Disclaimer: See Chapter One
Author's Note: Am I a day late? Yeah, I am. Sorry for the delay. But the good news is we are all one day closer to Season 7 Premier. Totally stoked. Out of curiosity, anyone going to the Chicago Con? I'd love to meet up, if you are. Thanks to my lovely beta, MAZ101 who gave me lots of "Er's" and "Oh's" that were both encouraging in this chapter. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter Seven: Down a Rabbit Hole
He ran until his lungs lit up and must have caught fire because he was coughing more than he was breathing and the pain wasn't contained in his chest – it spread up his neck, spun around his head and bolted down his back until the darkness outside became blanketed with grey spots.
Still, Dean ran. He couldn't see signs of Eva or the dog any longer but he tried to keep calm and carry on.
The pain in his arm and his hand, though… well, it was enough to bring him to his knees. He stopped every few steps and tried to see the damage under the minimal moonlight. Could be worse, he thought. Could've been a werewolf. Smiled at the weirdness of the truth in that. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. Wished he hadn't stuck his hand into a crazy dog's mouth. A stick, sure. Yeah, he should have taken the time to stop and look for a big ol' stick to beat the dog to death with. Dean sighed. His fucking hand hurt. Shook it a few times. Like that was going to help.
Cursed worse than a sailor when the pain snaked up past his elbow.
Midway through the wheat, Dean thought he heard something fall and stopped running. He looked around for a couple of quick seconds and when he couldn't see anything on the ground, he switched to walking and when he thought maybe he was lost, he stopped all together for a few minutes. He spun around, tried to figure which way he'd come from and which way he should continue to search. The pain was so intense, though, that he found it hard to concentrate. He was suddenly so tired and surrounded by nothing but field. He reached his hand up and ran it through his hair, cussed again when he realized he had used his maimed hand and frowned at the blood that was oozing from his palm.
His mind felt like it was playing tricks on him and he had a quick flash of the dog gnawing at him. Blinked hard to get the image out of his head. Hoped he'd never have to come across such a sight again. Being torn to bits by a dog had to be the worst way to go. He shook his head. "Fucking chew toy." Smacked his lips together and wished for some water or soda or food. A nice, juicy turkey leg. Wondered, idly, what his hand had tasted like. Gunpowder and jerky? Then with the thought of jerky, his mind skipped ahead and he realized that the dog had gone after his right hand. The hand he wrote with, drove with, jerked-off with. "Son of a fucking bitch!" Said it louder this time because that really did piss him off.
Then, casually, he glanced behind him. He knew the dog had pulled Eva off to God-knew-where but a thought was nagging at the back of his skull: Where the hell was Sam? He pulled out his cell phone and tried his brother's number. Straight to voicemail. He sighed, looked at the screen and texted him: Dude, where R U? Waited. No response. Released a held breath and started walking again. He chose to head straight and hoped that he wasn't backtracking. Sam would never let him live that one down. Dean, the Master of Direction getting lost in a farmer's field.
So he headed straight, already knew he was lost, and found himself deeper in the weeds and wheat and singing All By Myself. Frowned. Really? Eric Carmen? Tried to shove that out of his brain because it was making him nauseated.
When I was young… I never needed anyone…
Kicked at a rock, staggered and stumbled until he fell to the ground. It was then that he knew something wasn't quite right. He sat back on his ass and looked at his hand. Wished like hell that he had his flashlight with him. He slowly raised his right hand up to his nose and took a whiff.
"What the fuck?" Dean turned away. It smelled like death. He looked at it again, horrified this time. Was that the scent that Eva and Sam had been smelling? It was harsh. Foul. Like something was decaying. Dean blinked. Didn't want to spend the time and think like that. Shit, he didn't know if he was capable of processing through that much information right now. Took a breath and not in any particular key, he let out, "'All by myself. Don't wanna be, all by myself…" He snapped his mouth shut and wished he could stop. Pushed himself back up and started walking ahead. At least he thought it was the right direction, but who really knew?
A sluggish breeze rustled the wheat onto his leg and Dean glanced down. The tips were wispy and light and from above, they looked like delicate fingers reaching for him, pulling on him. It was kind of spooky and Dean couldn't help but grin. He really was born to live this life. This was the sort of thing that made him feel alive. Useful. "Damn, I could go for a candy bar." He walked a couple of steps. "Sam, I'm hungry." Hesitated and then slowly looked behind his shoulder. Nothing, of course. Absolutely alone.
"All by my –" Drew in a calming breath. He looked back down at his throbbing hand. "Sam would probably want me to bandage that up."
He stopped, reached into his back pocket, and took out a bandana. He started to tie the ends when he noticed that he could see straight down to his bone. He swallowed hard and used his teeth to tie a knot, fitting the cloth snuggly around his hand. He pumped his fist a couple of times. Huh. It feels better. He rotated his arm around and hissed. The dog had really done a kick ass job on him. He sighed and felt a little bit of relief because he knew he wasn't going crazy. His brain was fighting his body from going into shock. And the best way Dean knew how to keep himself sane was to keep talking to whoever would listen. "Thanks, Sam." He called to the unknown and then tilted his head back. He stared up at the stars for a few twinkles and narrowed his eyes as a cool breeze whipped by him.
"You seein' me right now, Dad?" he asked, voice low and numb. "You gettin' yourself a good look?" Waited then for some kind of a sign: a flash of light, a shooting star, maybe the ghost of his dead father. When none of that unveiled itself to him, Dean took a step but kept his eyes on the heavens above. Swayed a little, but that didn't matter. "You said you were proud." Pointed his bandaged hand into the air. "You said watch over Sammy." Dean shook his head. "That's all I've ever done. That's always been my number one job. And then you say… you know what you said." Dean watched the stars flicker back and forth to one another, talking in a language he didn't understand. "That I have to save him or kill him." Dean's eyes pricked with tears and they flowed fast and unchecked. "Who does that, man? Who puts that kind of shit on someone that they love?"
A star shot across the sky and Dean looked away. "You suck." He clumsily wiped at his eyes with his left hand. Glanced back up. One star in particular stood out to him, sat by itself away from the others. Dean wondered why? Did it not play well with the other stars? Did it bark orders and make the other stars force it away?
You shoot me. You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son!
The star shined bright and then brighter.
Dean shook his head. "Shut up." He kicked at the wheat clinging to his jeans. "Shut up! I can save him! I can do what you couldn't do!" He laughed then but it snagged on something in his throat and he felt it crack. "Absofuckinglutely, I can." He blinked hard and considered that maybe he was losing it. "Sam?" he called out.
Stayed quiet until he heard a "Yeah, Dean?" Knew it wasn't real, but he let out a sigh of relief anyways.
"I take it back. Back at that haunted hotel… you made me… that stupid promise. I friggin' take it back." He took a few steps ahead, didn't look behind him or up into the sky. Just straight ahead. But, goddamn, he wished he could look his brother square in the eye as he swore, "I'm not gonna kill you, Sam. And that's a fucking promise."
Dean turned to his right and moved forward because there was no backwards or sideways left to him anymore and that's when he saw the glimmer of lights. He cocked his head to the side and skidded to a halt. Yep. It was that big ass old prison-castle – now a house or a dragon's lair – whatever. He pulled his Colt out from the front of his waistband with his left hand and advanced on the building. His world tilted dangerously to the ground twice as he moved in a zigzag motion and Dean only wondered once if this was real or make believe. But it didn't really matter because before he knew what was happening, he had breached the front door.
WWW
Sam shielded the dust from his eyes with the blade of his hand. Squinted, sure, but never closed them. Didn't want to take his eyes off the whirling and twirling dance in front of him. Like a tornado, it whipped itself back and forth, disturbing everything in its path. It didn't care if it was disrupting a rock or a squirrel or a person or their dreams.
It was built to destroy.
"Sam Winchester." It spoke to him, voice gravely, but lively. Like it was going to enjoy this. It took a few pleasurable seconds to get a good look at him. "Your turn to bat. How lovely."
Sam nodded. Agreed with it, he guessed. He really just wanted to solve the riddle so he could be on his merry-dragon-kicking-ass-way. His gaze floated over the things girth again, looking beyond its swelling form, into the dark distance. He wondered where Dean and Eva had disappeared.
"You want to go after your brother." It skipped ahead. "Find out if he's okay. He certainly looked like he took quite a bite." Tsk'd in Sam's direction. "Here's a freebie for you: Your brother He's suffering." The Sylphid shook its head sympathetically. "Poor, poor Dean. He just can't catch a break."
Sam tried not to give anything away, tried to keep his expression flat, his eyes hazy. But he felt his throat open and he swallowed down the first question that he was tempted with.
The sylph coiled forward with the motion. "You have a question for me?" It asked. "A question you desire an answer for." Waited and then greedily added, "Yes?"
A hitch of the shoulder. Sam swallowed again; his eyes diverted to the right and then back to the cloud of dust. There were questions on his mind.
"You wonder, maybe, if it was your fault. Your girlfriend burning on the ceiling. If it was as much of your fault that you may as well have lit the match yourself."
That was a low blow. A handful of cool air whooshed into his face, blowing his hair back and speckling it with sand. Sam's small eyes reflexively restricted even smaller. He tried to remember that this thing was not the air nor the Earth and that it was just another creature that he and his brother hunted. But, with all do respect, yeah, he wondered that.
"Or maybe you wish to inquire about your future." It sashayed closer, its tail seductively whipping dirt to and fro. "If you're going to become something evil. Something your brother will have to kill." Paused. "Or save."
Sam licked his lips. Felt his salivary glands kick up a notch. That was the big, juicy steak that he was wondering about. Was this just a balancing act that he was getting super good at – walking a thin line between light and dark and choosing the right path because he had just become good at it?
Or was he actually evil? To the core? And all the whispers, all the glares, all of his own heated hate brewing deep inside of him… Was it going to erupt one day?
But if he asked, if he went there, he'd let the Sylph in and the truth would not set him free. It would drive him mad. That's what these creatures did. That was their design.
It was a give and take.
"Well," Sam began and the Sylphid's bloated form started to expand in anticipation. Hand-like stumps beckoned him for it. It leaned closer and closer, a Cheshire grin planted firmly across what Sam could only guess was its face. Sam opened his mouth and the words caught somewhere between his vocal chords and his pride. Dad would kill me, he thought, and then chuckled at how ironic that was.
"Well?" It mimicked back, irritated perhaps in the younger Winchester's silence. "Come on now. I know you." Budged its funneled body like a spring. "Give your brother a gun and a skin mag and he's happy for a month. So easy to please, that one. But you… you make a spirit work at winning you over."
And then Sam did something he doubted the Sylph had ever seen before: he smirked, gave an exaggerated shrug and said with all the confidence in the world, "I know what I am. Today, right now. I know who I am."
The thing shrank back. Looked injured, if that were possible. "But, surely –"
"You have no answers that I need."
Mouth gaping, the Sylph took in a wheezy breath. "I can tell you about Jessica," it begged. The dirt swept across the road, the air even colder now. "I can tell you why you're chosen." It smiled again and Sam was hit in the teeth by a gritty force. "Because you are chosen."
Chosen for what? Sam could only speculate. He scrubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand. Whatever it was, he was certain it wasn't an answer that would please him.
"I could tell you about your role, if you choose to ask. You have a wonderful role – an important role – to play."
Sam frowned. The dust wasn't kicking up anymore and the current of air was dying down. "I know my role," he answered the spirit. He'd had many over the years – Law Student, Boyfriend, Son, Choir Member in his middle school's production of Our Town, Respectful Member of Society. "I'm a hunter." He pointed his Taurus at the cloud and fired once. Can't kill it, he remembered. But silver still had to hurt it like a son of a bitch.
The Sylphid yelped like a wounded animal and retreated like a coward. Sam held still for a few heartbeats, listened to the cool combing of the wheat nearby and slowly dropped his gun. He kept low and quiet and he moved forward, eyes dancing from left to right and when nothing swooped up to stop him, he picked up the broken brush, still fresh of Eva's drag marks and from where Dean had followed her, and Sam felt a stinging sensation wrap around his heart and make itself home there. It was rock solid fear. He pushed it down to his feet where he could use it best and took off like a shot.
Because really, Sam was a brother and that was always his number one fucking role.
WWW
"Shoot first. Ask questions later," Dean muttered to himself.
He walked into the castle without disregard of making a stealthy entry. He'd already blown that anyway, the door smacked hard against the stonewall and cracked a candelabra in the process. No one was racing to tackle him, though, so Dean continued to walk in, checking his six, watching his sides out of his periphery.
He could hear muted whispers coming from his left and he turned on his heels – too fast, too damn fast – the rock walls blurred together momentarily and he had to blink hard to right himself again. He held his gun out in front of him, level with his chest, felt wrong and uncomfortable in his left hand, like a teenage girl wearing a push up bra – it just didn't feel right – and he willed his other hand to stop the constant throb.
"Just let it bleed."
First words he could really make out and it was a voice that Dean didn't recognize. He slowed up his walk, felt a hot bead of sweat roll from his temple down the length of his face. Brushed it away quickly with the curve of his shoulder. Could feel the heat rolling off of him.
All by myself. Don't wanna be all by myself. Anymore… Dean stopped walking. He rolled his eyes and punched the air above him. Stop it! He scolded himself. Annoyed, now. Stop it! Steeled in a deep breath and tried really hard to think of Alice in Chains or Motorhead.
That's when he heard her laugh. Deep and throaty, all masculine, but not. Dean pressed his back up against the stonewall and eased up on the nearest door.
"Don't make demands, Sugar Lips," Eva was saying, a hint of flirtation in her muffled tone. "I don't take none."
There were words spoken but he couldn't make out the messy grumble and then Eva snapped back, "Oh, why don't you just kill me and get it over with already."
Dean had to smile. He'd give it to Eva: she had balls.
A snarl followed her words, though, and it wasn't from any dog Dean had ever heard. He could see a poof of smoke billow out of a door a few feet away. Then Eva's voice, higher this time, pleading, "Keep that fucking thing away from me! What the hell is that? Stay back!"
Dean had reached a smooth brick protrusion in the wall, a portion that jutted out and then there was the door just around the bend of it. He wiped his brow with his right arm, winced with the pain when his hand pulled tight, and repositioned his Colt. Noticed it bobbed. He took a breath and gave himself a count – One… Two… Dean spun around – Three.
"Well, there you are!" Something hissed, slithering faster into the space than Dean's body could humanly move. The voice was accompanied by a shift in the air, swift, only a blur past Dean's eyes and a stench whiffed by his nose, causing his throat to close in reflex.
It was only in the seconds that passed, that he was able to take in his surroundings and to realize that he had been masterfully disarmed. Thought for the first time that Eva might have had a point about him saving her now.
You two are so fucked up. I don't know how either of you save anybody.
Hell, if he couldn't save Eva, how the hell did he expect to save Sam?
The room was made of stone – the walls, the floors – there was a stone fireplace at the far end. But no windows to be seen, no back doors to exit out of. Just the stone and the silence because anyone could scream bloody murder in this room and no one from the outside world would ever hear them.
Eva sat in the center of the room. She had been tied to a chair and had been beaten, by the looks of things. Her right eye socket was bruised, her left bloody, her upper lip had a gash a couple inches long.
Still, her eyes softened when she saw Dean and her head tilted slightly in gratitude toward the hunter. Dean didn't need any words to understand the hidden message of Oh, thank Christ… I am not alone that she was conveying.
He'd seen it before. Felt it before. Hell, he'd sang it before.
Something tickled his foot and then brushed up against his ankle until it pulled tight. Dean wished for his fucking gun as he glanced down. There was a green scaly tail coiled around his pant leg, moving up the length of his calf. It slipped over his knee and slid up his thigh, resting an inch or two below his groin. The sight forced Dean to swallow a wave of rising bile in his throat and it hit his stomach like a cannonball.
It moved then. Climbed those two inches. "Oh, Jesus… I'm going to be sick." Said it out loud for God and everyone to hear.
This wasn't like the time when he and Sam were bored and Dean had challenged his brother to tally up how many hand jobs they thought they'd had over their lifetime. Sam had proudly announced his was "just over a hundred". And that was by three girls. Dean had guesstimated his to be around 275. By probably a hundred different girls. He lied, though. Told Sam it was probably closer to 150. Didn't mention how many girls.
This… this did not count as a hand job. There was no hand involved.
"You'd th-think after all you'd been thr-through, that you would've caught a little t-tail by now." The tail moved down toward Dean's knee. Tightened its grip.
Dean closed his eyes and his body swayed with blinding dizziness. He knew Marcel was just off to his left, presumably standing next to a mighty fucking dragon, preferably on a leash and tame and answering to the name Puff, but Dean wasn't counting on it. And what made it worse was behind his closed eyes, during those few precious seconds, he saw trees. Big, tall, leafy trees and they seemed to be looking down at him. His hand pinched under the bandana and Dean released a surprising growl.
"Aw, how's the hand?" Marcel's voice and Dean answered by opening his eyes but didn't look over. Marcel sighed. "Missing somebody? The tall one with the bright future in… Journalism, was it?"
Dean turned as speedy as his body would allow, pulling back hard, his left elbow high and solid as he followed through with a quick blow across Marcel's jaw. The larger man seemed to absorb the punch. His head dipped back but recovered rapidly and when he gathered himself, he looked at Dean with liquid tarred eyes.
"How stupid are you?" he asked and Dean quietly wondered the same thing.
Marcel folded his arms across his chest, let his eyes relax back to their horrible sickly grey, and smirked because Dean had missed something very important: something green and horny.
In his sluggish mind process, Dean had just caught up with the fact that there was indeed a large, green, reptilian tail traveling its way up and down his leg and as he reversed the route by which it came, he found that the tail belonged to Marcel.
"Dude," Dean smiled, keeping his voice dry, "I think you got something stuck up your ass."
Marcel wasn't in the mood for casual chitchat – or a smart ass – for that matter. "What the hell you doing here?" he asked, the veins on his thick neck becoming more defined. "I wouldn't have pegged you the type of guy that would put his butt on the line for some…" His gaze skimmed over to Eva and back again. "For some… Queer." Said it with feeling. Said it with hate. Said it and it made Dean's blood boil.
He didn't really remember starting his attack on the half demon/half dragon (with a dash of human) again but an upper cut to the right, a couple of quick jabs to the abdomen and a shoulder hit with all his weight combined behind it, sobered Dean up pretty damn fast. He thought maybe he was actually doing a decent job holding his own when he heard a hopeful cheer from his one member audience but within five seconds, Eva's sounds of optimism turned to sorrowful, "Oh's" and then to distressed, "Oh, God's".
Marcel could pack a punch. Three blows to Dean's face and he was seeing stars and stripes. An elbow smacking into his chest stole the air from his lungs and Dean started a slow sink to the ground. He wondered about his knife, was it still in his… back pocket? Left or right? As he was thinking maybe the left, there was another smash against the side of his head from Marcel, whose knuckles hadn't even cracked with the force.
It was a simple tug of the tail, though, that had Dean planted on the ground, the worst place to be in hand to hand combat, no power down below, and that's when the demon began to kick him. He could hear the screams from Eva. Could hear the wooden legs of the chair she was sitting on slamming against the floor like it was being rocked. Dean curled up into a ball, kept his arms protectively wrapped around his head and chest – a good offense deserved a good defense – and felt something snap inside of him.
Dean figured he gave what he got. But against a demon or whatever creature this was…
There was a rush of blood and white-hot pain that rippled up his spine and made his lungs feel as though they had turned to a gooey liquid. A cough erupted harsh and wet as blood filled his mouth. His head bobbled up and down as another round of kicks landed into his side, splintering a lower rib and Dean was sure that was an extra-large-size-12-shoe smacking into his spleen.
Snips and snaps and crunches and cracks of cartilage and tissues filled his ears and rattled his insides until one final kick to his lower back rocked his whole body and then nothing really hurt.
Enough was apparently enough. Marcel backed off. Dean's leg was released from the firm coil and he could feel the vibration of happy thumping echoing on the stone floor, like a dog wagging its tail in delight.
"All of this," Marcel spat, "for a Drag Queen?"
Dean could hear the abrupt cease of Eva's screams then. Her bawling subsided to a soft cry and the chair she was rocking the shit out of must have stilled.
Dean chanced a glance. Marcel's forearm flexed in his direction, the tattoo glowing bright and the small tail whipping in synch with the much larger version in front of Dean.
"All of this," Dean growled back, "for a friend."
Then Marcel's extra-large-size-12's connected with Dean's face and he sort of felt the back of his head hit the stone floor before he dreamt again like he was already dead and was buried on a field of leafy trees and winds that howled.
WWW
It started raining and Sam's first initial reaction was fear. He'd been following footprints and drag marks, broken twigs and disturbed wheat. And with each step he made, the rain started falling harder and harder, washing away clues of who and where, leaving him circling around and retracing his own steps. He hated second-guessing himself. He paid for it more in time than anything else and he had no idea how much Dean or Eva had to give of that.
Strangely, it wasn't just the rain that had Sam feeling alarmed. Maybe it was the droplets of water hitting his bare skin, chilling it in the night air. But Sam really felt like he was being watched. He looked up at the trees above, their leaves hanging heavy and low, giving cover to groups of wheat but far enough away that Sam was left unguarded. There was something about them that made him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable.
And Sam just didn't do vulnerable well. Especially when he was alone, lost, and frantic.
He checked his cell, saw he had one text message and one missed call. Stupid Sylph must have blocked his calls. Sam immediately tried to return the call but Dean's cell did exactly what he thought it would: went straight to voicemail. Sam had left two messages – Dude, where are you? Are you at the castle? and then four minutes later, I'm trying to get to the goddamn castle thingy. Jesus. Where the hell are you? Did you fall down a rabbit hole? Texted four times. They started off geographically challenged – I'm lost. I see nothing but wheat. Coming 2 U. And then switched to being just plain challenged – Is your phone off or should I be worried? Anybody out there? LOL. Sam's nose started to run. Wished he had a Kleenex. Picked up his phone again and texted – Hey, I ever have allergies as a kid? FML.
Overall, he'd used the phone a dozen times in ten minutes. He was VLA: Vulnerable, lost, and alone.
He was just about to go right when Sam's eye caught on something on the ground. From his vantage point, he swore it was glowing under the minimal amount of light the moon was providing. He bent down and picked it up. Traced the familiar object gently between his index finger and his thumb.
Dean's amulet. Sam looked around, observed the area. It looked like someone – Dean, apparently – had went down on his knees. Sam twirled around… and had went to the left. He checked his ammo – which really just consisted of pulling the sword out from under his coat, gripped its handle and, more importantly, slipped the amulet into the pocket of his jacket. The one with the zipper. Zipped that baby up.
Headed to his left. Traveling only a few yards, he saw the distant shimmer of lights from the massive brick building, felt his feet and his heart speed up as he shoved towards it. From where he was, it looked almost magical, like it was lit up for a Holiday – Christmas or the Fourth of July, all festive and happy.
Sam wedged his body up against the rock and stone as he reached the building. He found a milk crate and pulled it under the window he had hoisted Dean up to see in just the night before. He didn't waste any time. He hopped up on the crate, nestled the sword in between his abdomen and the building and he gingerly pushed up on his tiptoes to get a good look inside.
That's where the action was currently happening. Sam squinted. He watched as two large, baldheaded men with muscles the size of the Rockies escorted a clawing and screaming Eva out of an open doorway. Sam ducked down a smidge as she twisted her body, trying to dislodge the hold they had on her. It was a sight seeing her look so small up against these meat lockers. Sam gulped, felt the crate teeter under him and he placed his weight into his feet to steady himself. Back up on the tips of his toes. Waited to see what scary thing was going to happen next because that's what made his big toe curl.
It was Dean being removed from that room, though, being pulled by a drag chain that was wrapped around his body. Bloody and bruised, cuts sliced into his skin by that asshole Marcel… who was sporting a green lizard like tail… What the…? Well, that wasn't exactly what Sam was expecting.
He watched intently, emptying his senses of everything around him. Just watched as Marcel let go of Dean, his brother's arms falling lifelessly to the floor, his right landing by his head, and his left falling against his chest. Sam noticed the bandana wrapped across Dean's right palm. Even through the dark color of the fabric, he could see the blood seeping through.
Marcel was talking to Thing One and Thing Two, pointing at Eva, gesturing down the hall, arms waving above Dean's body. It was clear he was being loud, giving orders and pointing in different directions but Sam couldn't hear anything from where he was. He could only watch.
Dean's face was pale and pinched, his eyebrows scrunched down, pulling his entire expression into a sad frown. His body was limp and unresponsive. It reminded Sam of a few months back, battling the goddamn rawhead. Well, battling the aftermath of the rawhead.
The flimsy milk crate shook under him again and Sam pushed away from the window to regain his position. He let out a breath, needed to think of a plan yesterday because he knew Marcel was steps ahead of him when he felt it behind him.
It must have been soft footed because he was caught off guard when it snorted, its hot breath blowing Sam's hair forward, the ends clinging to his cheeks. Sam froze. He heard it walk and the crate under him shifted with the movement. Sam's knees bounced as the ground behind him clunked, dirt disrupting under a large weight.
It felt like slow motion as Sam circled around on top of the box, his body moved stiffly in one gesture, and his eyes rounded as he saw what he thought only existed in fairy tales.
A large green dragon sat in front of Sam, its body raising stories above his head, its scaly neck stretching even farther as it opened its large mouth, teeth jagged and sharp, the size of houses, and it roared, a plume of fire escaping on the end of its breath.
I really need to get a picture of this, Sam thought. Bobby's never gonna believe me.
The dragon's neck coiled and wrenched as it screwed its way back down to Earth to get a better look at Sam one eye at a time. Sam stood firm, like he did when he was young and a bully would push him around on the playground. Taller, bigger to make himself look larger than life. But up against this thing? Sam slowly readjusted his grip on Eva's – Evan's – Eva's sword, secured it in his hand and for a fleeting moment wondered how the hell something so small was going to destroy something so enormous. He lined his body up at as best as he could with where he imagined the dragon's heart would be and he pulled back.
The window rattled behind him. Sam slowly looked back and was face to face with one of the bald men. The dude shook a threatening head at him and pointed toward the floor. Sam followed the length of the guy's finger to see Marcel crouching over Dean's body, close enough to kiss him, his brother's own favorite Colt pinned against his head.
Marcel smiled, eyebrows raised and he mouthed the words, "Dead. Man."
Sam was armed. Had his Taurus still tucked up in the inside of his waistband but through a plate glass window and Marcel… Marcel was inches away from Dean. So close. Too close. Sam felt the heat behind him. Unclenched the sword from his grasp and stumbled off the crate. Thing One was out the door and tackling Sam who hit the ground with a wheezy, "Oof!" right before the asshole stripped him of his weapons.
Perfect, Sam thought. Beowulf was never this fucking stupid.
He was on their turf, that much he was aware of, as he walked through the door and down a small entryway. It seemed to be just the three of them that were currently occupying the place. That and the forty-foot dragon outside. A few Latin Hymns, a thrust of the sword and he could easily save them all. Piece of cake.
"Hold still," Thing One grumbled and Sam released a wince as his hair was tugged back, a Ziploc tie bound his wrists and a piece of duct tape was slapped over his mouth.
"Precaution." Marcel smiled but it was dark and plotted.
Sam struggled under the larger man's hold, although it was pointless, his hands were the size of T-bones and Sam would have kindly passed if the guy had challenged him to an arm wrestling contest, let alone the hog-tying event.
"I s-s-see you met my father already." Marcel winked at Sam, his tail thwumping the floor behind him. "He's got my eyes, don't ya think?"
Sam tracked Marcel as he crossed in front of him, pacing excitedly but he wasn't exactly following the dude's train of thought. Had some questions, for whatever this thing was. Really wished he could ask them.
A heavy chain clanked somewhere in the distance and Sam turned his upper torso to get a better look but Thing One was already in motion, wrapping the clunky thing around Sam's neck three times.
"You and I…" Sam turned again, horrified this time. The chain was pulled tighter and he felt a choke in his windpipe. Marcel was standing directly in front of him, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. "You and I," he started again, "are not much different. We're both morph-ph-ph-ing into our next, better s-s-selves." His lips parted and Sam couldn't help but turn away as a long, forked tongue flicked out, coming dangerously close to Sam's own mouth.
"Let's move." Marcel ordered, backing up.
Sam took the opportunity to check his assets. Dean was still knocked out, just in front of him and Eva was slightly behind, beaten and bloody, her hands held together by her own set of Ziploc ties.
Thing One suddenly appeared in Sam's field of vision. "Nighty-Night, Sweetheart," he said but there wasn't anything comforting or sweet about the way he spoke nor the impact of the thug's right elbow smashing into Sam's nose.
It was the distinct feeling of falling and Sam knew he was down on his ass. His head buzzed, begging to let go but he held on to the moment, keeping himself in the here and now, afraid of letting go and waking up alone. Or, not at all. The chain clinked and clanked again, sounding like it was being dragged along the floor and the next thing Sam knew, he body was moving with it, the weight around his neck pulled tight like a noose.
"Sam?"
Sam's legs were pedaling. He pulled on his hands, feeling his shoulders give from the pressure. If he could just pry his fingers in between his neck and the chains, maybe he could give himself some relief. Those fucking ties, though…
"Sammy?"
There was a body being hauled away in the same direction as Sam. His gaze shimmied over a notch and he locked on to Dean's eyes, wild and bright. Dean was being pulled feet first, Sam head, but right at this very moment, they were in fact, shoulder to shoulder.
Still, Sam felt cold and empty. And out of air. He gasped in a breath, felt the constriction of the chains as they took a corner. Dean's body turned and centered again, his arms, in particular, wrapped around his ribs and Sam could see the pain snake itself down his body.
They started to slow up. Someone, who Sam couldn't see, was opening up a door. He could hear the key snick into the lock, a loud thunk as a bolt was retracted, and then the scrape of a large door being open.
Then he heard the screams from inside and his heart started hammering.
Thing One let out a belly laugh, sounded jolly and Santa-like and Sam tried to swallow his fear but it was riding him like a jockey. Regardless of size, he was surrounded by evil and he had no idea their plans for him. That terrified him more than anything. Meg had already gotten her kicks in with his body and it was clear to him: Demons either wanted him to ridicule, torture, or worship. Either way, they wanted their seed planted and Sam had already seen what happened to people when a demon went too deep.
He looked over and saw that Dean was still staring at him. His eyes were all wrong – they were dilated, his pupils blown – and pleading and Sam narrowed his back. Up close and personal, Sam was able to get a good look at the extreme body make over Marcel and the Twins had done on his brother.
Dean looked like shit and, yet, his eyes held on to something that Sam couldn't pinpoint. He couldn't tell if it was fear or need that he was seeing in his brother right then. Sam thought maybe it was both.
Thing Two plodded over to Dean, enormous boots kicked at his back, nudging him to move. Dean bat at him before it was obvious he wasn't going to win this fight. Again.
Sam watched as Dean was pulled up to his feet and was being pushed in the direction of the door. Eva started yelling as Thing One brought her up from the rear. "Come on. Come on. Your turn," he was saying to her but it sounded eager and hungry. Like someone was ringing the dinner bell.
Come and get it. All Drag Queens must go.
Sam thrashed helplessly on the floor, screamed through the tape. It was Dean who stopped right next to him, dropped half way to his knees and whispered, "I take it back, Sam. I'm not going to promise you that. If it's the last thing I do –" Put a bloody hand on Sam's knee. It was reassuring.
Thing Two slammed a fist into Dean's thigh, rammed him roughly ahead.
Sam felt tears sting his eyes. Couldn't be sure if it was lack of oxygen or his brother's spoken and unspoken words but Sam wasn't too sure he believed anyone could save either one of them right now.
He sputtered a soggy, muzzled breath into the tape as his chain was released and he twisted away from the screams and the unknown. Something bright – like a fantastic star – caught his eye and Sam looked up. There was another small window, positioned too high on the wall to enhance anyone's view, but large enough to let in just enough light on a sunny day. Sam frowned. It was dark outside, that much he was aware but as his own vision adjusted, giving his rods and cones time to catch up with each other, he saw that it wasn't the sun after all. It was the eye of the Dragon staring at them through the window.
"We're gonna be okay, Sam!" Dean shouted. A new promise. Shoulda had him sign that one in blood.
Hell, maybe he had.
Marcel bent down. Sam could see his hair was thinning. Shedding, Sam corrected himself. The creature took a step closer to Sam who yelled into the tape.
"Hush now," Marcel soothed. Then reached out meaty hands and wrapped a blindfold over Sam's eyes. There was a loud clanking and Sam felt his body move, his neck pulled from a great force.
He screamed. And something slammed into his head.
Thank Christ. It was lights out.
Playlist:
All by Myself performed by Eric Carmen
-TBC, in 2 days - …no, really, I mean it this time…
