Since this is Supernoodle's special story, I thought it would be fitting to post this Chapter on her birthday.
Happy Birthday sweets x
It was dark.
Dean found himself blinking, as if something was obstructing his vision, straining to see. He coughed, the cold settling into his lungs making his breathing uncomfortable. Slowly his eyes began to adjust to the gloom and he was able to make out a door opposite him.
He was cuffed, his arms above his head, the weight of his body pulling on the deep cuts across his shoulder and stomach, but when he tried to stand, his knee refused to take the weight. Resigned for the time being to being stuck, he slumped back, the metal restraints nipping the delicate skin on his wrists.
In the dark, Dean allowed his other senses to wander. His nose tickled, the damp smell of earth making him guess he was still somewhere underground, the sound of the wind blowing along a tunnel telling him he couldn't have gone too far from the haunting.
He was shivering, his skin tingling as the fine hairs stood on end beneath his clothing. The only warmth he felt was from the blood slowly seeping from the cuts the falling glass case had caused, and they were cooling quickly.
If I'm still bleeding, I've not been out for long, he reasoned, somewhat relieved by the thought.
Harsh light flooded the room, causing Dean to turn away.
"Dude," he groaned. "That's not cool."
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Caleb shone his torch along the ground from his position on the fallen floorboards.
Dean had found a tunnel running from the house through the grounds, the darkness stretching endlessly in either direction.
He found footprints easily against the floor of the tunnel, disappearing into the yawning shadows where a cool wind emerged, ruffling his hair.
Feeling like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story, Caleb followed the direction Dean had taken. Watching, as the light from his torch seemed overwhelmed by the oppressive gloom, Caleb hoped there wasn't an orang-utan waiting at the other end for him.
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Dean squinted at the man who'd taken him.
His earlier assessment of the man's age seemed a bit off, on closer inspection. He realised the guy was actually past his father's age by a number of years, his face weighed down by something like grief. He also appeared to be a certified lunatic.
"You're Winchester's son?" the man demanded. "John Winchester – you're his son?"
"Who the hell are you?" Dean replied, blinking in the harsh light.
"Tell me! Are you a Winchester?"
Dean snorted. "I'm not telling you jack."
"You don't look like him," the man muttered to himself, his eyes roving rapidly over Dean. "They tell me the oldest child has his mother's looks." He lifted the gun back to Dean's head, reconnecting with his captive. "Are you the eldest Winchester boy? Answer me!"
"Suppose I was – what then?"
The man smiled. "My name is Reg Keller. I'm gonna change your life."
Dean eyed the gun suspiciously. "Dude, couldn't you just write me into your will?"
"No," Keller breathed. "It's so much better than money. I'm gonna make you invincible! Apart from a certain sensitivity to silver."
"What?"
Keller frowned. "Hasn't Winchester taught you anything?" he demanded. "Werewolves, boy! Killed with a silver bullet!"
Dean shifted uncomfortably. "You've got a werewolf somewhere round here?" He'd never dealt with one, but he knew his Dad had once.
Keller ignored him. "It has its perks. You'll be human most of the time - you won't even remember your time as a wolf. Your first clue will be when your Daddy plants a silver .38 in your heart."
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Caleb crouched by the area where Dean had rested. He had been bleeding, but not badly, Caleb was sure of it. Trying to get a read, Caleb let his mind wander. With a sigh, he sensed Dean's unbearable loneliness.
"Messed up," the psychic muttered.
Searching further, he thought he could feel something else, curiosity tinged with fear. He could only see one set of prints leading away from the site, and perplexed, Caleb lent closer to the ooze on the ground, looking intently at every minute detail.
Eventually his patience paid off and he realised two people had stood in this spot. The prints were better, leading away, where the walker had been heavier, pressing harder into the ground. Or burdened by another body.
Then he saw them, the tracks leading towards him, hidden where the person had been carefully treading. Frowning, Caleb followed the tracks, more alert and wondering just what he was dealing with now.
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"I spent years perfecting this," Keller admitted, fiddling with the gun. "I used to inject the infected blood straight into the veins, but they always succumbed too soon, just as bad as a direct bite. Didn't give me enough time, not for what I wanted."
"You infected someone?" Dean asked, feeling a little sick. This man had already done what he was threatening; he'd already crossed the line. He remembered his Dad telling him as he emptied his guts after his first corporeal killing, it's easier the second time.
"Don't worry," Keller replied offhandedly. "I killed them."
"That makes me feel all kinds of better," Dean growled. "What are you doing? Creating your own private safari?"
The man glanced at him incredulous. "You think I'm in this for the hunt?" he moved closer, pushing his face into Deans. "I want revenge!" he hissed. "I want John Winchester to suffer like I suffered." Gripping Dean's shoulders, he shook him, screaming. "I had to kill my own son!"
Dean blinked as Keller collapsed onto him. He felt for the poor bastard, but the event had obviously unhinged him. Nothing gave him the right to destroy innocent lives as he had done in his effort to perfect his weapon. Keller sobbed onto Dean's shoulder for a moment and uncomfortable, Dean swallowed hard. "Dad would have done all he could –" he began.
"All he could?" Keller straightened. "He told me he didn't get holy water into him soon enough – does that sound like he did all he could?" He shook Dean again. "He gave me a choice! Kill my child or let him do it for me."
Dean stared hard at the man. He wouldn't believe John had abandoned a fellow hunter, there must have been a reason his Dad couldn't have gotten to the kid in time.
Keller let go abruptly. "You understand revenge, don't you boy?" he asked, breathing hard. "I've nothing against you, you're a good kid. But your worthless bastard of a father has to endure the pain I went through. I know you understand."
Dean let his head fall back onto the wall behind him. Terrific. Now Keller was trying to reason with him. If he agreed, Keller would feel righteous in his actions, assured he was doing the correct thing.
Keller was speaking again. "I tried to get them to ingest the infected blood, hoping the digestion process would slow the advance. But they could never hold it down long enough for it to take effect." He smiled softly. "Then I hit on it. If I shot a person with a blood-coated bullet, it not only infects them slowly, it allows the body to attempt to fight it. I understand it's a very painful process."
Dean shivered. "You're gonna leave me here to die?" he guessed. "Let Dad find my body at some stage?"
"Leave you? Son, I'm going to set you free." Keller turned away, doing something with the gun again, muttering to himself. "Let Winchester deal with his son becoming that which he despises." He levelled the gun at Dean. "I'm sorry, I've no choice," he said and pulled the trigger.
Pain ripped into Dean's side and he cried out at the impact. Working on controlling his breathing, he lifted his head as Keller watched him. "There, it wasn't so bad, was it?"
"You son of a bitch," Dean growled. "You're gonna be the first person I bite!"
Keller laughed, coming forward again to release Dean from his restraints. "You think you're going to send me to hell?" He watched dispassionately as Dean's injured leg buckled under the weight it was suddenly required to support. He bent to breathe into Dean's ear, "I'm already there!"
Without another word, Keller straightened, lifted his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. Dean jumped in surprise, jerking away from the body as it fell across his legs. Dean stared at Keller, unable to look away from the gore for several long moments.
Finally, he pushed the man off him and grunting from the effort, pulled himself to his feet.
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Caleb heard the two shots, their hollow echoes mocking him as he threw caution to the wind and ran down the tunnel, sliding in the mess in his haste. He almost missed the open door leading off the main passageway. He was so surprised to find it; he overshot and had to backtrack. He carefully peeked in.
A lone body lay near the far wall, half the head blown away, the naked light bulb hanging low from the ceiling garishly illuminating the gore. Caleb approached warily, gratefully acknowledging the man was too heavy, short and aged to be Dean. The young man could only see one injury on him and swallowing his revulsion, he nudged the dead man over with the toe of his boot to check the front of the body.
No other wound was apparent, but Caleb had heard two shots. He could only assume the other had been aimed at his friend and leaving the room, Caleb mentally berated himself for leaving Dean alone. John would have discovered the second spirit the moment he entered the house, he could easily have gone back out. What had seemed so vitally important appeared laughable compared to this nightmare.
Caleb had been taught to expect the worst, every time. John's pessimistic boot camp had had a good reason; should Dean be injured, Caleb was mentally prepared to deal with it, wasting no time in aiding the kid and potentially saving his life. However, should Dean prove his theory of being bulletproof, Caleb'd be pleasantly surprised and made to endure the agony of Dean's insufferable ego.
Caleb privately admitted Dean's insufferable ego would be a welcome relief from his bewildered pain.
Rounding a corner, he saw a shape on the ground, lying still and huddled.
Instinctively he knew it was Dean, he'd spent hours tracking the Winchester brothers through forest and town in exercises devised by John to keep his young sons occupied and Caleb off his back about training. Now adults, Caleb was in the habit of dropping by the small family without warning and his skills were as sharp as they had been in their hide-and-seek heyday.
Heart in his mouth, Caleb dropped beside Dean, his fingers going to his neck as his eyes scanned the area, his mind seeking another presence. Finding none, he returned his attention to his friend, relived to find the skin warm and a pulse beating beneath his fingertips.
Dean's eyes were shut, his breathing rapid and broken, but he moved under Caleb's touch, eventually opening his eyes when the elder man pulled away Dean's jacket to reveal the gun wound.
"Shit," the psychic swore softly. He met Dean's gaze, a surge of worry hitting him as he noticed how distant Dean seemed. "Deuce? Think you can walk?"
Dean blinked slowly, but nodded. "Got shot," he announced, as if surprised. "Kinda sucks, Caleb."
The psychic chuckled. Having been shot himself, he could identify with the way Dean had disconnected from the injury, the minds way of protecting itself.
Dean moaned as Caleb heaved him to his feet, allowing himself to lean on his friend, a sure sign the apocalypse was happening.
Together, they made their way slowly down the tunnel, heading in the same direction Dean had taken since falling through the rotten floor. They knew what was behind them, a dead man and a long tunnel leading to nowhere. They hoped an exit would be in front.
Caleb tried to take on as much of Dean's weight as he could; realising more than the gun shot wound was hindering his progress.
Dean groaned, almost falling as his knee again buckled. "He killed himself," he commented, as Caleb steadied him, readjusting his grip.
He tried to tell the younger man to save his strength, but Dean insisted on talking.
"He said Dad got his son killed," Dean breathed, lifting a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "He wanted Dad to know how it felt."
"By killing you?" Caleb guessed, hoping to keep him talking, knowing the sweating was a sign of shock.
Dean seemed lost in his thoughts. "I think Dad already knows how it feels," he commented quietly.
Caleb struggled to find something to say and in the silence, Dean sighed. Unable to say what was on his mind; namely, that John deserved anything Sam dished out and vice versa, Caleb almost whooped with relief at finding the storm gate ahead.
"C'mon, Deuce, not much further now."
Dean nodded, his chin seeming to rest on his chest as his strength waned. "Dad's gonna be pissed."
"Yeah," Caleb grunted, hoisting Dean's arm back over his shoulder where he was slipping. He privately wondered if the eldest Winchester was going to stick true to form and be pissed at the wrong person.
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It took some time to kick open the gate; by the time Caleb bent to pull Dean back to his feet, he was sweating as much as the injured boy. They carefully entered the grounds, finding John attacking another spot, further along from several deep holes.
Upon seeing John, Caleb ground his teeth. It was painfully clear his contact had either fed him bad information or given him the run around. An experienced hunter like Winchester should know better than to trust blindly, but John had been too eager to give his frustration an outlet, jumping in head first for what should have been a simple salt'n'burn.
Typically, it wasn't John who paid the price for his arrogance. John called it a war. The analogy suited the situation, Caleb thought ruefully. Generals rarely got the bullet.
"John," he called. "Give it up; the Kain's aren't buried here."
Winchester grunted, never lifting his head from his work. "Neither spirit's approached me; maybe they're not strong enough to return immediately after the rock salt."
"They're strong enough. We've got another problem," Caleb announced, and this time John raised his head. His expression darkened at seeing the mess his son was in.
"Dad?" Dean struggled to lift himself from Caleb's support, aiming to stand on his own, or at least, support the greater part of his weight.
"Don't be an ass," Caleb told him, bringing him closer again. "You don't have to prove anything to him."
Dean ignored Caleb, forcibly pushing himself away from his friend, swaying unsteadily. "I'm sorry, Dad, I-"
"Save it," John barked. "I'm not in the mood for excuses."
Dean stumbled as if slapped, rocking back on his heels sharply. "Yessir," he agreed.
"Come off it, he's not apologising for anything!" Caleb snapped, struggling to keep Dean upright despite the younger man's best efforts to push him away. "If anything, you should be the one begging forgiveness."
"Me?" John snarled. "I didn't fuck this hunt up!"
"You got bad intel and didn't check it out – you sent us in blind!"
Dean tried to talk, working hard to push the words past his lips. His strength was waning, the world fading to grey. "Stop it," he managed quietly. "Please, Sam, don't," he added, his voice breaking on the last word.
The mention of the youngest Winchester's name froze John, took the breath from him like a sucker punch. It was the first time since Sam had left his name was spoken in his presence, the first time, for all he knew, Dean had mentioned him. It felt strange to hear it, emotion raw and unwelcome clouding his eldest son's voice.
For Caleb it signalled something else, something far more worrying. "Dean?"
"I can't," he moaned weakly. "I can't listen to it any more." His body shutting down, he couldn't keep himself upright and Caleb allowed him to descend to the ground. He laid Dean down gently, a hand cupping his face.
"Deuce? You with me buddy?"
Dean blinked hazily at him. "Caleb?"
"Who'd you expect?" Caleb laughed in relief.
Dean moved slightly, trying to look around. "Was Sam here?"
"We need to get him out of here," John said, his own voice gruff, his expression worried.
"First thing I've agreed with all night," Caleb snapped. "Help me with him."
Between the two of them, they got Dean upright again. Hanging limply from their shoulders, Dean was half carried, half dragged back to the Impala. They settled him into the backseat, Caleb climbing in with him to hold pressure over the bullet wound.
As John peeled out of the drive, Caleb lifted the wadded up shirt he was using as a pad for the injury, frowning when he saw very little blood had flowed. "Flick on the light," he instructed, worried.
John complied, glancing into the mirror to watch his son and Caleb. "What is it?"
Caleb looked up, catching his gaze. "He's not bleeding. There's a lot of bruising spreading from the wound."
John swallowed. "Internal bleeding?"
"It looks like it. We're gonna have to risk a hospital."
"Shit." John had been hoping he would be able to deal with it himself, the hospitals reported every GSW and they could do without the police becoming involved.
Dean struggled against Caleb once he heard what his friend had said. "Wolf," he gasped, his trembling hand gesturing to his side. "Poison," he added, trying to make the others understand.
"Wolf poison?" Caleb repeated. He was trying to get a read on his friend, but all he could find was the shooting, repeated over and over, the words of the rouge hunter distorted by the rushing of Dean's blood as his heart sped up, responding to the surge of adrenaline he'd experienced.
"Yeah," Dean replied now, his breathing shallow and rapid in an attempt to match his racing heart. "Wolf."
Caleb's eyes widened in realisation. "Dean, are you infected?" he demanded.
Dean nodded, his eyes beginning to glaze over. "Son of a bitch shot me," he agreed.
"Head for Bobby's!" Caleb shouted. "We've got to get holy water into him and the bullet out!"
John reached blindly for the glove department, spilling papers and fake badges, id's and assorted paraphernalia onto the floor as he groped for the small flask he kept in there. "Make him drink it all," he ordered unnecessarily, handing it to Caleb.
Dean didn't much care for the liquid, gagging and trying to evade the flask, but Caleb persisted, trying to ignore Dean as he screamed, the holy water taking effect. Caleb was horrified to see small wisps of smoke rise from the wound, something dark and thick bubbling within the bullet hole.
Caleb swabbed at the injury, trying to wipe the dark liquid away, gagging at the rotten, putrid smell. As Dean quietened, opening his eyes to stare accusingly at him, Caleb offered a soft apology and put the rim of the flask against his lips again.
"C'mon, Deuce," he cajoled, reminded of a time when Dean was being stubborn about taking his medicine as a child. "Suck it up."
Dean was coherent enough to roll his eyes, but he nodded, giving Caleb the go ahead to tip more of the water into his mouth.
Again, the younger man screamed in agony, forcing Caleb to hold him down as his back arched. Dean cut the cry off, biting his lip and trying to tough it out. Panting harshly, he nodded again and Caleb offered him the flask once more.
Dean coughed as that last drop went down, withering with pain, refusing to let out another scream. Tossing the empty flask aside, Caleb gripped his friend tighter, staring as Dean shut his eyes tightly, his body tensing as the water dealt with the infection. "How much longer?"
John was silent a moment. "The flask should hold him until we get there."
