HIDDEN
Chapter Seven
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Sam was surprised. No. Sam was stunned, when Dean woke him at six am. Fed him a light breakfast that consisted of a bagel and cream cheese and a glass of orange juice. Then sent him on his way out to the field of cars for a morning run. Without a babysitter.
Sam was reluctant to go at first. Cocking his head toward Bobby and Dean sitting at the kitchen table. Drinking coffee. Quietly pouring over the local newspaper.
Thing refused to stop fiddling with Sam's hoodie strings or open the back door.
What was up with Dean and Bobby?
Just the other day, Dean had been so protective. Making Sam feel like a two-year-old child toddling on the edge of disaster. And Bobby. He'd been excessively parental after Sam's and Dean's dazzling late night food fight. Helping Sam wash the ruminants of ketchup, pickles, mustard and Cheese Whiz out of his ears and tuck him safely into bed.
Today, neither one so much as looked Sam's way as he'd tied his running shoes and readied to leave the cabin. Not so much as a word. A do. A don't.
Now, here Sam was - after his small argument with Thing.
Alone. Jogging the field of cars. While his bodyguards sat back at the cabin, like a couple of old men on some sort of wilderness retreat.
It obviously had stormed during the night. The tall grass squishy and wet beneath Sam's feet; surrounding tree trunks dark, and wet with rain. Large, clear drops of water clung to the near bare branches hanging overhead - the few leaves left - quiet and still.
Sam ran. Ran fast. Ran hard. Wind-streaked hair flying back away from his face. Thick, white, vaporous puffs escaping his open mouth like he was a chain smoker. He focused on the set of his feet. Piloting the cold, mud-caked ground. Wasn't easy when your legs were as jumbled as your mind.
"Three," Sam huffed out loud, counting off his lap as he jogged around a deep, watery tire pit.
His throat was dry and he wished Dean had packed him a bottle of water at least. Swallowing past the dryness, he ran on.
The scenery rushing by. Not gray. Not Black. But sepia in tone. Neutral. When would his two hells stop colliding? When would Sam stop being so blind-eyed. Where was the color of the world he used to know?
Sam frowned, suddenly feeling weird. Another field coming to mind. The field he woke up in. Flat on his back. No warmth in his body. Trapped by the rain pouring down. Unable to move. Listening to his heartbeat. His own rugged breaths. Until he was snatched away.
In both hells he'd thought about Dean. Every night and every day and every second in between. Here he was back with his brother and still so messed up. Sam wanted answers. Wanted to be himself again, but somehow all things creepy and skin crawling kept him from that.
His father's voice was never far away. Speaking the hunter's code in his ear.
Never stop. Never let your emotional pain or fear keep you down.
The field was eerily quiet. He was hot and sweaty under his hoodie, but shivered slightly. The field was wide open. Breezy. Wall-less. So why did Sam feel so caged. Trapped. Closed in.
A flicker off to his left startled Sam into a standstill.
Thing picked at a loose piece of skin along the side of his thumb; while Sam conducted a five sense search - all five senses working at once.
The smell of rancid mud, stagnant water and blood.
The sound of crunching bone.
The sight of a hawk on the ground, under the cover of a thick and thorny bush, tearing open the skin of a rabbit, ripping it guts out and swallowing chunks hole.
Sam felt sick.
Tasted bile in his mouth.
As he observed the hunter and its fallen prey, he thought about his own skin being peeled back. Demons plucking his innards out. Hollowing his belly.
"Crap," Sam breathed in and out trying to control his emotions.
Thing had managed to pull the loose piece of skin off. Blood trickling down the side of the thumb.
Sam wet his lips and swallowed hard. Both hells had bled him dry and he wondered just how many more tee shirts he would burn before he could rid himself of both worlds.
Where was his sixth sense? Telling him everything was okay. Telling him this was not hell.
The hawk peered up from its meal, eyes connecting with Sam's. Ruffling its reddened chest feathers in a display of aggression. The rabbit the large bird had caught gutted, blood spreading out over the ground. The bird screeched. A shrill and piercing and lonely sound. Snatching the limp, dead body and in a flapping of wings, the hawk winged skyward.
"Just a bird, Sam," he murmured, swallowing past the dry-burn of his throat.
Straightening his slumped shoulders, he continued on his path.
Blood drying in the crack of Thing's thumb.
Sam jogged past the Corvette Dean loved so much, trying to distract himself from his own state of mind. He wondered when Bobby had carelessly tossed the classic wayside. Sam tried to picture the car in its prime. Dean was right. She was sweet. Umpteen years ago. Now the car was little more than a tin can.
Sam's body was tired, legs soupy, and his stomach grumbled, but he jogged on. Past the tow truck. Past a rotting metal shell that literally looked like it had rusted into the ground, leaving behind only the car's rear half.
He was drowning in jitteriness. Out of control. Utterly alone.
To be alone. To have some space. Freedom. Right. Wasn't that what he'd originally wanted?
To get out from under big brother's thumb.
Sam shivered - from the inside out.
There was that tug again. A million eyeballs on him. Threatening to jerk him out of his shoes. Stop him in his tracks Everything a jumble of helter-skelter. Was he going insane? He tried to shake off the shudder that ran through him so hard, it nearly brought him to his knees. He dutifully righted himself and kept jogging.
Thing, who'd been pumping hard at Sam's side, tried to scrabble into the front pocket of the hoodie.
"Four," Sam counted out, forcing Thing to stay where he was.
He needed to stay alert Take the edge off his nerves. He started to count. A trick Dean taught him. A game of sorts. Count every breath. Every beat of your heart. Every step of your feet. Control the uncontrollable. Control your fear.
Trust your instincts, Sammy. See without seeing. Know without thinking. React without holding back.
Sam kept on the path. Brow creased. Eyes forward. His guard up. Responding to his father's advice. Concentrating. Keeping a steady pace. Breathing rhythmically in and out. Eyes following every movement. Sixth sense instinctively kicking in - heightening all his other senses.
Dampness squished inside Sam's shoes.
Through the trees, the nearby lake rippled. Water softly lapping against the muddy bank.
A duck quacked.
A fish jumped.
A stone rolled.
A dying cricket weakly chirped.
Clouds moved slowly along.
A woodpecker drilled its holes.
A crow cawed.
The wind blew. Trees creaked. Twigs snapped.
A chill crept up and down Sam's back. Making the hair on his neck stand on end. His sixth sense.
He wasn't crazy. He was being stalked. Had caught sight of a shadow. Out of his peripheral vision. Was no bear, or coyote. It walked on two legs. Was skillful. A tricky son of a bitch. A true hunter. Keeping down wind. Stealing in and out among the trees and their shadows. Circling. Targeting Sam. Waiting for just that right moment.
Sam had been tailed many times before. In the big city or even on a back country road it would have been so easy for him to lose the tail. Double back. Surprise his stalker, and take the bastard down. But here. Out in the open field. Weakened strength and no weapon to speak of - he was screwed - an easy kill.
Only one thing to do. Turn the tables. The hunted must become the hunter once more. In his mind, Sam plotted his attack. Staying relaxed, he let the enemy creep closer, part of his scheme.
Sam stumbled - also part of his scheme. "Uh," he whimpered.
Slowing his pace, Sam limped along. There was no camouflage in the field of cars - his camouflage becoming his faked injury. Like a mother bird pretends to have a broken wing, luring a predator away from the nest.
Entice the stalker near. Then attack. A tactic Dean had taught him. And taught him well.
Method acting was always Sam's forte. His decoy plan was working. Sam grinned to himself, feeling more than seeing his follower closing in.
He had to wait for just the right time. Sam's eyes scoured the ground. He needed a large stick, a rock, an old whiskey bottle. Anything he could use as a weapon. He thought about the cars, briefly glancing toward them. There were weapons hidden inside. But they were jammed up under dashboards or under seats and securely wrapped. It would take time, and Sam's sixth sense told him that was one of many things he did not have.
Sam went back to scope the grassy path before him.
His stalker was closing in. Sam could hear the faint squish of footsteps only a few feet behind him now.
He slowed down further, spying a large, jagged rock to his left. This was it. His weapon of choice. It worked for cavemen. It could work for Sam.
"Ung," Sam moaned again, and bent downward as if to inspect his sprained ankle.
Someone was breathing softly. Right behind him.
Sam dropped. Snatched the rock, got up to his feet. He spun - compact and light - with power and accuracy and speed and total intuition.
"Ahhhhh!" He gave a loud war cry, raising the rock high over his head - clutching hard - prepared to bash in the head of…
"Whoa!" Dean's arms pin wheeled him backward and he ducked down. "Sam," he hollered, arm raised to cover his face.
"Dean!" Sam spat in utter shock, the rock falling from his hand and landing with a heavy wet thud to the grass. "I almost…" Sam paused, totally out of breath. "Jeeze, Dean." He shook his head, damp hair falling over his eyes.
Thing started to twitch and quiver - presence once again known.
"Who'd you think, man?" Dean relaxed and straightening his frame. "Tall leggy blond named Marilyn?"
Thing smoothed the fallen hair back from Sam's. Lively fingers wiggled, searching for something more to do. Finding nothing, Thing opted to curl into a ball against Sam's chest.
"You suck," Sam berated. "I could have rearranged your entire face."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Dean beamed.
"What are you so happy about?" Sam frowned.
"The way you reached for that rock…Dude, you can totally Cesar Millan your pet like a hand whisperer or some shit. That's good. Damn good." Dean smiled, gazing at Thing, still curled against Sam's chest like an insecure, scolded puppy.
Sam kept quiet, throwing a frustrated, almost ashamed glance down at Thing.
"Bro, I'm not making fun," Dean said softly. "It's just…"
"You don't like it." Sam's gaze met Dean's
"What's not to like, Sammy. It's you. Just needs to be a whole part of you again. You're the boss, little brother. You're the one in control. Understand?"
Sam exhaled noisily. He understood. More than anyone.
"Whatever," Sam mumbled, jogging away.
Dean followed, trotting along side. "You know, I thought you really hurt yourself back there." He inspected Sam with awe. "Had me totally fooled. Drew me out of hiding like a pro."
"Was faking."
"Yeah, I got that much." Dean frowned. "You're good, baby brother. Next thing you know you'll have me believing in Sparkling pink unicorns and purple-spotted leprechauns."
Sam's eyes popped wide and he stopped in his tracks. "Dean! Oh. MY. God."
Thing came away from Sam's chest, pointed across the field.
"Look," Sam's voice high-pitched and worried. "Under there."
"What? Where?" Dean automatically going for the gun tucked in his waistband.
"Under there." Sam's tone urgent.
Thing continued to point.
"Under where?" Dean squinted to see.
"Made you say underwear," Sam laughed, trotting off.
Thing waved goodbye over Sam's shoulder.
"Come on!" Dean's hand fell away from the butt of his gun. "What grade are you in?" he shouted after Sam.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
"Dean, I can handle it," Sam insisted.
"Shut up, Sam."
"But…"
"Shut up, Sam," Dean yelled louder.
Sam sighed. This was so different from his freedom of yesterday.
They'd all had a full-sized breakfast and headed out the door together. Bobby guiding he and Dean down a dirt bike trail until they came to a natural obstacle blocking the trail. A large hill. Well, at first glance the barrier looked like a hill, but as Sam continued to stare upward the hill turned into a wall. Strike that. Was practically a mountain.
An outcropping of craggy rock, heavy with vegetation. Running straight up about fifty feet.
This is so not cool," Dean carried on, directing an angry finger up and down the cliff's face.
"So sorry to cramp your style," Bobby grumbled sarcastically. "All the cool mountains are in China," he spat.
"Bobby!" Dean snapped, hand now waving wildly about. "Sam is not climbing up that rock pile."
Bobby peered out from under his ball cap at Dean, eyes fierce and sharp. "Only way for the kid to regain what he lost…is by doing."
"I really get it, Bobby," Dean sighed. "But this?" He stared up the face of the rocky wall. "It's a lot more than I think Sam can handle right now."
"Do I get a vote in this?" Sam butt in.
"No," Bobby and Dean decided together.
Sam blew out a huff of air, "I'm not in such sad shape that I can't climb-"
"Shut up, Sam," Bobby and Dean chimed in again.
Thing who'd been scratching a nervous itch on Sam's left arm, suddenly jammed inside a pocket and clenched into a ball.
"Thought this was America," Sam whispered under his breath, leaning against a broken fence, attention darting back and forth between Bobby and Dean as they continued to debate him.
"It's a molehill, Dean."
"It's a friggin volcano."
"Volcano,' Bobby shrieked in irritation. "Stop exaggerating. Kid's not swimming through a piranha-filled moat so he can storm the palace gates."
Dean looked over at Sam. "He's not ready for a task of this level."
"With what's on the horizon, I'd say he better be able to kick it up and handle this," Bobby volleyed back.
Dean's insecurities suddenly high jacked Sam's confidence. Unable to shut off hell, yet again, images and memories started to float around inside Sam's mind.
"This here is just part of the fun I have in store for you boys today,' Bobby ranted on. After you two climb this wall, I set up an obstacle course in the field. Featuring plenty of hidden traps and targets to shoot at."
Dean frowned. "What do you mean 'you boys'? I thought I'd…"
"You percy, little princess," Bobby bellowed, cutting Dean short. "You going to stand around picking your nose? Sit in the shade sipping lemonade, embroidering daisies, while your brother works his ass off?"
"I just thought…"
"You short on brains?"
Dean gave a slight shrug. "I-I-I…"
"Wouldn't want you gettin' no beer belly like me, now would we, boy?" Not waiting for an answer, Bobby roughly shoved a rope into Dean's hands. "There's a wasteland of death and danger out there. Monsters teaming with bad guys. You need to be just as ready as Sam. Don't you ever forget that, you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
The sound of softly plodding feet, stopped any further conversation.
"You ladies ready?" Bobby turned to Sam.
Thing had come out of hiding. Having some sort of love fest with Left-hand as they twined together clumsily.
Sam couldn't help but notice how slipper with sweat his hands were. How vertigo was hitting him hard and he hadn't even left the ground. His stomach clenched and his mouth went dry. Looking up the steep wall made him frantic. Lucifer had taunted him with the imagery of such a cliff. Tying his left hand behind his back, and binding his feet together. Lucifer had forced Sam to his belly near the edge of a canyon. One by one those Sam loved appeared, clinging to his right hand. Gripping tight until Sam could no longer hold their weight and they fell from his grasp. Plunged to their deaths. Sam could still hear the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. Dean. Dad. Jess. Bobby. Once even his dog Bones. He could still smell the splatter of blood. Still see the gruesomely deformed flesh. Still feel the horror and despair and frantic fear. It all was so damn real.
"You okay?" Dean called over to Sam, voice smooth and calm.
No response.
Dean glanced over at Bobby.
"Let me handle him." Bobby slowly approached Sam. "Sam, your brother asked if you were okay?"
"Don't think so," Sam mumbled insecurely, unable to make eye contact and scuffing his foot through the pebbly dirt - ashamed. Being afraid was for beginners. He'd been hunting almost all his life. He was no beginner.
Thing shook with fear clenching and unclenching, holding Left-hand prisoner.
"Not going to ask you to tell me what's going on in your head, kid," Bobby adjusted his ball cap, the dark shadow over his eyes vanishing. "'Cause I wouldn't know how to help you with that." He reached over and gently cupped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Just going to tell you the one thing I know after livin' this life for so long," he said, his tone patient and kind. "Fear is just a plain, old nasty beast you carry around inside of you. Never goes away. But if you leave it unbridled, fear becomes more of a risk than the actual monster nipping at your keister." Bobby let his hand fall away. "Make sense to you, boy?"
Thing stopped shaking and released the prisoner.
Sam nodded, clapping Bobby on the shoulder. "Thanks, Bobby." He took a deep breath and looked back at his brother who stood quietly watching, eyebrows drawn in tension. "I'm okay, Dean," Sam called over, taking in another deep breath he turned back to Bobby. "Got a rope for me?"
Bobby dropped the gear to the ground. "Have at."
Sam squatted and fought with Thing a moment. The hand skittishly floundering about before unzipping the bag and helping unpack the equipment.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Sam's thoughts raced around hell as he struggled, climbing higher and higher. He glanced down. The ground blending with the brown twisted rock, and there was a funny high-pitched thrill going on inside his ears.
Visions of falling. Plummeting through nothing but darkness and air crowded his mind.
Sam shook his head, desperate to concentrate on the task at hand. Feet and hands fitting into cubbyhole after cubbyhole. Trying his best to keep going. To push the frantic, unsettled lump inside his belly down.
Damn it, he never worried about heights before.
Thing was barely functioning inside the confines of Sam's rock climbing gloves. Slippery with sweat. Tentatively gripping one weird shaped rock and outcropping after another, and working around scratchy twigs and bushes growing out of cracks and crevices.
Sam paused for breath - glanced up - still a ways to go. He shivered and bit back a whimper, fear permeating every fiber. But the fear for himself quickly withered away. His mind turning slideshow - and he was no longer the one doing the falling. Sam knew he was not longer in hell, but still could see and feel bodies rushing past him to their deaths - unable to reach out. Unable to save any of those he cared for and loved the most.
He dug the toe of his right boot in hard against the wall, loose dirt and rock crumbling away.
"Son-of-a…" Below, Dean blew an ear-splitting whistle, "Hey," he yelled up. "Sam."
Sam slowly let his gaze drift down at Dean, only a few yards below him. "What?"
Thing, trapped inside the glove, dry-rubbed at Sam's eyes, trying to get rid of hell.
"We're climbing rocky mountain high, man," Dean reminded. "Not taking the bitch down stone-by-stone." Sarcastic words not matching the gentle tone of Dean's voice. "You okay?"
"Hanging in." Sam gave a weak, amused laugh and went back to climbing.
Thing felt around for the next handhold.
Just a rock…just a rock…just a rock.
"You two going to be spending the winter holiday up there? Move your idgit asses!" Bobby's militant voice echoed and bounced off the cliff wall.
The wind screeched past Sam's ears. Whipping dust around large pieces of rock.
Sam grunted, panting heavily as he pulled himself over the lip of the cliff. On hands and knees and head hung low, he stared at the gravelly dirt. The slideshow in his head producing more horrible images. Striking through his mind like bolts of jagged lightning. His head pounded, his ears buzzed louder and his heartbeat crashed against his chest.
Lucifer's voice emerged inside Sam's head, taking him by surprise. "You going to let your brother fall to his death again, Sam, my friend?"
"Nuh," Sam moaned, the slideshow kicking in full on.
Dean was falling from his grasp. Body bouncing off rock like a rubber ball. Head cracking open when he hit bottom. The gathering of demons below waiting like vultures, pouncing like cats on a mouse. Slurping down his brother's brains like an oyster. Lucifer had many games he liked to play, but that one game seemed to be his favorite. And he took great pleasure in torturing Sam. Leaving him powerless and sickened.
Hell was time with no end.
Sam's reality sickly blurred, rooting him back in the cage. "Dean!" he yelped in high-pitched terror, clambering into action upon all fours over the dusty ground toward the ledge.
Dropping down on his belly, Sam peered over the edge. Dean was only inches from the lip of the cliff. Green eyes peering up at him, questioningly. "Dean," Sam called again urgently.
"Dude, chill. I'm coming," Dean grumbled.
"Dean," Sam shrieked again. In zombie-mode he reached down - right handed. Grabbing hold of Dean by the front of his jacket and pulling, pulling, pulling.
"I got it Sam. What's your rush? You're the King of the Mountain," Dean's voice a faded buzzing in Sam's ears as he kept tugging his brother up, up, up.
"You'll fall," Sam blurted, not letting go.
"Sam, what are you saying? I'm not going to fall."
Sam tugged at Dean only using his right hand. Shoulder and arm straining to the point of dislocation.
"Sam, you're only hurting yourself. I don't need your help, damn it," Dean ground out irritably.
Sam heard the words, but they still didn't register. His only thought. Must save Dean. "Errrr!" he ground out loudly, heart rate increasing along with his fear.
"Sam! What's going on with you? Let. Me. Go."
"Yes, Sammy, let your brother go," Lucifer roared with laugher, his unseen force gripping Sam tight.
"No!" Sam fortified his efforts, clamping his eyes shut as if that action alone would allow him more strength. No matter what he wouldn't let go! If Dean went, so would he.
"Won't let go. Not again. Not this time." Sam's voice, thread thin, long strands of clumpy hair tousling back-and-forth like wiper blades across his eyes as he struggled to pull Dean up.
"Bro, I am not going to fall!"
Sam clawed at Dean awkwardly, tipping half over the ledge. Small bits of rock and dust crumbling away from the ledge and raining down below.
"Idjit's, no time to be playing around," Bobby's voice floated upward.
Sam sucked in huge gasps of air, voices echoing all around him. But nothing made any sense. Everything was watery and glassy. Cold and dotted black.
Somewhere in the back of Sam's dazed and confused mind, he was aware of Dean scrambling over him. Dragging him away from the cliff. Propping him up against a large bolder, patting the side of his cheek.
"Sam." More cheek patting - on the opposite side. "Look at me."
Sam squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking to his very core. Last thing he wanted to do was look. Look at the contorted, bloody mess that used to be Dean.
"Sammy, please!"
Please. The one word Dean rarely used. Sam braced himself. Attempted to breath again.
Contorted, bloody messes didn't usually speak so politely. And Sam was pretty sure they didn't speak at all. Not even in hell.
"Dean?" he puffed the name out on a whisper.
"If you'd open your eyes you'd find out." Came the challenge.
Sam blinked several times and caught a fleeting glimpse of an overly eager face through the tangle that was his hair.
"Come on, man. You're not fooling me. I know you're somewhere behind that wadded up mop you call hair."
Thing's glove-clad fingers pushed the strands away from Sam's face.
Sam squinted.
"Sammy?"
"Ugh," Sam moaned as chunks of Artic ocean ice flowed through his traumatized body.
Conformation. -Dean. Not bloody. Gripping both Sam's arms with the strength of ten men.
"Roll call, Sam." Dean leaned in close, eye-to-eye. "You with me?"
"What?" Sam's head bobbed, lower lip quivering. "What is this?" He slipped sideways, jacket snagging on the rough rock and would have dropped to the ground if Dean didn't prop him back up.
"You had a freak-out." Dean let go of Sam and sat back on his hunches, frowning sternly.
"A what?"
"A flashback, Sam," Dean redefined.
Sam thought a moment, trying to get his banging heart to beat right.
"Understand?" Dean dipped his head, catching Sam's eye.
Thing was going stir crazy inside the glove, fingers crooking and unable to ball up.
"Can you tell me about it?" Dean took Sam by the hand.
Sam shivered, his left hand struggling to pull the glove off Thing.
"Here." Dean helped, easily undressing Thing, shoving the empty glove into his pocket. "Hold on a second, Sam," he said, undoing the ropes. First on Sam then on himself and leaving the cords coiled on the ground next to them.
Thing curled in on himself, jamming between Sam's bent knees.
"Sam, talk to me." Dean dipped his head, studying Sam's face.
"I-" Sam swallowed hard. "I couldn't hold on to you. He-" Sam glanced away.
"Lucifer?" Dean took Sam by the chin turning him back. "It's okay. Just tell me," Dean said softly.
"Yeah." Sam nodded. "He, 'eh, he I tied one hand behind my back and," Sam faltered, "And my free hand," he glanced down at Thing, "Couldn't hold on to you. You always fell. Everyone always fell."
"Bastard plays hard. I remember." Dean's jaw clenched. "Usual hell rules. Screw with and fuck with the brain," Dean raised his voice.
Sam eyed Dean. He usually didn't slip and talk about hell.
"How'd you do it, Dean? Get through? Make it stop?" The questions came fast, trembling out Sam's lips.
"You know how." Dean gave Sam his game smile, though it was weaker than usual. "Hell's the reason drinking was created."
Sam cringed. He didn't drink like Dean drank. Could an overdose of frappuccino have the same affect as alcohol? Sam highly doubted it. How many more freak-outs would he have? And how much worse would they get? What if he freaked-out when Dean needed him most? This freak-out was more or less harmless. Dean wasn't going to fall.
As if Dean heard the questions swirling in Sam's head he said, "Give yourself some time, Sam. It will get better. Never go away. But it will get bearable." Dean took Sam by the hand removing his other glove and pocketing the accessory. "And if that doesn't work, I'll dig my way down below. Give you-know-who a facelift with a hatchet, then end him for good," Dean said with hatred in his voice.
If only Dean could do just that. Give Lucifer the death penalty. Not just keep the devil locked in his box. Nice and pretty behind bars. Where he still had certain freedoms. And more than enough power. Power that still could reach out to the world above. But actually make him cease to exist.
Thing closed and unclosed in Sam's lap.
"Come on, we should get back down to Sergeant Kick our ass."
"Old dude with the ball cap and beard." Dean grasped Sam by the twitchy hand and yank him to his feet.
Dean let go of Sam, to clutch at his own shoulder. "Damn, that dude of yours has one hell of a grip."
Sam wobbled unsteadily.
Thing snagging a hold of Dean's jacket, keeping both brothers upright.
."I-I hurt you," Sam said guiltily, eyes brimming.
"I'm fine, Sam." Dean gnashed his teeth together rolling his shoulder. "Just a pulled muscle." He took a step backward.
Thing went limp-wrested at Sam's side.
"I-I'm sorry," Sam spluttered.
"Why should you be?" Dean shook himself whole bodily, letting go his shoulder. "Told you. I'm fine. Let's get going it's a long hike down on foot."
"Let me look at you first." Sam moved in close.
Thing raised, fingers splayed, groping at Dean's shoulder.
"Stop pawing at me." Dean whacked Sam's hand away.
"Not one of your chicks, Dean. I don't paw."
Thing tried again to examine Dean's shoulder.
"Don't touch me," Dean bulked, trying to turn away from the pawing hand.
"Just let me rub it. You got knots upon knots here."
Thing went about massaging the area in question.
"Sam that's sick. Stop." Dean caught the overeager hand. "Lay off, bitch," he directed at Thing, slowly squeezing the helping hand into submission.
Think yanked free and fled, hiding behind Sam's back.
"Dean, be sensible. You're hurt."
"I'm not." Dean maintained.
"Are too." Sam brooded.
"Not." Dean went about gathering up their rope, babying his right arm..
"Are." Sam helped.
"Do I even want to know what is going on here?"
"No," Sam and Dean said, heads turning together to regard Bobby.
"You make an adorable couple." Bobby pushed off the tree he'd been leaning against. "But we still got work to do and being all gooey in each other's arms ain't gettin' any of it done."
"Sam's had enough for one day," Dean said, decidedly, slinging his coiled rope up onto Sam's left shoulder.
"Dean's the one who's had enough." Sam wound his rope and slipped it on top the other, grunting a little at extra weight.
"If anyone's had enough it'd be me," Bobby bellowed. "Now get your asses to the car." He pointed down a narrow well-packed gravel path.
Sam scowled. "How'd you hike up here so fast anyway, Bobby?"
"Didn't. Drove." Bobby turned on the heels of his boots and headed down the trail.
"With what?" Dean fell in behind him.
"'69, Boy," Bobby called over his shoulder. "What'd you think? The old dude with the ball cap hoofed it?" His tone full of annoyance.
"I. 'Er. I," Dean stumbled over his tongue. Cleared his throat, then said, "You know I'm sweet on the car, Bobby, but she's beyond fixing and even if you tried to restore…" Dean clamped his mouth shut as they rounded a large Maple tree and the old-time street rod came into view. "What the."
The Corvette sat all rusty-bucket and broken down, engine humming and clicking away.
"How the…" Dean's jaw dropped.
"Temperamental bitch. Only likes her owner." Bobby opened the passenger door. "Two seater."
"Shot gun," Dean hollered, rushing over to clamber inside.
Stunned he was so slow on the uptake, Sam shook his head.
"Looks like you're hiking, boy," Bobby said, shutting Dean in and going to open the driver side door.
"Nice," Sam sighed, heading down the narrow, pebbly path.
Thing white-knuckled the rope, hefting the cable higher up on Sam's shoulder.
Bobby slid inside behind the wheel and shut the door with a rust-squeaked.
Quickly, he turned to Dean. "He okay?"
"Nothing's going to keep my little brother down." Dean winced, and wiggled to get comfortable in the seat, never taking his eyes off Sam.
Sam trudge tiredly down the tree and rock-lined road. Back bowed by the weight of the ropes - and something more. Hell was a dark and destroying place, but Sam had a fiery flame inside of him. A flame no matter how hard anyone or anything huffed and puffed the burning blaze would never be snuffed out.
"How's your shoulder?"
Dean's gaze drifted over to meet Bobby's. "Temperamental bitch," he said, smiling wryly.
"Like her owner." Bobby put the Corvette into gear and eased slowly down on the gas pedal.
"His owner," Dean protested, going back to watching his brother's back.
"Whatever you say, princess."
No more words were exchanged. The only sound, that of gravel crunching, spitting and popping out from under the '69's tires as they followed Sam back down the one-lane path.
More to come…..
AN: Thank you so much for your patience and time and care with me - through this very new way of writing.
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