Chapter 6

Dean had bonelessly collapsed to the floor once the procedure was done and then dragged back to his position in the corner of the basement. His bound hands were once again hooked to the U-bolt. He didn't hear the voices around him, the clanking of supplies, the moving of furniture or the sounds of hollow steps moving upward. He lay on his right side and struggled to breathe. He couldn't remember how long he had been out, but the chronic pain in his back had pulled him from unconsciousness. He slowly and painfully pushed himself to a seated position and leaned against the wall, gasped for breath, fought the deep aches throughout his body, and the migraine that followed. Still gagged, he rested his head against the wall and focused his energy on not vomiting.

He couldn't remember how long he had been there, the last time he had slept, ate, or had something to drink. He involuntarily shook as shock set in. Slowly, the sounds of steps from above breeched his consciousness and he listed to the murmurs of voices, dishes, and engines being started outside.

He felt saliva collecting in his mouth, around the gag, and he tried to swallow but his throat constricted. Dean sighed, he wasn't going to die fighting a vampire or a creature of the night but choking on his own vomit. He tried to clench swollen fingers but found his strength waning. He raised his right knee, scraped the ground with the heel of his boot, and gasped as his hip protested the simple movement.

Dean paused when he heard laughter and he felt his pulse increase. More laughter, slaps of hands, and the sudden shifts of furniture. He moved and tried to focus on the voices above. They were joyful, a game had been won, an unexpected accomplishment, maybe someone won the lottery.

The latch to the basement door was opened and Dean winced. His pulse increased, breathing hitched, and his head swam. The quick pace of footsteps down hollow steps echoed. Dean felt muscles instinctively tighten and he tried to push himself further into the corner. He didn't know how much more he could take.

"Welcome, brother," Paddy said, and squatted in front of Dean. There was a smile in his voice.

Dean pushed dirt with his heel.

"One more step," Paddy said, "then you're free to go – you carry the line."

Dean swallowed, inhaled, and then kicked toward the sound of the voice. He connected with a grunt, and Paddy fell back with a groan.

"I like the spirit in this one, Paddy, he's all fire and fury." Geoff chuckled and shifted his bad leg as we walked toward Dean. "Be grateful, boy, the outcome could have been much worse – the line is rare, but you carry it."

Paddy stood, rubbed his shin and looked toward Red who had joined them at the foot of the stairs.

"Hurts, don't it," Red said, arms crossed over his chest, a grin spread across his cheeks.

"Are we going to do this?" another man said.

Dean recognized the voice, but a name hadn't been associated with him. Dean groaned as he fought the cuffs and the U-bolt. He pulled both knees to his chest and used the wall for support as he tried to push himself up. Frustrated, he slumped back to the floor and felt the chill of cold sweat collect. Adrenalin was great until endurance expired.

"Is the blade ready?" Geoff asked, and shifted himself to look at Red. "The ledger?"

Dean heard the room quiet as Geoff spoke. A leader despite his handicap, or because of it.

"Bring the brand," Geoff said to Red who nodded and retreated up the steps. "Paddy, pull yourself together. Henry," he turned toward the unnamed voice, "prep him. Time is short, and we must be moving on... the crows are calling my name." He turned as Paddy and Henry walked toward Dean.

Dean kicked again but lacked the strength to cause any further damage. His hands were released, and he was gripped by the shoulders and pulled forward. They forced him against the table and yanked his jacket and shirt back past his shoulders. Dean gasped as the pressure on his chest increased. He tried to get his feet under him, but muscles failed. He felt someone pull his shirt and jacket further down his left shoulder, exposing the dark bruise from the impact of the car.

"It'll be over quick," Paddy said, adjusting his grip on Dean's arm. "Then it'll be over..." he paused and turned as Red stepped down the stairs. "You won't understand this for a while, you won't recognize or appreciate our purpose, our legacy, our history, but you will... one day... you will."

Dean struggled, but felt hands tighten.

"There are only a few of us left — first born sons — direct descendants of the Original Guard, an order of protectors born before Christianity, before the world understood the concept of evil… before the world was shrouded in idealism. We are blessed with long life — one day you'll recognize it... one day," he whispered into Dean's ear, "you'll thank us for it."

"And one day you'll curse us for it," Geoff said as he pressed the brand to Dean's shoulder.

Sam sat at the hotel room table and looked at the uneaten food Bobby had grabbed hours before. The lettuce had wilted, and bun had dried, and fries had cooled. Sam clenched his jaw and rubbed his face with his hands. Dean had been gone 48 hours, and Sam had stared at the computer screen knowing hope had faded. He looked toward his phone and expected a call from the police informing him that his brother had been found like the others, abandoned in a remote location, dead at the scene. He checked his battery and sighed when he realized it was fully charged.

He and Bobby had gone out to the location where it happened and tried searching for anything that would help, but they found nothing.

Bobby had made call after call, and nobody could provide an answer. The talisman was a rare oddity associated with religious and cultural lore that was surrounded with myths and stories told through oral traditions. Nothing was solid. Bobby sat on the bed closest to the wall of the bathroom and looked toward Sam. He looked lost, unable to find a solution through traditional tactics: College, John's journal, and even hunter's oral stories had been sifted like sand through a vent.

The air in the room felt heavy.

"I don't know what to do," Sam admitted, and looked out the window as the sun started its slow descent. Despite the grief, the scene was beautiful, the pink and blue hues grew darker as the clock ticked. The sunset crept through the branches of the nearby oak trees. Birds collected on the electrical wires along the road. A dog chased after a ball in the park across the street.

It all seemed so normal.

Sam watched as the manager decided on a paint color and extended his sample area to reflect the choice of light blue. Fitting, considering the name of the hotel.

"Dean's a tough sonofabitch. If anyone will survive this..." Bobby paused and caught a hitch in his throat. "Dean will."

Sam nodded, but continued to look out the window. "Maybe we could go back to the location where he was hit... maybe there was something we missed?" He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. "How would they even know we were on that road?" He turned and looked toward Bobby. "At that time?"

"Whoever did this, Sam, sabotaged the Impala... they've been close enough this whole time to know how to take one of you boys down... and damn it to hell, it took Dean gettin' hit by a damn car to do it." Bobby rubbed his thighs as he stood.

"But why?" Sam frowned and returned his gaze toward the window. "The others taken weren't hunters." He turned again toward Bobby. "And why a puncture wound to the spine — what would spinal fluid provide that blood or saliva couldn't?"

"You're assuming that they took fluid... maybe they inserted somethin'?" Bobby clenched his jaw and looked to his right and then back to Sam. "And, remember what Abby was talkin' about — how these tests have been used for hundreds of years — whoever is doin' this ain't using modern technology. This shit is old school." He scratched the back of his neck.

"Nothing came back in the tox screen." Sam said and turned toward Bobby.

"We've been hunters for a long time, Sam, you know as well as I do that weird shit happens." He pushed his hat back and scratched the top of his head. "All the victims died from other causes, the spinal-tap didn't cause their deaths —"

Sam stood. "What the hell, Bobby, none of that helps us find Dean. We need a location — he's being held someplace, and nobody knows shit about abandoned properties around town or the entire county for that matter. We've got dead bodies popping up around here like some kind of freak show and the sheriff's department couldn't give a shit, the ME is out playing golf, and the FBI can't be bothered because the bodies are turning up in different counties that happen to be next to each other." Sam grabbed his coat and shoved his arms into it, before turning toward the door.

"None of this makes sense."

"No shit!" Bobby said and took a step forward. "But it never does, does it? I know this isn't the life you wanted, kid, you've made that abundantly clear, but right now I don't have time to babysit your insecurities because you can't find an easy fix using the internet. Your brother is out there, he needs you and me to pull him out of whatever hellhole he's in.

"I know you're tired, I know you've had enough, and I know you don't know where to turn, but you're goin' to pull your shit together for your brother and we're goin' to find him. I've lost a lot of good friends — some as close as you boys." Bobby paused. "You're my family, and this is killin' me."

Sam swallowed and nodded. He felt young, out of place, and in too deep. "Where do we start?"

"Back where it started." Bobby grabbed his jacket and slipped it on before he grabbed the keys to the Impala. "Bring that flashlight."