So I'm bored/depressed/not really caring 'bout sticking to my update schedule right now, so Merry Christmas, I got you another chapter. Hopefully this story hasn't been too bad so far; I mean, it's coherent at least, right? Sigh.
Dean leapt back from the doorway. He slammed himself against the wall, forgoing being gentle with the injured brother slung over his shoulders in favor of keeping them both from getting shot. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the bullets that were sure to come whizzing after them, the shouting, and the inevitable recapture…
None of it came. Confused, Dean opened his eyes. His heart was pounding so loudly that at first he could hear nothing over the rush of his own blood in his ears. Then the voice that had nearly spooked him into the afterlife began speaking again.
"You looked everywhere? You're sure?"
Dean frowned. Huh. Not exactly the kind of thing someone would be asking if they'd just found their captives playing prison break. With a dizzying amount of relief, Dean realized the guy was talking on a phone, not to them. They hadn't been seen.
Now knowing the guy was there though, he couldn't risk trying to sneak past the door. Carefully as he could, Dean lowered Sam to the ground, easing him back against the wall. Again, Dean had to mentally distance himself from the blood, the anxiety of seeing his still-unconscious brother so pale and motionless. Keeping a hand on his shoulder as much to make sure Sam didn't fall over as to reassure himself, Dean crouched next to the door and listened in on the one-sided conversation going on in the other room.
"Alright, jeez, no need to flip your lid on me," the guy was saying. "I'm just trying to help. You're the one with your neck on the chopping block here. More so than me, anyway. Definitely zilch at their motel room though?...Uh huh…Damn. Well, looks like we're gonna have to question them after all."
It was obvious the guy and his partner were talking about Sam and Dean—more specifically their motel room and a fruitless raid one of them had conducted on it—and it was also obvious that by 'question,' this guy meant 'beat some information out of them.'
Dean risked a peek and found the man casually pacing the room. He was currently facing away from the door, allowing Dean a good look around before he had to pull back again. There was a folding table off to one side, littered with an assortment of beer bottles and soda cans and, if the familiar leather sleeve hanging over the table's edge was anything to go by, Sam and Dean's gear. Of course Dean couldn't be sure, but it seemed a safe enough bet, and the phantom-gun sensation at his hip had him longing to retrieve his weapons. Think we're really gonna need those soon…
He didn't recognize the man; it wasn't the one who'd held Sam at gunpoint, so this must've been his partner—the one who had snuck up on and drugged Dean. He was average height and a little on the wiry side—no wonder he'd resorted to using roofies to bring his opponent down; in a fair fight he wouldn't have stood a chance against Dean. Dark denim jacket over a black t-shirt completed the 'I'm trying to be inconspicuous' look, which was ruined by his shock of ridiculous, bleach-blonde hair. The guy had to be pushing thirty, but he looked like a boy band member wannabe.
Dean was suppressing a snicker until the man's next words had him stiffening with rage.
"And you did check the car right?" he said. "Okay, but….dang, seriously? Whadja do that for, man? That was a nice car…"
Dean ground his teeth. What the heck did he mean, was? What the hell had they done to the Impala?!
This was one blow too many. They'd hurt Sam, drugged and kidnapped the both of them, and now they'd gone and messed with Baby. There were no more lines left for these jokers to cross, and Dean was ready to get his hands around their necks. What really ticked him off, though, was that the thing they were looking for would more likely get them killed than anything. Sam and Dean had practically saved their lives by taking it from them, and this was what they got for it…
A soft moan from behind sent Dean shooting to high alert, and he turned to find Sam finally stirring. His face was screwed up in a frown, and his head bobbed drunkenly as he tried to lift it. Another moan, louder; Dean could've sworn he heard a garbled version of his own name somewhere in there.
He hurried to clamp a hand over Sam's mouth before he could make any more noise. Sorry, dude, he thought, guilt mingling with the intense relief that Sam was waking up. Kind of picked a bad time to decide to be conscious.
Sam's eyes shot open at the contact and searched frantically until he found Dean's face. The panic instantly subsided, but the confusion remained. It seemed to take him a while to process what he was seeing.
Unsure how with it Sam was, Dean kept his expression as relaxed as possible. Inside the room, Bleach's voice droned on, oblivious. Hoping his brother would get the message, Dean flicked his eyes toward the room, then held a finger to his lips. Keep it down, don't freak out, I've got this, just don't freak out…
Again, it seemed to take Sam a little too long to figure out what was going on. He blinked owlishly up at Dean, looking so bewildered that Dean started to doubt if he could even identify what planet he was on, much less read facial expressions. But then Sam nodded under Dean's hand, the tension draining out of him. Whether it was because he understood the message or was just too out of it to do anything else, Sam slumped back against the wall and let his eyelids slip to half-mast.
Dean waited a breath to be sure, then risked taking his hand away. Sam didn't react, and right then, that was good enough for Dean. Keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder, he turned back to the door to listen.
"You got an ETA?" Bleach was saying. Dean heard the pop and hiss of a beer being opened, followed by the clink of the cap skittering to the floor. "I wanna know if I should go ahead and unplug those boys, so they'll be wakin' up by the time you get here."
Dean's ears pricked.
"...I don't know, I'm not down there…. I told you, there's no reception in the basement!... Jeez, Troy, cool your jets. They're tied up and sedated; it's not like they're going anywhere."
There was a long pause during which Dean could just make out an angry, tinny tirade as Bleach's partner chewed him out.
"Alright, I get it," Bleach broke in, exasperated. "I'm headed down there now. Ya happy?"
Crap.
"Yeah. Yeah. Alright. See you in a few." The click as the phone snapped shut, then the scuff of boots…
Crap, crap, crap! There was nowhere to hide and no time to hide, anyway. Dean tensed, trying to convince himself he wasn't still unsteady from the drugs—he had to be ready to fight.
Or…maybe not. The footsteps didn't come closer; they receded. A door banged shut, and there was silence.
Dean peeked into the room. Empty.
Huh. Now how about that? The room had another exit. Maybe the Winchester family luck was actually taking a turn for the better. Either that, or these guys were the most incompetent criminals of all time.
Then again, it would have to be the latter; good luck hardly landed one in a situation like this to begin with.
As always, thanks for reading :)
