Author's Notes: Please remember this story takes place before Nightshifter. Also thanks again to Amy and Carikube, who keep me going.
"Whatcha got in the bag, Tiny? Dinner?"
Stan clutched the bag to his chest, his leather gloves tightening around his knuckles. His heart banged against his chest, sweat broke out under his suit. Alligator Man stood in the shadows, leaning against his tent's support tie. The white nylon string bowed under the weight.
"Don't you think you're fat enough? Look at you, you're disgusting. Give me the bag."
Stan backed up. "No. It's mine, I bought it, with my money, I paid for it, it's mine and I need it-"
"Give it to me!" Alligator Man lunged and snatched the food away, the dying sun flashing over him before he retreated to the shadows. "Fat Stan. You don't need to eat. Hell, you should be thanking me. I'm doing you a favor."
Stan eyed the bag, wiping his hands on his pants. His left hand trembled, his brain struggled to think. It was his food, he paid for it, he wanted it. But more than that, he was afraid. The conflict upset him, and Stan stood dumbly.
Alligator Man dug into the bag and started eating the French fries. He stared at Stan, then at the tent behind him. "What's in your tent, Stan?"
No! Panic seized him, and Stan backed up more. "Nothing. Buttons. My buttons. Mother gave them to me. Stay out."
"I hear you talking, you know. Yelling. You yell at yourself, Tiny? Because you're so stupid?"
Stan looked away as his mother's voice screamed in his head, called him stupid and worthless and a failure. The accident made him that way, had broken something in his head, and Stan remembered the nurses and the needles and the blood and germs were bad. He wiped his hands on his pants and checked his buttons.
Alligator Man continued eating. "You have got to be the strangest clown I've ever worked with- and trust me, that's not a compliment." He shook his head and straightened, taking his weight off the cord. "Keep it down tonight, or I'll see to it that you never talk to yourself again, understand?"
Stan swallowed thickly, nodding. Quiet. He had to be quiet. The boy had to be quiet.
"Oh, and thanks for the grub." Alligator Man chuckled as he entered his own tent, the sound deep and rumbling like rolling stones.
Released from the other man's scrutiny, Stan turned and marched into his own tent.
Quiet. They had to be quiet.
o0O0o
Sam bit his tongue, ignoring the tear that rolled down his nose, and pulled again.
The chains bit into his wrist, pinching his skin, pulling at the knobby joint under his thumb. His fingers tingled. Pain lanced through his thumb and pinky, radiating through his palm and up into his elbow. Tendons stretched, bone grated, joints felt ready to break apart. Just a little more…
Stan burst through the tent's flap and Sam fell back against the pole, panting.
"What are you doing? Stop it! You can't go anywhere, not until I say so. You have to be quiet. Quiet!"
Thick snot coated his throat and Sam swallowed, determined to conceal all signs of his fear. The burning on his face ebbed somewhat but the skin felt blistered and burned if he smiled.
Not that he was smiling.
Stan walked to a battered wooden chest and bent over it, slowly and carefully working the combination lock securing it. When it opened, he pulled the lock from the latch and opened the lid, straightening.
"Its night," Stan announced and Sam had no choice but to listen. "Night is safe. No one can see you. Don't need costumes. Everyone sleeps."
Sam watched the clown take himself apart, first the nose, then the hair. "Why are you doing this? What do you want?"
"Don's talk!" Stan whispered loudly, holding a gloved finger to his lips. "Quiet. Stay quiet. He'll hear us. He'll hurt us."
Frustration erupted within him, intense and unbidden. "Let me go," Sam said, pleading, ordering, his desperation gathering momentum with every breath. "Untie me!"
Stan's eyes widened with fear and he reached in the trunk, pulling out a red satin handkerchief. "Stupid boy! Stop it! Be quiet!"
The gag was tied tightly, the knot pulling the hair at the back of his head. The fabric pinched the corners of his mouth, igniting the skin on his face. He bit down, tongue scraping against the handkerchief. His hair fell in his eyes.
It did not keep him from making noise, only from forming intelligible words, and Sam groaned in aggravation. His shirt clung to his sides, exposing his chest and the long line of blood running vertically. His jeans, worn low to begin with, were now around his ass. Bit by bit, he was being dismantled, stripped of dignity.
He wanted freedom, he wanted away, he wanted Dean.
o0O0o
Dean rested his forearms on the Impala's roof and leaned on her, lowering his head with a sigh.
Sam was gone. Sucked up without a trace, pulled into a third dimension that was invisible to Dean. Again.
It was time to go to the police.
It would be a gamble with his own life, but for Dean, there was no hesitation. His life had schooled him well in the game of chance, and Dean was fairly confident that the officers of this one-horse town would not know a con artist when they saw one. Confidence and a good fake name had worked in his favor before, when Sam had been kidnapped by that sick and twisted Bender family- it had to work again now.
It had to.
Behind him, a car door shut and an engine purred to life. Cursing himself for letting his guard down, Dean spun and watched the car back up, wincing when the headlights blinded him.
Darkness settled over him as the car drove away, and Dean blinked until his pupils dilated once more. He scanned the parking lot. It was empty and quiet, all the motel occupants tucked away behind closed doors.
All accounted for, except one.
Something shiny caught his gaze and Dean stared at it. It was small, laying discarded a few parking spaces down, reflecting yellow from the streetlight overhead. Looked like a pen, or maybe a tube of lip gloss. Nonetheless, Dean made his way over to it.
Drawing nearer, he recognized the clear measured tube of a syringe, a thin silver quill glinting softly at one end. He bent, reached out and hesitated, realizing the syringe could have been left behind by a drug addict but betting it was discarded by whoever took Sam. There were no such things as coincidences, after all.
Dean lifted the syringe and searched for a clue he would not find. Lifting his gaze to the darkness beyond: "Where are you, Sam?"