Disclaimer: Original content and characters are mine, but the Winchesters are not. I write for my own entertainment, not for profit.
Thanks for continuing to read!
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When Sam awoke, he was hanging bonelessly against the basement wall, knees slightly buckled, arms stretched over his head by the full weight of his body. Heavy metal cuffs encased his wrists, abrading the flesh there as he dangled from chains mounted near the ceiling.
Sam got his feet under him and stood rapidly, groaning as the pain of metal cutting into his hands and the strain on his shoulders eased. He shook his arms, trying to reawaken them, the chains clanking noisily against the rock and concrete wall.
The room was dark, but he didn't believe he'd been unconscious for very long. Chances were it was still early morning.
His head hurt. A lot.
Frustrated, Sam gripped the chains above his wrists, tugging at them, testing their hold. They were firmly anchored, high and wide enough apart that there was little give. Even with his height, he couldn't reach across to touch one hand with the other.
For the first time since he'd been captured, he had the presence of mind to realize he could be in trouble. Really. Something was seriously crazy, here—wherever here was. He wondered again about Dean, hoping his brother was all right, hoping he was out there right now, looking for Sam, close to finding him.
A door slammed somewhere nearby, and Sam froze, then huffed a faint laugh. Could it be--?
But the tromp of heavy footsteps spoke of more than one person approaching, and after a moment, artificial light spilled into the room as the door was opened, Carson pushing it wide and then stepping back deferentially, flipping the wall switch as he did so.
An old man entered, gaunt but immaculately and expensively dressed in a tailored suit and shoes polished to a high shine. It was clear that, although he was probably in his nineties, he was still very vital, his movements crisp, almost gliding, with no indication of arthritis or rheumatism. His hair was white yet still thick and wavy, his face a roadmap of wrinkles from which shone oddly bright blue eyes.
His eagerness at seeing Sam, chained against the far wall, was almost frightening.
"Ahhhh," the man breathed, deep satisfaction evident on his lined face, but Sam heard the thick phlegm rattle in his chest and throat
Sick, then, Sam thought—definitely physically, and maybe mentally as well.
The doctor hovered anxiously and Carson looked on, feigning disinterest, as the old man crossed the room quickly, hands outstretched, reaching for Sam with fervid impatience.
"Who are you?" Sam asked, not certain he was successful at keeping the alarm out of his voice. "Are you Mahoney? What do you want with me?"
He wasn't sure the old man understood him, as glittering eyes roved over him with an unnerving fascination. Sam grimaced when paper-dry fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, exquisitely manicured nails scraping across his throat, around the back of his neck, fumbling under his hair.
"What do you want?" he repeated, lip curling in disgust at the unwelcome touch. He shrank away as the old man leaned in, almost as if to kiss him, sour breath wheezing out of his lungs as he tugged Sam's shirt away from his chest, peering anxiously at the bared flesh. The blue eyes hardened suddenly, and with a hiss the man grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking it hard and pulling Sam's head to the side, glaring up at him.
"Who are you?" Sam demanded, feeling his pulse jump in the exposed artery of his neck, hating the nervous tension in his voice.
"You're the wrong one, aren't you?" the man spat angrily. "You're the wrong damn one!"
Carson pushed himself off the doorjamb where he had been leaning, concern suddenly on his scowling face.
"You said the older one, Mr. Mahoney. That's who we brought."
The old man untangled his fingers from Sam's hair, as suddenly disinterested in him as if he did not exist, now focusing all his vitriol on Carson.
"Older doesn't necessarily mean taller, you idiot," he said, gliding back across the room swiftly and striking Carson sharply across the face. Sam watched uneasily as the burly man accepted the blow without flinching. "You brought me the whelp! You couldn't think to bring them both?"
"Why?" Sam grated.
Carson looked at him over Mahoney's head, but Mahoney didn't even turn around.
"What do you want from us?" Sam demanded.
"Nothing from you," the old man said dismissively, tossing the words over his shoulder. "You're meaningless. But the other one is a different story."
"Why?" Sam asked again, eyes narrowing. "What's Dean ever done to you?"
Mahoney's tone was supercilious, haughty. "It's not a matter of having done something, boy. I want him, and I'll have him."
"You're going to need to bring a better game, then. Dean will make mincemeat out of this chump." Sam jerked his chin at Carson, who crossed the room in three giant steps and backhanded him, leaving Sam's ears ringing and the room spinning.
"Watch your mouth, kid," the beefy man said, scowling. "I took you easy enough."
Sam blinked hard to clear his head and laughed. "When my brother comes after you, just remember that you asked for it."
Mahoney moved between them, looking up at Sam again, anger replaced by a calculating expression on his wizened face.
"That's right, isn't it?" he murmured thoughtfully. "He'll come, now that I have you. Nothing would keep him away."
"You can't trap him," Sam warned. "No matter what your play is, you'll never get him."
"I think you're wrong, boy." Mahoney tapped his chin, bemused. "I've heard the stories, and I think he'll do whatever it takes to have you out of harm's way. Isn't that right? He'll just walk in here and give himself up, if that is what your safety requires. Maybe you're not so meaningless, after all, eh?"
He peered at Sam closely for several moments, as if examining a curious piece of art, then wheeled on Carson. "Where's the phone?"
"What phone, Mr. Mahoney?"
"The cell phone, the cell phone! Didn't he have one with him?"
Carson's face reddened, and he ran rough hands over Sam's body, searching. He quickly discovered the cell in Sam's jacket pocket and ripped it out, glaring balefully at his captive. Sam let his mouth twist into a mocking smile, and Carson responded by bringing his knee up sharply into Sam's groin.
Sam bit back a yelp of pain, drawing one leg up to try to ease the blossoming agony, yanking again futilely at the chains that held his arms over his head.
"Who's smiling now, huh, kid?" Carson asked, leaning in to growl into Sam's ear. "You and me can have a go when Mr. Mahoney is through with you."
Mahoney swatted at his arm. "Grow up, you oaf," the old man snarled. "Take the phone into the den and wait for me there. I have to think about what we're going to do next, to recover from your ineptitude. Don't slam the door on your way out."
"You want us to go get the other one, Mr. Mahoney?" Carson asked. "You give the word, and we'll bring him in."
Mahoney's displeasure was evident. "I gave the word the first time, you lackwit," he said, sarcasm dripping heavily from each word. "Now I want you to follow my instructions!"
Carson leered again at Sam and then shot a glance at Mahoney, nodding deferentially and closing the door gently behind him.
"I don't know who you are, mister," Sam groaned between teeth clamped tight, "but you don't know what you're getting into, going after my brother. That's a big mistake."
Mahoney's chuckle was humorless. "Such hubris coming from someone chained to a wall," he observed dryly. "But I assure you that there's no need for any unpleasantness. In fact, all I want is to conduct a little business, perhaps make a little trade."
"Then what's this all about?" Sam gave another yank at his chains. "Shouldn't we be talking business over a civilized drink? Or on a golf course, maybe?"
The old man laughed again. "Perhaps so, although I understand that your brother responds better to force than to reason."
Sam shook his head. "Whatever you think you know about Dean, you don't know nearly enough, Mahoney, or you'd let me go right now."
One manicured hand reached up again and patted Sam absently on the chest. "What I think—no, what I'm sure of, boy—is that he's going to see things my way. He's going to come right to me and do whatever I want, give me whatever I want, because of you. You're my ace in the hole, aren't you, Sam?"
His name sounded almost obscene on the old man's lips, and Sam grimaced again.
This time Mahoney patted him on the cheek.
"Try to get some rest, won't you?" he said, turning languidly toward the door and switching off the light as he exited, leaving Sam in utter darkness.
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It was easily a five-mile hike back to the motel, with no traffic on the road. At least, no traffic willing to pick up a scruffy-looking hitchhiker in the rainy wee hours, even if the driver couldn't see the shotgun stashed inside his jacket. So Dean walked.
The storm had mostly blown through, although the sky still threatened. He was drenched, jeans chafing, boots twenty pounds each with mud and water. And when the wind picked up every now and then, it was freakin' cold.
Dammit!
The Impala wasn't in the parking lot. He had kind of been hoping (praying) that this was some sort of seriously unfunny prank Sam was pulling on him. It had been a while since they'd played those games—certainly not since Cold Oak, a realization Dean banished to someplace dark and abandoned—but a prank was the least frightening of the possibilities he had tortured himself with on the long trek back from the woods.
But, no, the Impala was nowhere in sight, and there was no sign in the motel room that Sam had been there since they had gone in search of the crusker.
He grabbed the land-line phone first thing, but it was dead, too—no busy signal, no dial tone, just nothing. Probably a tree down across the wires; Dean suspected that happened often enough, this time of year. Plus, his typical luck….
At least the power was still on.
Most of his personal gear was stowed in his bag, kicked under the bed and masked from sight by last week's tee-shirt, now lying crumpled on the floor. Dean pawed through the bag quickly, taking stock of his arsenal, already knowing what he had available—the blade he slept with, shot-loads of salt, and a spare clip for the Glock he carried. Plus a couple of little extra tools.
He reloaded and stashed the handgun at the small of his back, stowing the shotgun in the bottom of the bag. Then Dean grabbed the cell phone charger and plugged everything in before hustling to the motel office to see if Sam had left any messages.
The night-clerk seemed a little disturbed by Dean's intrusion, hastily confirming his suspicion that the phone lines were down and assuring him they were usually fixed within a few hours.
Once he was back in the room and caught sight of himself in the mirror over the dresser, Dean realized that the night-clerk might have thought he looked a little intense. Okay, possibly even insane. There had been no messages, of course, from Sam or from anybody else, and Dean might have punched something a little bit. Just the wall, though. Didn't even leave much of a mark.
Rubbing a bruised hand over tired eyes, Dean considered his options. No phone, no car, no brother—right now his life was royally FUBAR, that was for damn sure. So what was the next step?
Couldn't call the cops. Seriously, what was he gonna say? Hi, officer. I'm wanted for murder, but could you help me find my little brother? I haven't seen him for a couple of hours, and I'm afraid he's run away from home again.
Couldn't steal a car, because where was he gonna go?
Sam's laptop was in the Impala, so research was out, and Dean didn't have any idea what the hell to research, anyway.
Way too late for last-call, and still too early for most of the local businesses to be open, so nobody was around to talk to, even if he knew what questions to ask.
Cleaning stuff was out, all the way around--weapons were in the trunk, and this sure as hell wasn't the time for laundry.
Couldn't sleep and had no appetite, not with Sam gone.
Dammit!
Dean grabbed the remote and clicked on the television, flipping rapidly twice through the basic cable offerings, mostly infomercials for God, gym equipment and ladies' wear at this hour. With a muttered curse, he switched the TV off and threw the remote onto the nightstand.
Shower? Hell, he had to do something, or he'd go freaking nuts until the cell was recharged or the phone lines repaired.
He tried the shower, but had to give it up as a bad job when he kept ducking in and out of the water, thinking he'd heard Sam come back. Had soaped up four times before he finally quit, mindlessly dressing in clean jeans but the same shirts as day before yesterday.
By the time the cell was usable, it was almost a quarter of eight, and Dean was about to lose it. He'd planned his calls: Sammy first, of course, but if he didn't pick up, then Dean was gonna call Bobby next, then Ellen, then everyone else he could think of until the damn phone was dead again.
His call to Sam went straight through to voice-mail, and for a moment Dean couldn't think of what to say. What if Sammy really had taken the car and ditched him?
No. Sam wouldn't have done that, not again. Not after Wyoming.
"Hey, uh, Sam." He had to stop to clear his throat. "It's me. I'm at the motel and, uh, you aren't. Heh, guess you know that. Gimme a call, all right? All right. 'Bye."
He snapped the phone shut, sinking down on the bed and dropping his head into his hands. Lame, Dean, he thought. Get a grip.
He punched in a set of numbers he knew better than to save on speed-dial, starting right in when the phone was picked up on the third ring.
"Bobby, it's happened again, and I'm really pretty sure somebody's got him." He was talking fast, the words piling up on one another. "It was raining and—well, dark—but I think I saw another set of tire marks."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," a voice on the other end said. "Dean? That you?"
"Yeah. You haven't heard from him, have you, or from anybody who might be looking for him?"
"I'd have called you, if I had. You boys in New Hampshire?"
That stopped Dean for a moment, before he remembered who he was talking to, and he knew Bobby heard the hesitation. "Uh, yeah. How'd you know we're here?"
"Talked to a mutual lady-friend of ours."
Ellen.
"Look, Bobby, the car's gone, too, and all the equipment. I need someone on the research end of this thing, 'cause I don't know what the hell. You do that for me?"
"Let me see what I can find out. And Dean?"
Cold Oak loomed over the conversation, like it did over every conversation they'd had since, its icy fingers clutching Dean's heart. Once again he banished the memory.
"Yeah?"
"You'll find him—you always do."
"Yeah. Thanks."
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No sooner had he ended the call than his ring-tone sounded loudly, and Dean almost dropped the phone, his fingers trembling as he checked the caller ID.
"Sammy?" he barked, hearing the anger and fear and relief in his voice. "Where the hell are you?"
But it wasn't Sam who responded.
"He's in a safe place, I assure you."
Dean didn't recognize the caller's voice—a man's, and old. Maybe seventy, eighty years, even. Slight New England accent, the cultured one, with a hint of condescending amusement and nastiness beneath it. For a moment, Dean's heart forgot to beat.
"Who is this?" he asked, far from certain that he wanted to hear the answer. "Where'd you get that phone?"
A chuckle. "Oh, I found it in Funkytown, Mr. Winchester. Isn't that the code you two use, to let each other know there's trouble? Allow me to save your brother the effort."
Dean felt the blood in his veins freeze, and licked lips that were suddenly parched. "Put him on, right now," he ordered.
"Certainly, certainly."
There was a pause, and then Sam's voice, a little ragged but music to Dean's ears.
"Dean, don't—"
A short, muffled cry came next, and Dean flinched, sudden anger boiling inside him.
"Sam!"
The old man spoke again. "He's suffered no permanent damage, Mr. Winchester. You may have him back unharmed, I promise."
"Who is this? What do you want?" Dean's focus narrowed to a pinpoint, all his attention on the man at the other end of the call, a man he was certain now that he did not know.
"I'll answer all your questions in due time, my young friend. But first I want to make sure you're in the appropriate frame of mind to conduct business."
"I don't know what you're talking about, mister," Dean said, voice harsh, "but I swear to God, if you hurt my brother, your time is up."
Another dry chuckle. "Almost. I'll be in touch."
The call ended, and when Dean tried to call back, he was again directed to voice-mail.
"Sonofabitch!" he snarled, punching in Bobby's number. This time, Bobby answered on the first ring.
"Somebody's definitely got him—some old guy, Bobby, and he's here, somewhere close. Guy said something about wanting to do some business, and he's hooked up with Gordon, somehow."
"Gordon." The name obviously wasn't ringing any of Bobby's bells.
"Gordon Walker. You know—the vampire-killer." Dean frowned impatiently, rubbing his brow with the heel of his hand. Usually Bobby was quicker on the uptake than this.
"I thought you said he was in jail."
"They got phones in jail, too," Dean said, desperation sharpening his voice. "Bobby, is it hunters? You gotta be straight with me, man. If it's hunters that have Sam, I gotta know."
"I don't know, Dean, but I don't think so. I think I'd have heard. What makes you say this old guy is connected to Gordon Walker?"
"Something—" Dean cleared his throat, realizing he was holding the phone in a death-grip. "A code word Gordon heard me use with Sam once, back in Indiana. This guy knew it; he knew what it meant."
"Okay, Dean, calm down. Did he say what kind of business he wanted to do?"
"Well, hell, yes, Bobby! He wants me to look over his stock portfolio!"
There was silence from the other end, and Dean grimaced, mentally kicking himself for his outburst.
"Bobby, I'm sorry. It's just that—"
"'Sall right, Dean. What else did he say?"
Dean thought back, then shook his head. "Nothin'. He put Sam on the line for a second"—he heard Bobby's sigh of relief—"and then he said he'd call back. Aw, shit, I gotta get off the phone—what if he's callin' right now?"
"Dean, you be smart," Bobby cautioned. "You're on your own, out there, and you need to keep a level head. Let me do some checkin', and I'll get back to you when I can."
The older man hung up, and Dean hurriedly snapped his cell closed. Stared at it hard, as if that would make it ring.
It didn't.
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An hour later, Dean was ready to climb the walls, but when his cell finally rang, for a moment all he could do was stare at it some more. Finally, collecting himself, he took the call.
"You got Dean."
"How convenient," the old man sighed at the other end, "since I also have Sam."
"What do you want, asshole?"
His caller tsked. "There's no reason to be unpleasant, Mr. Winchester. I'm perfectly willing to conduct our business professionally, now that I have your attention."
"You've got my brother, you sonofabitch. I want him back. Now. Unharmed, or you're gonna regret the day you messed with us."
"There's really no need for name-calling," the breathy voice chided. "It's entirely unnecessary. You may have your brother back, essentially unharmed. I just want a little something in return."
"I don't know who you are, but I got nothin' you'd want."
"On the contrary; you have something I want very much."
"What would that be?"
"A better question is where would that be, Mr. Winchester. I think we should meet face to face."
"Yeah, well, I'd love to accommodate you, but it seems like something's happened to my car as well as to my brother."
Dean was beginning to hate the man's dry chuckle. "So sorry to hear that. I'll be happy to send a driver for you. Are you at the motel?"
"Never mind where I'm at. Let me talk to Sam."
"No. Not yet. Are you ready to meet with me?"
"Are you ready to let me talk to Sam?"
There was a long pause, and Dean could hear the old man's breath rattling in his throat on the other end.
"Let me get back to you."
Then there was silence, until Dean called Bobby for the third time.
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TBC. Comments welcomed.