The Bringer – Part 7
He had driven non-stop nearly fifteen hours, pissing in a plastic cup he found rolling around the floorboard whenever nature called, but he had made it to the Alabama motel at the time directed by the shifter. There had been no phone call – cell or land line - no email, and no (thank God) pictures of Sammy being raped again. It was a relief, but it was also worrisome. What if something had happened and Dean wasn't there to protect his little brother? Dean had waited in that shabby little room, just sitting on the bed shooting cockroaches with a stash of rubber bands he found in Sam's messenger bag. Finally, just before check-out, six hours after he should have been contacted, he turned in his room key and hit the road.
Dean was down to his last ten bucks in cash, and he used that for gas. He did have one of Sam's fake credit cards, which had been tucked into the bottom of his brother's bag, and he'd used it to buy a few changes of clothes. His duffle was still in the Impala, so the shifter had all of Dean's things.
Note to self – when you get your stuff back, burn the underwear.
Dean killed the bug's engine at a rest stop on the Alabama border. He was torn between turning around or following his gut. His head was telling him to get his ass back to the motel. If he missed the phone call, he might never see Sam again. His instincts, however, were driving him west. That would take him through Mississippi and Louisiana, states with both good and bad memories. The good ones mostly had big breasts somehow involved, but the bad ones were always hunts. A particular one nagged at him.
Louisiana. The parlingua.
He had been hunting with his Dad, Sam, and an old friend – or someone he had thought of as a friend – Rezzy Lazare. This scaly bitch came out of nowhere and kidnapped Sammy. Dean had been scared out of his mind while Sam was missing, but Rezzy had tracked her through some of the roughest swamp Dean had ever seen. Sam was scratched up, scared, and dead tired, but he was alive. That was one of the few times in his life since his mother died that Dean had broken down and cried. He'd rocked Sam in his arms for ten solid minutes. He had been so goddamned grateful to Rezzy that he had let the man get away with molesting his little brother the next day.
Now, here he was ten years later, allowing another monster to have his way with Sam.
No more. Dean started the engine. He was fucking tired of being toyed with. It was time to do that which he did best. Hunt. He pointed the car west and let intuition be his guide.
A/N: Short chapter, I know, but I wanted to get something out there. I have a ginormous paper due this week, and I didn't have the time for a longer one. Sammy angst is next!
Anyway, thanks to everyone who read and those who reviewed my Bringer prequel "The Parlingua: Rezzy's Story."
Three shout outs. Liana-chan, if you haven't read The Parlingua, please do. It is dedicated to you. Next, to Phx. I have loved your work for the longest time, so when I saw a review from you I almost peed my pants. Your Hardy Boys stuff is some of the best fan fiction out there. Finally, I see that valkyrie-alex has this story on her alert list. Hey girl! Get over there and give me some more Dakota Noir and Glass Darkly. If you do, I promise to update my SS stories. Due to circumstances not beyond my control, I opened a new account. Who am I? A hint from Chapter 15: Hahaha! Alien porn is hot!
