Chapter 2
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He stands in the doorway – the halo of light behind him lifting his figure to an almost God-like status. He smiles at his trophy.
His eyes flick towards the skinny kid lying on the ground, and he lifts a hand towards what's left of his right ear and flinches at the touch.
"You better hope your eyesight never fails, you're fucked for glasses," Dean snarks, looking up at him.
A sudden fury mutating his sublime features, he makes a run for Dean and lifts a heavy boot towards his chest. Dean receives the assault and the accompanying breathlessness that follows without ceremony – for there is no escape from this onslaught. The only upside is that the force of the kick to his chest has dislodged the bolt from the back wall, and he lies on his side, gasping through bloodied teeth for air.
And the kicks continue - two, three, four more. Each time Dean moves a little further back, the tip of the bolt eventually touching the other wall.
And then he suddenly stops.
He stands still for a beat, like a child looking down at a broken toy.
He drops to one knee.
Pulls Dean close, and closer.
So close, Dean can hear him breath. Little tentative breaths, sniffing the aroma of blood on Dean's skin. He nuzzles against Dean's chest, where the bolt penetrates. The assault has caused it to bleed again. He closes his eyes and licks around the bolt, his tongue thick with blood. His breathing increases along with the thrill of having his prey - so close, and so...alive.
"Francis!" the voice makes him gasp. He lifts his face to look back at the doorway.
"Get him in the truck. We're going."
*
He remembers feeling invincible.
Remembers the sideways glances, and the grudging nods of agreement.
They'd just screwed over a hard nosed bunch of bikers and were riding high on the feeling that eight hundred dollars gives you.
The four bikers had clicked to the fact they'd been rolled as soon as they'd noticed Sam drop his 'dumb and dumber' attitude. The one that had lured them into the game in the first place.
But they weren't that stupid that they didn't see the potential harm these brothers could do to them. They understood power when they saw it.
He remembers the width of Sam's smile and his high pitched laughter as they'd screeched away from the parking lot.
And they were Hell's Angels.
Oh, the irony.
*
Dragging.
Being dragged.
He was being dragged and suddenly became aware of his limbs moving bonelessly over the rough ground. He could hear Francis grunting with the effort.
Back in the truck – face down. Grit digging into his face as the young Vampire pushed his head down even harder and he fought to keep the bolt from touching the metal floor and being rammed further into his shoulder.
He thinks about what will be left by the time Sam gets here.
His gun.
His knife.
And Anston Riley lying in a heap in the basement.
*
He remembers the smell.
That sweet, baby powder odour assailing his nose and mouth.
Little hands grasping at his own.
Little fingers.
Big eyes searching his face. A gooey smile.
He remembers scrunching up his nose at the dead diaper lying on the carpet, and then only just managing to grab it from Sam's clutches as he'd crawled towards it.
"Hey," the voice firm and gritty from too little sleep. "You changed his diaper?"
He remembers that stab of uncertainty as he nodded.
Remembers the smile he got in return.
And the calloused hand smoothing his hair.
"Sam's a lucky boy, having a brother like you," he'd said quietly. "Go get your breakfast, son."
*
Falling.
And if he lands on his back or his front – he's screwed.
It doesn't matter.
There's no one to hear him.
He allows himself a low whine as his ribs bear the brunt of the fall onto another hardwood floor. Worse than that, Francis is following him in.
He bends down to crouch in front of Dean. His eyes caressing Dean's wounds like a dog looking at a steak. He licks his lips and allows his fangs to descend.
Dean stills and closes his eyes.
"Now, man...let's do it now!," he demands, throwing a glance back at the looming figure by the trap door.
"Get your ass back up here, Francis."
Dean feels grateful for his obvious dominance over the younger Vampire.
"We're keeping him for the others."
*
He remembers the log fire sparking and spitting, and throwing out it's welcoming heat.
Remembers the table groaning with food.
Sam too polite to make the first move.
"Dig in, boys," she'd said cheerfully, plunging a huge spoon into a bowl of hot mashed potatoes.
And the food had just slipped over nicely.
A home cooked meal.
Their stomachs filling with satisfaction.
He remembers her fussing over Dean's wet clothes, and the comforting damp smell of them drying in front of the fire.
She'd stood for a beat, hands on ample hips, watching them eat. A proud mother with no children left, and two waifs to feed. Two little boys with no mother and no money left to buy food.
There truly was justice in the world.
*
The trap door slams shut lifting the dust up from the floor and forcing it's way into Dean's open mouth and throat.
It makes him cough and the frothy liquid fills his mouth again, sucking up the dust at least.
Sleep.
He doesn't want too. But somehow, he has too...
When he opens his eyes again, he fumbles for his phone. Prays that it's not broken.
It lights up like a candle on a cold winters night.
He holds it against his ear and presses it hard to stop the incessant tremble. He moves to rest his arm, but the action jolts him into a short spasm of exquisite pain.
One ring and it's answered.
"What the fuck, Dean!" Oh, he's pissed now. Or relieved.
"I know...they came for me..."
"Yeah, well now I'm coming for them, " he sounds determined.
"They've...they've moved me again."
"No shit. I'm already here."
"Don't come alone, Sam."
"What?"
"It's party time...there's gonna be hoards of 'em."
A silence.
"Whose the kid?"
Was he not listening?
"Oh. That's Anston. Or was."
Another pause. Like he's reassessing the situation.
"Dean...just do what you can." His determination not so bright now. "Keep your phone on. I'm not far behind you."
Dean closes his eyes.
The trap door opens and Dean snaps his phone shut and hides it in an instant.
Francis in his face.
He pulls up his arms to shield himself, but it's a pathetic defence in the face of such violence.
"Time for dinner," he grinds as he hauls Dean up by the scruff of his neck, his wiry body supporting his prey because he can't stand up straight anymore.
"No... " Dean mumbles, his breath hitching at the pain in his chest the sudden movement brings.
Francis forces him against the wooden steps, the darkness of the night not promising any kind of welcome.
"They're all here." Francis grins. "All waiting for ya'.
A vicious grab at Dean's hair and he pushes him up towards the trap door and outside. ..
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