Writhe Directors Cut
Chapter 2 : Down the rabbit hole
It was six a.m.
Sam idly flipped through the seven channels on the TV with the sound off, looking for anything interesting to watch. He had been awake for the last hour and a half and two runs of channel surfing made it clear he would find no relief there, unless he wanted to watch infomercials for exercise equipment designed for every specific part of the human body or cartoons with cavorting dinosaurs.
He clicked it off.
What little sleep he had managed to snatch in the last thirty-six hours had been in between trying to get some liquids into Dean and then dealing with the resultant bouts of sickness afterwards.
Sam had hovered anxiously over him for more hours than he cared to think about, but just before he was ready to stuff Dean back in the car and haul him to the hospital, Dean's retching had begun to abate and the fluids Sam coaxed into him started to stay down.
He had continued to toss miserably, twisted by cramps and sweating in the airless room when the air conditioner had finally succumbed in a smoky clatter around midnight. Sam had made a short, pungent call to the manager which produced two table fans and a promise of a repairman first thing the next morning. Sam couldn't believe this dump had no more available rooms, but apparently some concert had filled all the motels in this end of town and there was no way Sam was moving Dean to another motel—assuming there was another to move to.
The fans had helped to move the air around, but hot air was hot air and Sam was sweaty, uncomfortable and tired. Rubbing a hand over his face, sighing, he toyed with getting on the laptop to do a little research, but didn't want the tapping of the keyboard to disturb Dean, although Sam doubted a solar flare blasting their room would have awakened his brother once he had finally fallen asleep.
He glanced over at Dean, out cold, face down on the bed next to him, one arm dangling down, fingers touching the carpet, covers kicked down over his feet. His pale face sparkled with a fine sheen of sweat even though he wore nothing but his boxers. There was a frown line between his eyebrows and he twitched now and again, but otherwise, he seemed to be sleeping fairly peacefully.
Sam was almost as exhausted as Dean. Deciding that yet another cool shower might perk him up, Sam grabbed some clothes and headed into the bathroom. After a fast rinse he came out drying his hair with a towel, trying to figure out what place around there might deliver breakfast when Dean shifted, groaning.
Sam's face split into a pleased grin, "Hey there!"
Dean's eyes blinked open and stared blearily at Sam. Drawing in a deep breath, he lifted his hand to rub his eyes. "Why you awake…?" He drawled in a thick, hoarse voice. He grimaced as he rolled onto his back.
"Woke up and couldn't go back to sleep," Sam replied, tossing the towel to the end of his bed. He flipped on the small bedside lamp, sitting down next to Dean. "How you feelin'?" he asked.
"What time's it?" Dean's eyes drifted shut again. He coughed a little and cleared his throat, a hand brushing across his stomach.
"Little after six." Sam moved to sit on the edge of Dean's bed, resting the back of his hand on Dean's forehead. "How's your stomach? Still feel queasy?"
Dean knocked Sam's hand away, rolling his head to the side. "Maybe…I'm sore as hell…feel better'n I did." He made a soft humming noise, looking up at Sam through narrowed eyes. "Did I ask you to shoot me?" he asked, recalling a vague memory.
Sam laughed softly and nodded. "Yeah." He shrugged. "I figured you really didn't mean it, though."
Dean moved his head in a negative, grimacing. "Trust me, I meant it at the time." He rubbed his hands over his face. "I hope it's really hot in here and not just me."
"A/C's bad. Works off and on. Sorry." Sam shrugged again. "Didn't have a lot of motel choices at the time." He got up and ran a fresh glass of water for Dean, tossing the remaining ice into it.
Dean pushed himself up with an obvious effort, leaning against the headboard, gratefully taking the glass. "Thanks."
Sam watched as Dean took a few small sips, his eyes falling closed as he swallowed; he kept a hand on his stomach protectively. Sam sighed quietly; it was good to have Dean awake and talking, but the room still felt thick with sickness and dead air.
"How long have we been here?" Dean looked around the little room, rolling the sweating water glass against his temple. "Speaking of which. Where the hell are we anyway? Last thing I remember…was getting a little too up close and personal with the side of the road."
"Two days. Athens, Georgia," Sam replied. "We'd just hit town when you got sick."
"Damn…really?" Dean grunted. He ruffled his sweaty hair, making a face. "God, I feel gross. I need to take a shower." He took another sip of water, but let his head fall back against the headboard, his eyes closing again.
Sam eyed Dean suspiciously, but got to his feet. "You sure you're up to it?" he asked. "You were really sick, Dean. Maybe you should take it easy today."
Dean moved his legs off the bed, sitting the rest of the way up. He swayed a little, pressing his hands to his eyes with a groan. Sam reached out a hand, Dean smacked it away.
"I feel better, Sam." Dean snapped impatiently. "Seriously, dude. Just give me a minute."
Dean leaned forward weakly, bracing himself on the bedside table to help push himself upright. He looked pretty shaky, but Sam could see he felt better overall. Moving carefully toward the bathroom, he paused now and again to use the wall as support. It was a long trip and Sam's eyes following him every step of the way.
Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his several days of stubble. Studying his reflection in the mirror was disheartening, showing him hollow- eyes with dark smudges beneath them and a face the color of oatmeal. He sat on the closed toilet for a few minutes before he could muster up the energy to turn on the water, actually gripping the towel bar to steady himself as he finally got under the stream of lukewarm water, unable to bear the thought of hot water touching his skin.
When Dean got out, he was disgusted to find his hands were shaking too much to shave so he blew that off and slowly pulled on his clothes. Stepping out of the bathroom he felt much better than he had. Sitting quietly on the bed to rest a few minutes before he pulled his boots on, he knew Sam was casting a watchful eye Dean's way from time to time but wisely saying nothing.
By the time Dean was dressed and Sam was ready it was 7:30 a.m. Dean had lain back on the bed while Sam got ready and was surprised when Sam shook his leg gently to waken him.
"Hey," Sam said. "Do you think you can go out to eat something? Or you could stay here and I'll go get something and bring it back." Sam had the Impala keys in one hand.
Dean shook his head, trying to clear the fog. "No, I'm okay. Let's go. I could use some air; it's too hot in here." He sat up after a brief struggle to get his bearings, opened his mouth and reached for the keys.
Sam pulled them out of reach, cutting him off. "Don't even think about it. Not until you're a lot steadier on your feet." Sam fisted the keys and opened the door.
Dean groused under his breath, but gave in just because he did feel really shaky. He followed Sam out to the car, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun and slid into the passenger side of the Impala. The light breeze made it much cooler outside than the stifling room, and Dean found it easier to breathe.
"Do you care if we drive down by the University?" Sam asked a trifle reluctantly as he started the car.
Inwardly, Dean groaned but he owed Sam for the last couple of days, which couldn't have been much fun for Sam either.
"Wherever you want, bro," Dean replied magnanimously. He rolled down the window to get the wind in his face, leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes.
Sam smiled and headed toward the buildings he could see in the distance that had to be the school.
They had driven for a short while, looking around a little. This early in the morning, on a Saturday, the sidewalks were fairly empty. The streets along the old downtown area were spilled over with bars, small cafes and restaurants. They passed several cafés with tables on the sidewalk and a few solitary early risers drinking coffee, eating rolls and doing their laptop magic.
While Dean wasn't impressed with the atmosphere, he could tell Sam was enjoying the charm of the old sprawling houses that had been converted into apartments, frat and sorority houses, the shady, tree lined streets and the general scholarly feel.
Sam parked the car in a central lot and they walked the short distance to one of the sidewalk cafes with large maple trees shading the tables.
"This okay?" Sam asked, resting a hand on the back of one of the wrought iron chairs.
Dean snorted. Frankly, the short walk had done him in and he just wanted to sit down anywhere. "It's fine, Sam." He sank gratefully onto the chair and sighed. Sam sat down across from him and picked up the menu on the table.
"You all right?" Sam asked, as Dean rested his head in his hands.
"Nothing coffee and a sugar hit won't fix," Dean grumbled.
"You guys are out early!" A pert voice suddenly said at Dean's elbow, startling him.
They both looked up to see a young woman with an order pad and large blue eyes standing beside their table. Her dark hair was tied into a long, bouncy ponytail and she wore tight black shorts that showed off long tanned legs.
Dean's eyes moved up and down her long form appreciatively, lighting up for the first time in days, and he managed to pull a smile out of his trick bag that was only slightly less knee-buckling than usual and offer it to her. His pale face and the dark circles under his eyes apparently did nothing to lessen the effect.
Sam's glance went back to the menu on the table, obviously dismissing her.
"Well, hi there..." he said, eyeing her ID badge, "…Ashley. I'm Dean and if I'd known you were here, I certainly would've been here sooner."
Ashley laughed, tapping her pen against her lips. "You know, that's not much of a line."
Dean shrugged with an eyebrow, looking down briefly. "Sorry, I've been sick. I'm outta practice. You know anyone that could help me with that?" He traced his fingertip across the top of the table and rolled his eyes up at her without raising his head.
Ashley laughed again.
Now Sam looked sick.
Dean grinned and opened his mouth to say something else to make her laugh, but a shrill scream from down the street turned them all to stare in the direction of the sound.
In the middle of the next block, a girl ran down the steps of one of the old homes lining the street shrieking every step of the way. Reaching the bottom, she turned and ran toward the street stumbling right into the path of an approaching truck.
Sam and Dean both jumped up before they heard the thud of the girl's body as the pickup struck her, brakes screeching, horrified onlookers yelling in shock.
The vehicle wasn't going that fast and it was a glancing blow, but it still knocked the girl sideways onto the pavement. Sam ran toward her followed by Dean, the waitress he'd been flirting with and several startled spectators.
Grabbing her shoulders, Sam stopped the girl from getting up. "Lie still, you don't know how bad you might be hurt."
He spoke quietly, trying to calm her. She was crying and shrieking in hysterics. Even though blood trickled from a small scrape on her forehead, she didn't appear to be badly hurt but he knew she needed to stay quiet until help came.
"Someone call 911!" He barked at the gathering crowd. Several people snatched at their cell phones and began to dial frantically.
The girl was frantic, continually screaming, "My God! Oh, my God!"
The driver of the truck, a young kid, eighteen or so, stood horrified, wringing his hands, seeming on the verge of tears. "I didn't see her!" he cried. "She ran right in front of me!"
Dean, a little light-headed from the run, braced himself against the hood, reaching out to catch the kid's shoulder. "Chill, man, it wasn't your fault," he wheezed. "It's okay. It was an accident."
Sam was still trying to calm the girl. Her hysterics were starting to draw the interest of people in the surrounding houses. Ashley, the waitress, suddenly knelt next to her, sliding an arm around her, interposing herself between Sam and the injured girl, talking soothingly. "I got her," she said softly to Sam.
Getting to his feet, Sam eased over to Dean. "We're not gonna get anything from her, she's to freaked out, but something in that house scared the crap out of her." Sam commented softly.
"No argument there," Dean agreed, glancing toward the elegant old house the girl had run from. He could see a few people looking out the windows in the upper floor. Apparently the house had been turned into several apartments.
Exchanging looks, Dean and Sam quickly crossed over to the house. Walking up the wide steps, they crossed the porch, pausing on either side of the open front door.
Dean mopped at the sheen of sweat on his face with a sleeve.
"You okay?" Sam asked.
Dean shot him a dirty look
Sam rolled his eyes. "So what are we looking for anyway?" he hissed as they started to go inside, hand in his jacket for the .45 he kept there.
Dean shrugged. "Damned if I know. I guess we'll know it when we see it." He palmed his own 1911 and stepped through the doorway. The adrenaline rush wasn't doing his stomach any good, but he tried to ignore it as he moved into the foyer, looking left and right.
Several people were standing at the top of the stairs in robes and various stages of dress, eyeing the two men suspiciously.
"What's going on?" A heavy-set blonde girl demanded, as Dean hastily shoved his gun under his jacket.
"There was an accident," Sam replied smoothly. "Some girl came out of the house and a truck hit her as she was crossing the street."
There was a chorus of gasps and some of the watchers thudded down the stairs and out the front door. The remainder shuffled back toward their apartments, curiosity satisfied.
Sam snorted and shook his head. Dean crept down the short hallway to the right of the staircase, staying close to the wall where he saw an open door. Jerking his head toward the door he moved forward cautiously, Sam following on his heels. He paused at the door, then followed as Sam entered the open apartment, weapons out.
The living room was neatly furnished, not opulently, but pleasant. A pair of men's boots had been kicked across the floor, a blue shirt lay on the ground between them, leading to what Sam assumed was the bedroom.
It was a few short steps across the combination living area/kitchen to the next room. Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded, gun ready, as they flanked the door.
Sam crossed the threshold into the bedroom. He stopped so suddenly, Dean blundered into him from behind. "What are you doing, man—" Dean snapped, seeing Sam's arm fall to his side. he pushed past Sam into the bedroom, looking around swiftly, then stopping dead. "Holy shit…" He gagged suddenly, making a face.
Sam, at a loss for words, gestured loosely toward the bed with his gun. "I think we found what we were looking for."
"What the hell?" Dean swore, trying to get himself under control. There was cloying sweetness in the air he couldn't identify, but it made his stomach want to climb into the back of his throat even more than it already did.
Going closer, Sam leaned in and very carefully touched the muzzle of his gun to the shriveled figure on the bed. Twisted skin made a sound like paper on contact and crumbled beneath even the light touch of his gun's muzzle. Lips curled back in distaste, he took a really long look at what lay on the bed.
Whatever had happened had to have been terrible. The discolored, twisted body was naked, arched upwards, frozen in a position that suggested great agony, arms splayed tautly out to the sides, hands clawed so tightly into the sheets the fingers had torn through the fabric and were buried to the knuckles in the mattress. The body's head was thrown as far back as was possible, mouth open widely, exposing all the teeth, a withered tongue curling over the drawn back lips.
Even this wasn't as strange as the fact that the body appeared so desiccated that every muscle, sinew and piece of skin had shrunk into the bones to the point it seemed as though the papery thin skin was just a casing that held it all together. A mummy would have retained more humanity in its final form than this piece of human jerky before them.
"You ever see anything like this before?" Sam asked.
Dean couldn't answer, unable to decide if he was going to pass out or puke, bent over with his hands braced on his thighs.
He hard Sam's spat, "Shit!" then grabbed Dean by the arms.
Dean grabbed back to break his fall. Sam kicked a chair over from the desk and clumsily settled Dean in it.
"Put your head down!" Sam ordered pushing Dean's head to his knees.
Dean was far from squeamish, but after the last two days as embarrassing as it was, he felt entitled to a momentary weak stomach when confronted with the poor bastard lying on that bed.
Dean hung there, head buried in his arms, waiting for the nausea to pass, aware of Sam's agitated presence like a big umbrella hovering over him. "Man…" he groaned. "This is not how I wanted to start my day."
"You shoulda stayed in bed," Sam agreed. He put his gun away and pulled out his cell phone, opening it up to take some photos. "Sit tight and let me get these shots and then we need to get the hell outta here before someone else comes or the cops show up." He turned back to the bed getting shots from different angles and close-ups.
As the dizziness passed, Dean straightened slightly and began to look around again. Reaching out, he used a pen from his pocket to move some of the papers on the desk. It was mostly unopened mail with the same name: Matt Lewis. There were several matchbooks with iridescent covers. He slid one to the edge of the desk, but It fell before he could grab it and he leaned forward to pick it up off the floor where it lay sparkling under the desk in a shaft of sunlight.
Dean's eyes followed the streak of sunlight shooting across the floor as he snagged the matchbook. He squinted at several shiny spots that looked like thin bits of plastic near the edge of the hole where the floor register under the desk should have been. The cover for the floor vent itself had been pulled out of the opening and was lying to one side.
Frowning, he leaned forward out of the chair, getting on his hands and knees and reaching under the desk for one of the tiny flashy bits. It stuck to his finger and he brought it into the light for a closer look.
"Dean? Are you okay?" Sam's anxious voice startled Dean as his brother knelt beside him.
"Yes, Sam, I'm fine." Dean assured with infinite patience. He held out the small flake, balanced on his fingertip. "Whadaya make of that? There's a bunch of them by the vent down here."
Sam studied the small object with puzzlement. It was sort of triangular in shape, translucent, delicately tipped in black. There was a reflective sparkle to it where the light hit it.
Sam's head jerked toward the door as a siren screamed in the distance. He grabbed an envelope off the desk and shoved it at Dean. "Put 'em in there. It's time to go!"
Dean picked up the remaining flakes as fast as he could and dropped them into the envelope. Backing out from under the desk, he allowed Sam to help him up. "We gotta shag ass," Sam spat, pulling Dean toward the door.
The siren screamed to a halt out front. Sam and Dean shot back through the apartment door and down the hall to the next apartment where there was an opening under the stairs.
They could see the flash of a paramedic van in the street and two police cruisers sliding up next to it. A fair sized crowd had assembled. After speaking with the injured girl briefly two police officers came through the front door, moving quickly into the living room of the apartment Sam and Dean had just vacated.
It was simple to ease around the small crowd that had accompanied the cops inside and work their way out of the building.
Back on the sidewalk, Dean turned as they walked away, catching a glimpse of Ashley. She was standing next to the girl as the paramedic treated her. He was surprised to feel disappointed when she didn't look their way.
"What the hell would cause something like that?" Sam exclaimed, reclaiming Dean's attention.
"Huh?" Dean replied.
"That body? What could do something like that?" Sam repeated, looking over his shoulder to see where Dean had been looking. He grinned at Ashley's dark pony tail bobbing the distance as she spoke with the paramedic. "You wanta go get her number?" Sam nudged him. "After what we just saw, I think we'll be around for a few days."
Dean glanced back again, surprised to see Ashley raise herself up to look over the heads of the people around her. She was obviously looking for something. He tightened his lips and shook his head. "Nah, I can always find a girl if I want one. Unlike some people I know," he added, with a small grin, giving Sam a push.
"Ha ha. Very funny," Sam said woodenly. "Well, I want to get on the laptop and see what I can find about this." He waved his cell phone. "Let's grab some food and go back to the room. I think you've had enough excitement this morning. You can rest after you get some food into you."
"I'm not five, Sam. I don't need a nap!" Dean replied crossly, putting the most stubborn five-year-old to shame. God, the walk back to the car seemed to be taking forever.
Just before he got back into the Impala, Dean glanced back down the street to see Ashley walking toward the café where she worked. He lingered by the door, watching her, drawing in a small breath as she suddenly stopped and looked straight at him. She smiled and raised her hand slightly in a small wave. Dean felt his fingers straighten in an answering wave before he realized what he was doing.
"C'mon, Dean, get in!" Sam's voice drew his eyes and when Dean looked back up, she was gone.