Chapter 4
Six months later…
Apple leaves, apple bark and the sweet, almost sickly smell of over ripe apples assailed his senses.
A lazy afternoon sun soothed his neck and shoulders as he sat on a branch.
Sam looked up at him from another branch of the same tree – skinned knees underneath his cargo shorts, a rip in his tee shirt. He sprung a wide smile down at the apple he was holding, before biting into it with gusto. Four year olds did everything with gusto, Dean decided.
God, he was bored.
Bored with telling stories. Bored with hearing stories. Bored with babysitting. The mind numbing endlessness that is Nickelodeon. Bored with repeating himself, repeating words, the retelling of times and details about what they'll do next.
Just…bored.
Of course, it had all gotten worse since he'd stopped hunting.
Had to. Sam just couldn't handle the midnight stake outs.
He had no patience, no tolerance and the concentration span of a…well, a four year old. He didn't know how to lie, how to work through a problem, or negotiate any kind of confrontation…and more worrying for Dean, was the fact that he had no idea about the monsters they were both supposed to be hunting. There was no day care for a 6ft 4 inch four year old and God only knows what the Social Services would do if they discovered their living arrangements.
"Woo-wolf."
"Werewolf, " Dean corrected. He looked at Sam studying the old book on the desk Dean was sitting at that night. Dean hadn't been looking for lore on Werewolves…he was looking for information on witches. But Sam had hijacked his study time…as usual.
Sam picked up a green pen, aimed it for a messy touch down before Dean managed to swipe it away from him. Another library book defacement avoided.
He suddenly looked up at Dean, stretched out a finger and poked Dean's chin.
"Need a shave," he grinned. Dean nodded. They both did.
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Arla had forgotten all about them.
The cocky, good looking jerk with the male model sleeping in the passenger seat.
The most striking green eyes she had ever seen.
He'd turned her down. Pushed her away and shut her off, probably as he'd done to a thousand women in his life time. And for what…her youth?
Yeah. She'd wiped the smug grin off his chiseled features alright.
And seeing them again peaked her curiosity. She watched the handsome one guide the tall one into the main street store just across the road. 'Tall' walked behind 'Handsome' – biting the nails of one hand, twiddling his own lank hair with the other. Yep. He was still a kid.
Handsome looked tired. Listless even. Probably feeling his age.
If only he knew what bit so hard…
She inhaled a cleansing breath.
"Isn't revenge the sweetest thing, Jackson?"
Jackson, the driver, darted a look into the rear view at the mature, stunningly beautiful woman sitting in his Limousine. Impeccably dressed, she oozed nothing but class and style.
"It sure is, Ma-am," he shot back. A beaming smile to back up his statement.
"I'm stepping out for a moment," she said quietly. Jackson jumped out from behind the wheel to open the door, and tried not to eye this slender, long-legged creature as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
"Be here when I get back," she said firmly, her scent teasing his senses as she wafted away.
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The bookmaker's office stunk of stale smoke and beer breath. Charles, the skinny, pockmarked assistant twisted his mouth on sight of them.
The new guys.
The shorter guy was moody and feckless. He once punched out a boxer for pushing the tall one out of the way of the monitors.
The tall one, wasn't right.
He had a thing for pens. He'd pocket scores of them. He'd stuff them into his jacket pockets like he was five or something.
Pissed off, Charles had once mentioned it to the older guy, and been rewarded with a murderous stare. But, to his credit, he'd mumbled something inaudible which made the tall one empty his pockets at the door, the plastic pens dotting the floor around his feet like candy sticks.
He glanced at his watch. Only thirty minutes to go, and it's Miller time.
He let his fingers slide over the safe key in his trouser pocket. Aadesh, the new boy was punching in the numbers for the night – like he was stabbing pasta with a fork. He hated when he did that.
BAM!
The door shot open, making the patrons flinch and dart in all directions as two hefty men charged the sales counter, shotguns ready.
"Get down! Get down! All you mother fuckers get down on the ground now!"
Aadesh dived forward, his arm outstretched towards the alarm button – but the first Gunman shot him square in the chest, the blood spray splattering Charles' pale blue shirt with blood.
He stared blankly at Aadesh's limp body lying at his feet.
The gunmen swung their guns around the shop – all the customers crouching, lying and cowering on the floor. Somebody whimpered. Another guy threw up. Everyone made themselves as small as possible.
Except the tall one.
The only one standing, he stood wide eyed and stunned, as if he couldn't comprehend such violence.
"On the ground!" the Gunman screamed, the tremble at the end of his shotgun signaling the amount of adrenalin shooting through his veins.
The older guy stood up in front of him, his voice low and calm.
"We're getting down, pal, we're doing it. It's just gonna take a moment, okay." With that, he put his hands on the tall one's face and pulled his gaze towards him. "We have to sit down, Sam. Come on, sit down here with us."
Sam's legs began to bend, as they both sat down beside the others, the older guy putting a protective arm across Sam's knees.
The scene was interrupted by the first Gunman pointing his shotgun at Charles' gut.
"The safe keys. Now!"
In his haste, Charles fumbled to get the keys out of his pocket, only to see them slip from his outstretched hand and fall, almost in slow motion, to land noisily on the floor. Charles and the gunman stared down at them.
"Hey, Biff," the gunman shot over his shoulder to his partner. "We got a live one here."
"Hey, no…I…I didn't mean –" But it was too late. THWACK! The gun jammed painfully into Charles' abdomen, immediately doubling him over and putting him on his knees.
The gunman snatched up the keys and forded the sales counter with ease, leaving Charles heaving on the floor.
"The man…he hit the man, Dean," Sam exclaimed, much to everyone's amazement.
Biff swung the gun around towards the two guys at the end of the line.
His mouth curled into a sneer.
"Hey, Dean…" A sing-song retort, designed to aggravate. "What's wrong with your boyfriend?"
Dean merely blinked his response.
The gun jabbed the air.
"Asked you a question, fuckhead. "
"Fuckhead," Sam echoed. Dean gritted his teeth and squeezed his brother's knee, his gaze locked onto the gunman's face.
"He's my brother. And there's…nothing wrong with him."
Biff eyed Sam for a beat.
"He stupid?"
"Stoo-pid," Sam mimicked quietly.
"Well, he's not the one holding up the bookies," Dean replied. Down the line, someone gasped.
Further back, Charles felt recovered enough to stand up. He looked back at the first gunman, energetically filling a bagl with the day's takings.
"You!" Biff barked, pointing at Charles. "Get your skinny ass down beside Idiot Boy here." Charles hobbled over obediently, and slid down the wall beside Sam.
Bloodshot eyes surveyed the line of customers. Two old men, one tattooed guy in his 20's with his tattooed girlfriend, Sam, Dean and Charles at the end.
Biff's eyes rested on the female's curvy figure a little longer than everyone else.
Sam strained to see what he was looking at until Dean pulled him back.
"Sit still for me," he whispered.
"We're nearly done," the first Gunman yelled from the back shop. "You checked the street?"
Biff's knees cracked as he stood up and approached the window. He split the blinds and squinted down each side of the street. He checked his watch. Threw back a worried glance…
"He there?" the first gunman asked as he rounded the sales counter. They both strained to see outside.
"Yeah, he's here…" Biff almost squeaked. His partner wasn't convinced.
"Where the hell is he?"
Dean drew in a calming sigh. Leaned his head closer to Charles'.
"Your back door open?" he whispered. The question jolted Charles out of the scene he was being forced to endure.
Charles shook his head. "It's always locked," he replied.
Shit. The dude called Dean was actually going to try something..?
"He should be here…NOW!" the Gunman roared, throwing the bagl over one shoulder.
"He'll make it, he will. He'd never let us down, I know it!" Biff placated.
"Stupid, stupid choice for a getaway driver," his partner whined, beads of sweat beginning to form in the fug of the afternoon.
"Stoo-pid," Sam echoed.
"Shut up, Sam. This is serious," Dean hissed, pressing his elbow into his little brother's chest.
"You call him," the Gunman screamed, " you call him, and you get the lazy little fucker back here!"
Biff was already on his cell.
His partner's eyes widened at the sight of a cop car sliding past the shop front.
"Shit!" he muttered. He swung his gaze back to the line up on the floor. Veins popping, eyes staring – this guy was on the edge.
"Okay, every one of you mothers in the back shop – move it!" he yelled. Charles flinched at the command, but duly stood up to lead the way.
Charles stopped to let the others pass him. He knew the size of the floor space back there. No way seven people were getting in there without a fight.
"Down on the floor!" the Gunman barked at them. Charles squeezed himself into the tight space – the heat unbearable, he looked up at a wide-eyed Sam.
"No," Sam halted. Dean looked past him, licked his lips.
"Get into the back shop!" the Gunman growled through gritted teeth, neck muscles pulsing, fingers twitching.
"Don't want to…" Sam shot Dean a worried look.
"Dude, just sit beside the man, it'll be fine," Dean said quietly but Sam pulled his arm back.
"Nooo!" his voice wavered.
The Gunman's face suddenly twisted – he raised his gun – the butt aimed at Sam's head. Dean shot him a sideways glance before launching his elbow straight into the thug's ribs.
Someone screamed as he wheezed and recoiled at the force Dean had hit him. Dean grabbed the shotgun and brought the muzzle up hard under the Gunman's chin – his head shot back and he landed with a dull thud on the carpet.
"Get down, Sam!" Dean yelled, his eyes searching for Biff by the window.
Instead, Sam stumbled around the limp body.
"Hey!" Biff raised his gun – so did Dean.
Charles covered his ears.
BAAMM!
To be continued…