Beware Of The…
Chapter Four
But Teddy wasn't listening. His anger escalating, he dropped his head and sped toward Sam, four-hundred pounds of angry-fast-feet and hulking body rushing Sam's way like the world's largest football player – ever.
Sam gasped in anticipation and forced himself not to flinch, bracing for the bone crushing tackle.
But there was no preparing. The pain was ferocious as Teddy rammed him, slamming Sam's back flat to the ground, knocking all the air out of him and roughly returning him to darkness again.
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Dean had rechecked the interior of the three story farm house and found the same as before.
Nothing.
But they'd missed something here. He knew it. His wrenching gut and fisted hands and the weight of the universe resting on his chest told him that much.
Now he was outside. Moving along the back of the boarded up farm house, pushing aside the thick, overgrown ivy that clung heavily along fallen downspouts and what once was a picket fence; its white paint long gone as it slowly rotted away among the mint and wild rose bushes of the neglected garden.
The blood trail was gone now, and nothing made a sound. Everything was shadowy and misty and creepily still.
People went missing. People disappeared into dust and wind every day and all the time, but not Sam. Not his brother. No dammned friggin' way. Sam was here. Somewhere. He had to be.
Resisting the urge to call out his brother's name, Dean twisted on his heels in a slow moving circle, searching. Eyes going over the area again, like a fine-toothed comb searching for a single tiny flea on a big, hairy dog.
His eyes stopped on the large junk pile of scrap metal in the middle of the overgrown yard and he stared quizzically at the pile they'd already picked through, finding nothing. 'A piece of abstract modern art.' That's what Sam had called the mound that consisted of rusted awnings, piping, oil drums, pots, pans, a red runner sled, and the burnt out shell of two cars among other things.
A sickly feeling came over Dean, his wrenching gut beginning to sizzle. Why hadn't he noticed it before? The mound was a marker. A marker for what? Graves? Upon earlier inspection they'd found no blood. No body parts. Nothing peculiar. He fought not to vomit as he pictured Sam's stiff, broken body lying under the freaky sculpture in a puddle of blood, eyes staring but not seeing.
"No." Dean shook himself from the nightmare. "No, no, no."
He stuffed the bad dream back down where it belonged, and took off racing over to the junk pile. His second search more intense, he checked out every crack and crevice and inside every tin can, winging the empty containers one at a time out into the night. He dug and dug through the pile – a man on the edge of hell's inferno. He came upon the leftover shell of the '73' Duster. Remembering how he'd shook his head at her demise thinking if anyone could restore her to mint…he could. Staring at the passenger side's punched out window, snagged on a small piece of jagged glass were a few stringy threads blowing in the breeze.
Dean felt his insides scramble like a dozen raw eggs being smashed against a stone wall. He slowly reached over and picked the strands off, dangling them in the air before his eyes for closer inspection – army-olive green – a color he knew all too well.
"Son of a bitch," Dean gasped, releasing the threads to the wind, seizing the door handle roughly and yanking hard. The door cracked open easily, hinges seemingly oiled, and only a few rust particles flaking to the ground. "Piece of abstract modern art, my ass," he growled deep in his throat.
They'd been duped. Tricked. They'd made a stupid mistake that could have or had already cost Sam his life.
Dean eyed what appeared to be an old foundation. The hollowed out frame of the car ingeniously had been covering up a huge hole in the ground, and a rickety wooden set of stairs leading downward into the dark. The blackness seemed to sneer at him informing him he better beware of whatever might be home.
"Screw that." Dean sneered back. "Beware of me," he growled; whipping out his Glock. Still armed with his flashlight and without another thought, Dean rushed down the staircase.
The steps beneath his feet were wet and moss covered and slick. They shook unstably with every movement, but Dean took them with stealth. There was no more time to waste. Hands brought together, wrists locked; he pointed both gun and flashlight into the darkness ahead of him.
Twenty-eight slipper steps later, Dean reached the bottom of the staircase. Momentarily disoriented, he directed light and weapon all around trying to make out the shapes in the dark. After a few seconds of rapid blinking, Dean realized he was standing in a long, narrow corridor. The floor was nothing more than damp dirt, the walls crudely lined with branches and sticks and stones supporting the disintegrating red clay and cinderblock on either side of him. He shined the light above him, expecting to see stalagmites or tites, whichever, knowing his baby brother would know the difference, but instead he found copper piping running along the ceiling, probably electrical or maybe gas lines from whatever old building once stood here. Place was like some sort of manmade cave. The air was stale with the faint scent of body odor and human waste and overcooked broccoli.
"Blach," Dean spat. "And who the hell lives down here?" he muttered under his breath as he headed down the only path in sight. As he moved along through the passageway Dean found more drops of blood dotting along the dirt. It unnerved him greatly. "Damn it, Sam," he hissed knowing his brother wouldn't just have handed himself over without a fight. Knowing he was hurt, and had been down here far too long. "Punxsutawney Phil, Big Foot, The Big Bad Wolf, The Three Little Pigs… whoever...whatever the hell you are –" Dean clamped his lips tight, the fear in his gut blazing like a zillion tiny needles tumbled around inside of him, stabbing every corner of his being and making him sick to his stomach. "So help me god, if…. if he's… if Sammy's de-" Dean shuddered hard not wanting to say the word. "You'll be going we-we-we all the way to the grave, bitch," Dean growled loudly not caring if the thing heard.
Shaking all thought from his head, Dean went back to being cool and professional for Sam's sake, gripping the flashlight and gun so tight his hands cramped up, he moved faster along reminding himself to stop and notch his path with his pocket knife, making it easier and faster to find his way out, never doubting he'd be making a quick escape, Sam in tow and alive.
No one took his brother from him! Whoever, whatever… was about to get their heart ripped out and toasted.
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It was a wet sounding sort of cough that brought up mucous and phlegm sprinkled along with a sizeable amount of pain that radiated through his chest and made Sam dizzy. He knew right off, he not only had a concussed head but now owned a chest full of broken ribs. Trying to breathe around his broken, jagged ribs was like trying to inhale cut glass and a breathy moan left Sam's lips. He strained to lift his chin off his chest. Damn he hurt. He peeled his eyes open. At first everything was one big blob, but he was quicker to analyze the situation upon this second return to consciousness.
He was in another section of the shelter, standing upright. His hands bound above him, chest being stretched and pulled to unbearable. Sam tilted his head lethargically back and stared upward. Crap. He nearly vomited seeing his wrists and forearms above him. Tangled in a jungle of frayed rope and chicken wire, his flesh looking like one of Dean's burgers of the week.
"Aw, gaw," he moaned, his neck muscles suddenly giving out and head feebly flopping back down, chin plopping to his chest. He stared at the toes of his boots. They were just barely brushing the ground. Double crap.
There'd be no lock-picking his way out of this one.
Sam tried to move. Using his body weight he kicked outward, arching his back and pulling on his writs. The slightest undertaking sent the barbed metal digging further into his wrists, and warm, sticky blood dripping down his arms in rivulets.
Sam moaned loudly and twisted trying to escape the sharpness, but that just brought on a coughing spell causing his broken ribs to scrap against each other like carving knives.
Sam Slammed his eyes shut, hurting big-time.
Helpless and hapless were not the way of the Winchester. He wouldn't give up. Breathing shallowly, Sam opened his eyes and tried to balance on the tips of his boots, pushing upward to get some leverage. Desperate to take some of the pressure of the full-weight off his writs. But the action only succeeded in pulling on his broken ribs further and tearing at his flesh even more so. He bit down hard, his upper teeth digging deeply into his lower lip, drawing blood, shattering the scream that wanted to escape. The coppery tang flooded his mouth and coated his teeth and dripped down his chin. Sam spit and coughed again. All he could do was hang there breathing harshly, his entire body twitching with the strain. He swallowed drool and bitter bile trying not to be sick.
A herd of elephants stampeded inside his head, and sweat dripped off his forehead. One minute hot as a sauna, the next freezing-cold like a meat locker. It was hard to think, even harder not to pass out.
"Guh," Sam cried out from shock and pain.
Teddy was suddenly there. Standing in front of Sam, face-to-face, he raised a hand to gently pet Sam's hair as softly, if not softer than how Sam had seen him pet the dirty-pink bunny. When Teddy ran a thumb across Sam's neck, Sam grimaced, but didn't move. He'd been around enough evil long enough to know…Teddy wasn't evil. Even if he had strung Sam up like a side of beef. The giant man didn't know any better. He was only trying to keep Sam near him. He was a genuine big baby. A big baby, who didn't understand the world he had been born into. Certainly didn't understand his own strength. Worse, Sam knew, the world didn't understand Teddy back.
"Nice, make nice," Teddy uttered as he stroked the sides of Sam's cheeks, following the grain of his growth of whiskers giving Sam more of a heads-up on how long he'd actually been hold up here.
"Yes. Make nice, "Sam repeated softly.
Teddy may not have looked human and he obviously lacked normal human skills, but he was human and human's instinctually craved the attention of other humans.
But Teddy's attentions were making Sam uneasy, part of him wanted to kick out with his feet. The hunter in him needing to get away from Teddy and break free, but Sam held that need in check.
"Easy. Easy now, Teddy," he gulped for air like a dying fish. "Listen. Listen." Sam started humming 'Sailing' again, though this version was strained and more off-key than normal. "Teddy," he said, barely in a whisper. "Please. What if you untied me, let me down and you and I can…we can…be friends again. Go for ice cream," Sam enticed.
Teddy seemed near catatonic and did not respond other than to continue to worship Sam's face and hair. As inhuman as Teddy's outward appearance was, inside he was still human. A human who Sam was certain never had seen a classroom or a doctor or a grocery store, gone to a movie or anything a normal kid would do. His parents gone, it appeared that Teddy had been left to continue doing what he was taught to do. Hide in the shadows.
"Can you let me down?" Sam nearly begged, his hands above him quaking and cold from lack of circulation. "I can," he licked his cracked, swollen lips and swallowed, "Let me… help you," Sam garbled. "I…I can help you be happy…be safe."
Teddy's face was shadow cast, eyes on Sam, confusion scrunching between his brows.
"Friends," Sam chanted. "We're friends."
At the word friends, Teddy slowly reached up toward Sam's bloody wrists, but then swiftly brought them back down lacing them together in front of him as if he were about to pray. He cooed and gurgled painfully trying to articulate. Teddy's eyes big, hot tears pouring from them.
"I don't understand you," Sam said, a black dagger driving through his heart. "Sorry, man. I'm so sorry for what you've had to live with," he muttered, shaking his head. "I understand not being normal. Understand what it feels like not to have friends," he inhaled, trying to hold back his pain, emotional and physical. "To have to duck and hide and run and to be left alone night after night with no one –"A shiver racked Sam's body as the black dagger twisted and plunged through his chest. He gasped, writhing, his cold fingers furling and unfurling as he tried not to move, boot tips pressing to the ground stretching his body further. Sam's eyes fluttered but he tightened his muscles and pressed his lips thin, fighting for consciousness, he breathed deeply through his nose. "I know…I know what it's like, Teddy," he slurred. "No one there with a hello, or a smile, or a hug when you are too…too afraid to fall asleep."
Teddy's case was the extreme version of his life and that broke Sam's super sensitive heart.
"Do you understand anything that I'm saying to you?" Sam asked, still breathing heavily in and out his nostrils.
Teddy watched Sam closely as if he were taking in information, then all three of his eyes flicked over to a far-off corner of the room.
"What? What is it?" Sam peered over. The glow of the candle light barely was making it into the corner. Sam stared bewildered for a long minute at a rather large pile of twisted up, dirty laundry stuffed behind broken chunks of concrete and rusted, greasy car parts.
A cold wind blew down from somewhere bringing with it that same foul smell from before.
After another moment, Sam gagged and his arms began trembling and his body sagged.
It wasn't dirty laundry he was seeing. Was a pile of decomposing bodies, squashed arms and feet sticking out of bloody shirt sleeves and pant legs.
Sam's mouth gaped open and a small puff of air left him. He narrowed his eyes. Among the human remains were dead rats, cats, rabbits...and was that a dog? Thank heavens he didn't catch sight of a tan, leather jacket or work boots.
"You've already tried to make friends." He shivered still staring at the pile of flesh and fur and bone. "Oh, God," he called out sharply.
Startled, Teddy quaked, his eyes wide with fear, darting between the bodies and Sam, looking much like a dog who knew he'd done something bad, yet begging forgiveness.
"I know you were looking for a friend," Sam muttered more to himself, seeing the point-blank fear in Teddy's disfigured face. "They were accidents. I know you didn't mean to hurt –"Sam bit down on his tongue remembering how that particular word had set Teddy off earlier landing him here in the homemade shelter in the first damn place. "Uh-oh."
Crap! He'd messed up again.
"No hurt!" Teddy unclasped his praying hands and swiftly reached out wrapping meaty fingers around Sam's neck. "No hurt," he repeated, slowly applying pressure.
"Ted –" Sam's eyes moistened with tears and his chest locked up as he started to choke. "You're hurting," he gasped. "Le' go. Plea… need you to –"
Teddy tightened his hold squeezing Sam's neck and cutting off his words. He circled around Sam, a sort of ring-around-the-Sammy game, twirling Sam with him, turning him around and around, the jungle of wire digging deeper into Sam's cowhide-for-wrists and tangling him further never releasing his chokehold.
Sam gagged, his entire body going ramrod straight.
Teddy pulled his hands away from Sam's neck, and Sam gasped for air, but just as quickly Teddy's hands returned. Stronger this time, fingers digging deep. "Make fun," Teddy said a smile on his face as he watched Sam's shadow bob about on the wall.
Sam's eyes slid over to the watch his shadow as it danced about, realizing what Teddy wanted. "Can't." Sam struggled to breathe. "I can't," he gulped in fear knowing Teddy could, and probably would crush his trachea.
Teddy continued to squeeze and compress.
Sam's body responded involuntarily. Fear taking hold, his flight instinct kicking into overdrive as he knew he was next to be thrown into that pile of rotting corpses. Sam's legs and stretched out arms and fingers twitched as if he were having a mini seizure, small squeaks and peeps leaving his slightly parted lips.
'Stop.' Sam could only mouth, his vision blurring and eyes fluttering as the lack of oxygen sent a tingling sensation through his body, his mind becoming confused.
"Fun," Teddy chuckled childishly.
Saliva dripped out the corner of Sam's mouth, and in that split second just before unconsciousness he swore he heard someone scream his name, but the voice quickly vanished as his eyes rolled up and he went utterly limp.
TBC
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