A/N: So sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter written. Real life has been crazy and I'm easily distract- ooooh is that something shiny? Anyhoo, Let me know what you think of this. Good or bad, I appreciate all feedback. :D
Part 3: The Scars I Have Ignored
Dean's jaw clenched and muscles contracted involuntarily. He would have let out a scream if he could have opened his mouth, but instead, an unnerving rumble issued from his throat as the electricity flowed through him. Tears leaked on their own accord from his tightly clenched eyes while the cords of his neck stood out like over- tightened guitar strings.
All of this lasted no more than a second or two, but it was almost as though Cready could feel the pain that this young man was going through. His stomach turned and revolted at the sight and just when he thought he might lose his dinner, Kubrick removed the clip from Dean's chest.
The poor kid slumped in his seat and Cready let go of the breath he realized then that he had been holding. Dear God, this job was becoming so much more than he had bargained for.
Sure, at first he was all for taking out Sam Winchester. Kubrick had explained how Gordon Walker had informed him that Sam was some sort of hell spawn and his brother was one mean son of a bitch. Cready knew Gordon's reputation well and the man had never been known to lie, even if he was extreme in his methods. So he had no reason to doubt his word. However, the reality of it all, had been a little more different than he expected.
Sam certainly didn't seem or act like your typical monster. For one thing, Cready hadn't been prepared for how young the kid was. His own son wasn't too much younger than this kid and when they found him knocked out cold in that motel room and tied him up, he couldn't help but make the comparisons. And for another thing, the boy never really fought back, but tried to reason with them rationally, without the usual taunts he had come to expect from evil creatures.
Dean also wasn't what he was expecting. He was cocky for sure, but it was plain to see that he would do just about anything, even endure torture to keep his little brother from harm. If Sam really was as horrible a creature as Kubrick thought he was, then why would Dean be so protective?
It all didn't add up.
Cready was never known for being a deep thinker. His father had gotten him into this business just as his father before him had and he had never questioned the lengths they needed to go in order to rid the world of evil. But was this too far? His father had always said, "We protect those that can't protect themselves."
Even now, many years after his death, his words still echoed in his ears and that voice was growing.
Protect those that can't protect themselves...
Kubrick picked up the clamps again and jabbed Dean once again in the chest. Cready didn't think he could take another moment of the kid's agonizing grunts and moans. He had to get out.
Bolting for the door, he panted as soon as he was out, fumbling for the pack of cigarettes he had stashed in his jacket pocket. Despite the rain, he managed to light his cigarette and pull in a puff before the door banged opened and Kubrick filled the threshold.
"Cready! What are doing?"
"I don't know, Kubrick...I just need a few minutes, okay?" Kubrick stared at him hard, giving him a disapproving scowl when he lifted the cigarette back up to his mouth.
"Those things are gonna kill you, ya know?"
"That and a bunch of other things."
"Don't take too long, okay? I'm gonna need you when I'm done with the kid. And while you're out there, get the shovels out of the back of the trailer and put 'em in your truck." Kubrick ordered.
Cready stopped cold, the color draining from his face. "Whoa...Shovels? You're not thinking of killing Dean, are you?"
"What choice do we have? He isn't talking no matter what I do and we can't let him go, he'll just kill us before we can get to his brother- You want that? Besides, for all we know this demonic power his brother has might be genetic and his soul might be just as tainted as his. If you ask me, God would be pleased with our work."
His father's voice rattled around his head once again.
Protect those that can't protect themselves...
Everyone has a tipping point- that moment in their life when they step apart from themselves and see things clearly and know precisely what they need to do. At that moment, Cready found his.
Kubrick was insane and he had to be stopped.
"Fine." Cready agreed, his mind coming up with a plan. "Just let me finish out here and I'll be back in a minute."
Kubrick nodded and disappeared back into the RV.
As soon as he was out of sight, Cready threw his cigarette to the ground and hurried to his Bronco, opening up the tailgate. He reached in and pulled out the case he had stowed back there and unlocked it, pushing aside wooden stakes, bottles of holy water and various knives until he found what he needed.
Feeling the solid weight of his father's .45 in his hand, he headed back to the trailer.
Inside the RV, Dean found that his body was no longer under the control of his brain. Every nerve in his body sent signals to his muscles to go haywire. He twitched uncontrollably, every ripple of movement causing screaming pain to course through him.
He tried to lift his head when he noticed that Kubrick had finally stopped his fun with electricity experiment, but only managed to open his eyes to slits and could do no more than stare at his lap, watching with disassociated fascination as blood dripped from his nose in large plops onto his jeans.
Only partially aware of events transpiring around him, he heard a door open and close, then raised voices and a scuffle, but beyond that, nothing else registered. He was too tired to care anymore. He just wanted to sleep, to be swallowed up in blackness and make the pain go away.
The unmistakeable sounds of a fist connecting with flesh stirred him from the brink of unconsciousness. Confused, he made another effort to lift his head and succeeded in bringing it up far enough to catch some of the action occurring around him.
Cready stood over Kubrick who lay on the floor out cold. He took a moment to wipe his brow before stowing the gun in his hand into the back of his waistband then pulling out a couple pairs of handcuffs. Rolling Kubrick onto his side, he pulled the unconscious man's hands behind his back and clasped the cuffs tight around his wrists before doing the same to his ankles.
Cready then turned to face Dean and their eyes locked. The older man reached into his back pocket and pulled out a switchblade, flicking it open with a loud snap as he advanced on him. Tired, beaten and in pain, Dean knew he couldn't fight back and he let his head drop. All he could do now was wait for death and hope that it would be quick.
When the inevitable slash across his throat didn't come and instead he felt the ropes binding him come loose, he blearily opened his eyes again. He felt arms hauling him to his feet, but he couldn't get his muscles under control enough to put any weight on them.
The man beside him grunted in effort. "C'mon, kid. Help me out here."
Still confused but aware enough to figure out he was being rescued, Dean fought for his feet and legs to cooperate. Each step was a struggle as a stinging pins and needles effect plagued him, but he kept going until they were out of the RV and into the rain.
Half walking and half being carried, Dean's vision swam until they came to a stop. A door opened and he allowed him self to be manhandled into the passenger seat of a truck.
Vaguely, he was aware of the door shutting again and hitting him in the shoulder and then the sounds of an engine revving. Anything after that was taken over by blissful darkness.
OOOOOOOOOOOO
A groan sounded, echoing in his ringing ears. He never realized that it was his own until he tried to open his eyes and was met with a blinding stab of pain that struck him from ear to ear.
Nausea assaulted him as he rolled over onto his side, forgetting momentarily how much it would hurt to put any pressure on his injured shoulder. Forcing himself up with his good hand, he swayed precariously, fighting the bile rising up in his gut and panting heavily. Mouth watering uncontrollably, his battle with his stomach was lost and he heaved.
"Uggggg...kid. Here's a bucket." Sam found a bucket being shoved into his hands by a man he could barely see in the dim light. All confusion aside, he took the bucket without question and lost his stomach contents into it.
When he was finished, the the man who had given him the pail took it away and left the room without a word, leaving Sam reeling in questions, the utmost of which were, where was? And who was this guy?
Those questions would have to wait until the man returned. In the mean time, he took stock of his situation, sizing up his physical condition first. His body ached all over, his head and shoulder especially. Though his vision had stabilized enough to where the room no longer spun, he had a lingering queasiness from his bout of sickness that left him drained and if he had to fight this guy, he'd be in big trouble. Then again, the man had plenty of opportunity to kill Sam while he was out but hadn't done so and had even given him a bucket to puke in; hardly the actions of a crazy psycho killer. But, that also begged the question as to why he had knocked him out in the first place.
Seeing as how he was in no shape to take on any physical exertion beyond sitting up, he decided to learn as much about his predicament by taking in his surroundings. It was dark, save for a single kerosene lamp burning on top of a small chest of drawers next to him, but he could see that this wasn't like the other cabins he had seen in the camp. It was neat and tidy, without any of the debris and graffiti that littered the others.
He was sitting on a small, narrow cot which appeared to be the only place to sleep in the sparsely decorated room. The only other pieces of furniture he saw was a little plastic table and chair set that could have also served as patio furniture.
At the far end of the room, Sam could hear a fire crackling away in an old, wood burning furnace, but it was still felt cold in the room to him. His clothes remained wet from his adventure down the river and he shivered uncontrollably, drawing his arms into his stomach to conserve heat.
"Got a blanket for you. Best that you use it before you freeze to death." Sam looked up to see the man walking back into the room, holding out a thin, folded blanket to him. As he came into the light, he was able to get a better view of the guy's appearance. Thin, scruffy and bearded, the man reminded Sam a of a pale version Bobby, but without the hardness that he had honed from years of hunting.
Sam hesitated as the blanket was offered, unsure if he could trust the man.
"Go on...take it. It won't bite." Keeping a wary eye on the man, Sam reluctantly took it and wrapped it around it his shoulders. It began to warm him a little, but it stank like ripe body odor and he was certain it had been quite sometime since it had seen the inside of a washing machine. But he wasn't going to shrug it off now that his shivering was calming down.
"You took quite a hit there, kid... how you feeling?"
Sam ignored the question, ready to have some of his own answered. "Who are you? Why did you hit me then bring me here? Where..."
"Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. One question at a time, okay? My name's Tom, what's your's?"
Sam eyed him uncertainly, hesitant to answer, but didn't get the feeling that he was in any danger with this man.
"Sam" He replied curtly.
"Well, Sam, you're in my cabin and I own this camp. I'm sorry for the accommodations, I know it ain't much, but seeing as how I don't have a phone or a car, I had to bring you here. And you don't have to be afraid of me, I wasn't the one that hit you."
"If you didn't hit me, then who did?"
Tom rubbed a hand across his face and sighed. "Well...it's sorta hard to explain, but that was Brad..."
"Brad?"
"Like I said...it's hard to explain, but don't worry, I got rid of him at least for a while and as long as we're in here, we're safe."
"Why did he attack me?"
"Let's just say that he's kinda the angry sort. He doesn't like me very much and doesn't like me living out here."
Sam furrowed his brow. Damn, his head hurt and he couldn't concentrate. The questions just kept piling up about this guy, but that was the least of his worries. He still had to find Dean-he had to get out of there.
He started to make his way to his feet, wavering unsteadily.
"Hey now, kid...take it easy and sit back down. You were out like a light for close to an hour."
"You don't understand" Sam protested. "I have to get back to town..." despite the pain in his head and throughout his body, Sam had only one thing in mind: finding Dean. Heading for the door, he stopped and turned to Tom, suddenly remembering that he had no idea how to get there. "uh...you think you could point me in the right direction?...I got a little lost."
"You can't be seriously thinking about going back out there at this time of night. It's pouring rain, the trails will be washed out and for God's sake, you have no coat, you're missing a shoe and you look like you've been run through a meat grinder. You need to stay put. It's not safe out there in the woods, especially at night."
"Look, thanks for your concern, but I'll be okay. It's really very important that I get back to town...my brother...I'm looking for him..." Sam had to bring a hand to his head, hoping it it might stop some of the dizziness that threatened to send him sprawling to the floor. Unfortunately, it wasn't helping, but he refused to allow it to stop him. Once the black spots clouding his sight faded, he looked back to Tom with pleading eyes. "Please..."
The older man sighed in resignation, apparently coming to the conclusion that he wouldn't be able to stop Sam from leaving even if he tried tying him to the bed. "Fine. There's a trail just behind this cabin that heads out to the main road."
Sam nodded his thanks and shrugged off the blanket, handing it back to Tom.
Just as Sam reached for the door knob Tom called out to him. "Watch out for Brad...he might still be out there. I know he doesn't have a beef with you, but that won't necessarily mean that he won't try any more of his shenanigans. Just be careful will ya, Sam?"
"I will...thanks." Sam opened the door and stepped over the threshold, his head still hurting too much and his attention so focused on getting back to town, that he never noticed the thin line of salt that lay across the opening.
Stepping out into the rain, Sam walked to the back of the cabin and found the trail Tom had mentioned. Getting to Dean was his only thought and that bolstered him to put aside the aches and pains and ignore the squishy mud that seeped into his sock on the foot with the missing shoe. Fortunately, the rain was lightening up to just a light sprinkle and even though it was still cold, he was feeling a charge of adrenaline that fueled a fire within him.
Charging up a small hill, Sam suddenly felt a chilly wind pick up and the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen. Goosebumps broke out and a sensation he knew only too well crept over him: he was not alone and he was being watched.
He stopped and scanned the surrounding woods. It was too dark to make much of anything out, but he realized at that moment just how naked he felt without a weapon on him. He turned to look back on the trail and again saw nothing. Thinking for a moment that his imagination might be playing tricks on him, he chalked up his heightened anxiety to Tom's worry about this 'Brad' guy. He didn't have time for this kind of crap, he had to keep moving if he was to get out of the woods and to the main road.
Turning back around to restart his journey, he gasped in surprise to find a boy, not more than a teenager blocking his path.
"Shit!" He uttered, startled.
The boy just looked at him intensely, malice filling his eyes. Sam knew immediately that this was no ordinary kid; he was no longer human. From the pale skin to the cold air surrounding him, Sam knew from years of experience that this was a ghost and an angry one at that.
"You're friends with Tom." The boy spoke menacingly, his lip curling in hate.
"No, I hardly know him." Sam replied quickly.
"I saw you with him. At first I thought you were him, that's why I hit you and I actually felt sorry for you. But then you stayed in his cabin for a long time, long enough for him to turn you against me."
"No..I swear."
"Did he tell you I was bad, that I was evil?" The boy's voice grew in intensity. "That I need to be destroyed? He's the one that needs to be destroyed! He's the bad man!"
Unarmed and defenseless, Sam had no way to stop the boy from raising a hand and easily flinging him into the air. He landed hard on the cold, muddy ground, jarring every bone in his body and sending his pain receptors into a frenzy. In an instant, the ghost was on him again, freezing, dead fingers wrapping around his throat and squeezing with inhuman strength.
"The friend of my enemy is my enemy." The boy whispered coldly.
Sam fought for breath, his fingers desperately wrapping around the ghost's, trying to pry them from his windpipe, but it was of no use; he was too strong. Choking and gurgling, Sam's vision began to blacken and mentally he said his good-byes to Dean and begged forgiveness for his failures, for not being a better brother and hunter and for not being able to come to his aid when he needed him.
Out of the corner of his dimming eyesight, Sam caught a flash of movement and a swinging of metal then suddenly the pressure on his throat was gone. He gasped in the damp night air, savoring it's sweetness for a moment as he breathed. When he had sufficiently regained his composure, he focused on his savior.
Tom stood over him, offering a hand up. "I knew I shouldn't have let you go out alone. I told you Brad was the angry sort."
TBC...
