamp tonight in Utah. Will keep one on ice for you.
He checked the timestamp: 10:52pm. Crap. He would have joined them if he had seen this message.
Next message:
05:30am - Call me. It's important.
Not wasting time, Dean dialled immediately. The line rang twice before it was picked up.
"Dean?" Micheals answered.
"Yeah" Dean was desperate for good news.
"Listen, man. I'm sorry…"
"What? What is it? What did you find?" he fought with the blankets around his legs as he scrambled out of bed.
"…. Sam's wallet. We found it. I'm sorry Dean. There was dried blood on it. A lot of dried bl….."
"Is he there?" Dean cut him off. "Did you find him?" he was practically screaming over the phone.
There was silence on the line for a while, then Micheals said "I think he's dead, son. These vamps…. They are nasty pieces of…."
Dean had to support himself with a hand against the wall, he had trouble breathing. "You think? Thinking ain't gonna cut it. Is there a body, Micheals? Is there proof?!"
"There's proof enough."
The older Hunter apologised again, and then hung up.
Dean kept the phone against his ear, eyes screwed shut, willing the line to produce what he wanted to hear. Instead the silence was sickening.
He jumped when a text message came through, deafening against his ear. It was Micheals again with an address, and a re-assurance that they had a vamp that may have more information for him.
Dean immediately swung into action, pulling weapons from their places on the wall, a duffel from under his bed, stuffing everything he could think of into it.
There was no time for a shower. He just grabbed the essential toiletries and shoved them in-between ammunition and sharps.
He pulled his sweats over his head with one arm, and opened the dresser drawer with the other hand. Reaching inside for a clean shirt, he paused as his fingers made contact with the cotton.
Slowly pulling a plaid shirt from the drawer, it unfolded, releasing a faint smell of detergent.
Dropping the sweats on the floor, Dean took the clean shirt in both hands like it was a sacred thing.
He ran his thumb over the raised threads. Pulling the drawer open further, his throat worked as he swallowed hard, seeing three rows of neatly folded and stacked shirts, with rolled up pairs of socks in between.
This was Sam's handiwork. His little brother had folded these, after he had washed them, without being asked. Picked them off his slob big brother's bedroom floor, without complaining. Something so typical of Sam, that Dean often forgot how selfless and accommodating his sibling was.
Dean knew he took Sam for granted. Gave him hell for no reason. Mocked him for being sensitive. But if it wasn't for Sam, Dean would have given up ages ago. He would never admit, to anyone, but Sam's annoying 'talks' had saved him more times than he cared to remember.
What if I never see him again?
"No!" he growled, shoving the drawer closed, angry at his betrayal of Sam. The moment he believed his brother was dead, was the moment he would slip away from him. He had to keep believing – hoping - Sam was out there. And he would find him, and bring him home.
~oOoOoOo~
Dean grimly dropped his duffel on the grimy wooden table. The contents of bottles, blades and syringes clanking together. He was here for one purpose, and it was a gruesome one.
He loathed to torture. It made his skin crawl. Partly because it reminded him of hell, but mostly because deep down, he knew he enjoyed the power he held over his victims.
His back was toward a slumped form tied to a chair. He had walked right past the vamp - didn't look at it, did not even give attention to what was to be seen from his peripheral vision.
As he began extracting the contents of the bag, his hands trembled. He fisted them both in the canvas of the duffel, willing his muscles to stop shivering.
He needed to be calm. He needed to be methodical. His every nerve shouted desperation. Every second wasted, was a second Sam was alone and hurt, a second that Dean couldn't protect him.
When Dean had arrived at the address Micheals had sent him, the atmosphere was jovial. Four other hunters were sitting playing cards and drinking. It had been a good hunt, and the bodies of the ganked fangs was already a smouldering in pile outside.
Micheals had waved Dean aside, his face taut with sympathy. He had handed Dean his brother's wallet, and resting his hand on the younger Hunter's shoulder for a brief moment, he walked away without saying anything.
Dean had been anticipating this. He had imagined how he would feel. How he would react to seeing Sam's possession covered in, quite possibly, his own blood. Of all it would imply.
But what he hadn't anticipated, was the immediate dread that hit him when dried blood flaked off on his palm. Or the tears that started burning behind his eyes. It was just a wallet - a beat up thing Sam had been carrying forever - but at that moment, it was as if Dean was holding Sam's very soul, mangled and bloody.
It shook him, so when the other Hunters indicated that there was a live vamp in the next room, Dean had to walk outside to calm down, to not rip the dirty monster limb from limb with his bare hands.
Now, as he was breathing deep and evenly, he knew that this vampire would tell him what he needed to know. He knew that Sam would be home by the end of the week and this would be just another nightmare to add to the tally.
Dean started to methodically arrange his tools on the table in front of him, the ritual adding to his calm. He could hear the creak of ropes against wood behind him. The vamp was awake. He could feel its eyes on the back of his neck.
The other Hunters had been poking at it for a day now and had pretty much given up. This one ain't gonna spill, they had said.
But they didn't know what Dean Winchester knew. Didn't know how to apply fear, how to break your spirit beyond what you could recover from, to be creative with pain.
His sneered grimly at the thought of what he was about to do. He could already feel the cloy of blood on his hands.
His arsenal of blades, bloods and potions immaculately arranged, he set both his hands on the table, and closed his eyes.
He needed to bury down all his fears for Sam. If this vamp so much as sensed his desperation, it would be over, and he could just as well walk away. Handing over that kind of power would make his play useless.
His mind stilled, he casually pulled a blade from the collection. Sam's demon blade. This was a good a time as any to see if it stung fangs as much as it did demons.
Testing the edge against his thumb, he turned slowly on his heel, and raised his eyes to face his prey.
And stopped.
Dean could feel the colour drain from his face. "You!" he blurted.
Strapped to the chair, bloodied, was Evie.
He took an involuntary step forward, his instinct to help kicking in before he stopped himself.
She gazed at him coolly. Gone were the heavily made-up eyes, the tiny skirt and top. In its place was a tailored (previously) white shirt and crisp suit pants. Even her curls looked different.
Dean's mind raced. Was she turned? No. She looked too calm to be a fresh turn. Was she a part of this? Of course, she was to keep him occupied while they took Sam from the motel room.
"Son of a bitch", Dean growled launching himself at her, grabbing her jaw roughly, pressing the knife against the delicate skin of her throat. He made sure to draw blood.
"You did this!" he shouted into her face, his eyes wild with fury. He was challenging her to deny it, so he could cut her heart out. She stared levelly at him. No fear in her eyes.
Dean's anger was making him reckless, and he realised he needed to calm down. He stepped back, shoving her face to the side hard enough to rock the chair.
Turning his back on the vampire again, he walked to the farthest wall. Placing his forearm against the plaster for support, he leaned his head forward for a second.
He was grinding his jaw so hard, his ears hummed. Keep it together man. Keep it together.
Realising he already gave her the upper hand in this interrogation by showing his emotions, he would have to play it smart.
He had begun to rehearse his tactics in his mind, when she spoke from behind him.
"He's dead" she stated simply, as though she were reporting the weather.
He knew he was being baited, so calmly he turned around, and strolled back, sat on the table facing her.
She was watching him indifferently.
He wouldn't play her game. "So", he said, idly picking at the etched designs on the knife, "how did you do it?" Even now he could feel the coldness of her flesh on his fingers where he had grabbed her. There must have been some kind of magic or drugs involved when she targeted him in the bar. There was no way in hell he would not have known she was a vamp otherwise. Otherwise it means I failed Sam.
She blinked slowly, unhurried by his implied promise of violence. "For all your bluster, Mr Winchester and for all the collective knowledge between you collection of savages, you know but little".
"Please", he smiled humourlessly, "enlighten this mouth-breather". He was recalculating his tactics. She had played him hard back at that bar. There she was the bubbly waitress from a small town. Right here, right now, she was not even American, her voice changed by a strange accent. Even her posture was more precise and calculated.
She cocked her head like she was considering a slow puppy, her eyes never leaving his face.
"The vampires you are used to, Dean Winchester, are a mere shadow of what we are", she began, carefully choosing her words. "Those of us who are older, of pure blood…. To us these things you hunt and label vampire, are but half-bred mongrels."
He did his best to appear bored and simply stared at her when she paused, whilst his heart thundered loudly so that he was convinced they could hear it in the next room.
Taking his silence as her cue to continue, she carried on. "Us, we are vampyres, with a 'y'. We decend from Vlad the Impaler himself. We-"
"Cookie for you" Dean interrupted "Save the Lord of the Rings recital for someone who cares, bitch." He leaned forward, indicating with the knife. "How did you whammy me? And save the history lesson".
She appeared repulsed at his interruption, and leaned back in the chair, as if trying to put more distance between herself and him. "You Yanks are so uncultured. No manners", she said indignantly.
His patience at an end, Dean rose from his seat, and started towards her.
"Alright fine," she defended, eyeing the blade in Dean's hand. "Mind control," she said. "It's mind control."
Dean sneered in disbelief. "Mind control? Like Obi-Wan-These-Aren't-The-Droids-You-Are-Looking-For mind control?"
Not understanding his reference, she simply continued. "Its more persuasion," she smirked. "Weak mind are easily convinced". She let the smile linger on her lips, while exuding defiance.
The Hunter considered her while balancing the blade in his hand. "So what was the point, exactly? Why take Sam? Why all the run-around? Why not just ….kill… him, and me, and be done with it?" he felt ill mentioning Sam's potential harm, but kept his façade.
"Our family has maintained a very strict protocol for more years than you can process. We have learnt that avoiding Hunters is easier than killing them off. Not that we would struggle to destroy your filthy kind, but it's just less admin. You are like cockroaches - for each one we destroy, ten more appear. " She rolled her wrists in the ropes, trying to ease her discomfort. "So, when our Family is discovered, and Hunters become a problem, we simply present them an offer they can't refuse. Your skinny friend was easy. It took precious little to find out where his beloved mother lived. Your weak spot is that grotesquely tall brother of yours, so that was easy as well."
Dean grinned triumphantly. "And yet here we are", crossing his arms over his chest, "Instead of scaring me off, you just pissed me off. And now you will die slowly." For now, his threat was hollow as he still needed to know where they were keeping Sam.
He turned back to the table and selected a syringe containing Dead Man's Blood. He had brought a vial of Essence of Sacred Lotus. Dipping the needle into the murky liquid, he drew the poison into the syringe, watching it swirl through the clear glass.
He made a show of squirting a stream of the mix into the air. "I will make this simple: you tell me where my brother is, and I will end you quickly. Play hard to get, and I will get try out a few new tricks." His jaw set, he was done playing.
Unperturbed, the vampire eyed him levelly. "I told you. He's dead"
Dean took two quick steps towards her. Plunging the needle into her thigh, he emptied the poisoned blood into her body.
It didn't take long for the effect to take hold. Her veins throbbed darkly against her pale skin. Arching her head back, her body involuntarily jerked against the pain firing in her blood. She gurgled a grotesque sound of anguish.
He patiently waited for her to stop thrashing. It gave him satisfaction to watch her suffer. "That good, hey bitch? You want some more? I got plenty where that came from." He waited for her to calm down and look at him again, before turning back to the table for a refill.
He didn't bother with formalities when he jammed the needle into her flesh again.
"Wait!" she pleaded hoarsely, before he could push the plunger, sweat beading on her skin.
With his face inches from hers, he growled, "Where is my brother?"
"I swear", she panted, "I swear on my father. He's dead. We killed him and dumped his body in the woods."
Dean pressed down on the plunger, and stood right where he was while the vampire shrieked and flailed. Forcing her to meet his gaze when the agony stopped.
Tears trailing down her bloody cheeks, she whimpered, "What do you want me to say? He's dead. We drained him. And now his stinking corpse is full of maggots!" she spat at him, mad with pain.
Dean's weeks of anxiety got the best of him. Striding to the table, he grabbed a hatchet, and swung at her neck, roaring in fury.
As her head rolled to his feet, he realised what he had done. "Crap!" he muttered.
This should not have happened.
Sighing heavily, he let his arms drop to his side. As his rage cooled off, he could feel how tight his neck was, how tired his shoulders and how gritty his eyes were from sleep deprivation.
Staring sightlessly at the growing pool of blood at his feet, her words milled around in his head. Sam was dead. They killed him.
Could it be? After everything, after all the monsters, all the angels and demons, Sam was murdered by a piece of shit vampire? Not this way. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
The slow realisation that had been growing in the back of his mind, was now warranted. He had been fighting against the idea that Sam was gone. As if his sheer determination was keeping Sam alive.
The weight of grief washed over him and an immense exhaustion overtook him. There was nothing left to keep him fighting. Even though Sam had left him in Purgatory to die, even though it had eaten at his heart ever since he came back, his soul was whole when his little brother was around.
No matter how pissed he was at Sam. No matter how many times they fought. How many times Sam fucked up. It simply didn't matter. Because Sam was family. Because Sam had looked at him with those hazel eyes in admiration, in trust, since he was kid. Because Sam fucking washes his laundry, and buys him shaving cream, and stocks the fridge with beer, and makes sure to order his favourite whiskey at a bar. Because Sam was the only person in this godforsaken world, who loved him unconditionally.
Dropping his head to his chest, Dean bit his lower lip as his supressed tears spilled over his cheeks. He had had one thread of hope. And he had been clinging to it for dear life. Sam was dead. And he had nothing left.
No, not nothing. He had revenge. He had the job of killing each and every of those bloodsucking sons of bitches. He had the job of showing them what it means to cross a Winchester.
And then he will kill and torture his way through the all of heaven, hell and everything inbetween, until he found a way to bring Sam back.
~oOoOoOo~
