Untitled (Casualties of Conscience) Chapter 7
By J.A. Carlton
aka sifichick
Disclaimer – uh huh
Love – So big!
This one was tough... please R&R...
Dean stewed in confusion ranging from dread to hatred to nearly murderous intent and even began to wonder if the runt was in on it. God knew he couldn't keep a secret but Dean almost felt like Sam was HIS kid, not just his kid brother, he was also acutely aware that as the youngest, he was also the most sheltered. A geyser of hate shot through his nervous system and he broke into a sweat.
He waved goodbye halfheartedly to the bus driver, oblivious to the noise that was coming out of her mouth, and he entered the town of Lakeview.
Once he had his bearings and a large coke in hand he set off toward the motel.
If dad's not there then I'll call Shep and at least see if he knows where Sammy is, and if he's in on it and so help me God… (hey hold on there buddy!... Sammy's only nine. Whatever dad's done it's not his fault!) Tough st! I've spent my life looking after him, the least he could do is get my back! (remember… it's only human… we can't hold them to our standards). He nodded and flushed with warmth, that voice calmed him. You're right of course… he acknowledged to himself.
--
"Sammy!... Samuel Winchester! Open Your Eyes Soldier!" John barked sliding from the table where Caleb's remnants were quickly drying. Sammy's eyes snapped open glistening wetly as they met John's and he shook his head trying to back deeper into the cage, almost willing himself to try and dematerialize through the heavy gauge wires as his father stalked closer. He shook his head feeling one of the finer wires that bound him cutting into his neck, Daddy please!... where's Dean? Why hasn't he woke me up yet? This can't be happening!... I want DEAN!... please come for me Dean… save me, but all he could do was mewl behind the gag.
"Damnit! Easy there Sammy… just hang in there tiger," Bobby soothed gently and strode from the bedroom where less than an hour ago he'd placed John Winchester's suddenly unconscious youngest son, "…answer damnit!" he growled into the phone.
"Yeah, NOT a good time Bobby!" Caleb's voice came over the other end.
"Yeah well make time… Sammy's been down for almost an hour!" Bobby barked.
"What!" Caleb demanded and relayed the information to Shep in the background. Shep's reaction was identical.
"Whatever you guys are gonna do, you'd better do it fast!"
"You're not the one watching John die!" Caleb retorted harshly.
"No I'm the one who's gonna watch his youngest son die! For all we know Dean's already dead! Alone! Man, that's not right!" Bobby yelled and sighed shakily, "Now you figure this out!" he shook the phone as if it were Caleb himself.
"It calls itself Foenwyn… I called Jim but I guess John beat me to it before he lost control… he's been working with some of his contacts for days… so far… they got nuthin'… have you ever heard of it?" Shep was on the phone now.
"No, I already told Caleb I've never heard of it."
"Whatever this thing is it's obviously feeding on John… there's almost nothing left man he's like… it's like it…I don't know… eating him from the inside… we're watching him melt away Bobby so if you know something to do besides get him in an ambulance and to a hospital…"
"No God damned ambulance Shep!" Caleb cursed in the background.
"See what I'm up against? He's gonna die!"
"What's a hospital gonna do?" Caleb asked.
"I know," Shep breathed shakily and returned his focus to the phone as Bobby asked another question, "Huh?"
"Has he told you what he did to Dean? Do you think…? You don't think he'd… do you?"
"God Bobby… at this point, I don't know… he was already pretty far gone when he got here and had me chain him up…"
The line cut for a brief second and though he knew the click of call waiting it still sent a shockwave through him even as young Sammy moaned pleadingly from less than ten feet away.
Hang in there kiddo please… we're doing everything we can… please God make it enough, he prayed silently and heard a nine year olds plaintive plea, not for the mother he'd never really known, and not for the father who was so blinded by grief that he was throwing away his boys' childhoods, but for the one person who loved and protected him without a thought for himself.
"Dean… where are you?" he moaned and broke into a fevered sweat.
The line clicked back, "Bobby, Jim's got something…"
--
Damn, I'm so freakin' thirsty…Dean thought and wished he'd taken his time with that coke. Damned jeans… he grabbed the waistband and pulled them up yet again. He checked the zipper and button but they were both closed, Must be that they're just filthy…he could feel the cauldron of his frustration close to reaching a boil and he stopped in his tracks, a small shaky sob caught in his throat, I don't wanna hurt him…(I just wanna bash his freakin' head in!) I just wanna know what the hell he thought he was doing? Was it me? Did I do something wrong? And what about Sammy? None of this could be his fault… what was I thinking? (they're animals… they don't feel things like we do) he heard that strange voice again and while part of him wanted to believe it, he wasn't sure he did anymore. His rage seemed to be flowing out of him with the rivers of sweat that soaked his clothes. His body felt impossibly heavy as he slumped down on the curb, folded his arms on his knees and rested his head just for a minute. If he'd been well, Dean would have perhaps moved on a bit, but in his current state all his alarm wires were as good as cut, and as the protective and motivating force that was his fury leeched out of him, he failed to realize he was being watched.
--
Flash/click, buzz, flip; flash/click, buzz, flip; Oh God I died and the cops are taking pictures of my corpse! Sounds like our old polaroid… geez Sammy loved that thing… loved to watch the film slide out from under that little curl of… whatever it was… I guess I'm what? Waiting to become a ghost then? Yeah.. I got some unfinished bid'niss…he chuckled at the same time as he registered cool air on his body.
"Welcome back my little friend… did you have a nice little nappie?" a breathy, high pitched voice flew into his ear and quickly spliced his alarm wires back together so they could clang in his head.
"Yes… I was always partial to a cool breeze myself," that voice said softly and Dean felt a clammy cool palm on his cheek as his eyes came open and he scrambled away from that serpentine touch.
Holy Mother of God tell me this isn't happening! he ground in disbelief as he took in the room.
The walls were cement sealant gray and plastered with polaroids of children, mostly boys, but a few girls as well, all in various states of undress, almost every one of them crying despite the coquettish poses they were obviously pressured into assuming.
Dean's belly flipped over and threatened to heave even as the pilot light under his temper ignited and he looked at the owner of that damned creepy voice.
He was in his late twenties, wearing a ratty looking bouffant wig and sporting fire engine red lipstick that looked like it had been smeared all over his lower face. Christ I'm gonna puke! Please don't let me puke… His teeth were yellow and grimy and he stank of stale body odor and cigarettes, God that smell… don't think about it dude… don't puke! keep your head! Dean warned himself and scrambled toward the corner as the creep reached for him. He felt a jerk at his wrist and realized he was bound. Oh st! Not tied too…thank god… only one hand.
"Just relax honey… it's gonna be okay… momma's gonna take good care of you…"
Oh yeah! no mental problems here! Momma my ass… freakin' psycho freak! Dean scoffed internally and swallowed hard knowing he had to look, he had to see. His left hand was bound to the cheesy metal bed frame by a thick hemp rope, This I can get out of, he thought gulping hard as he forced himself to look and see what state he was in. He didn't hurt anywhere besides the pains he'd felt before so that was at least one good thing. He felt hot acid in his throat as it came to him bit by bit that he was tied up in a psycho child molesters place, and that he was naked to his underwear and sporting fire engine red smears all over his chest and belly. Please God nowhere else… please… he prayed and despite his anger felt tears coming. Alright, evil is evil… what do we do with Evil? (We shoot it in the head with consecrated rounds! that's what we do with evil!)
"So young… so strong… how old is momma's little man now?" he asked grasping Dean by the chin and forcing him to look into those way-gone eyes.
"Th… thirteen…" Dean answered looking frantically for his pack.
"Ahhh… now… bad little boy needs to pay attention to momma… cause if he doesn't…" Psycho-freak let the sentence hang just long enough for Dean to actually almost become curious before the barrel of his .9mm came up and was pressed against his temple just enough to get the point across. Oh you so have this coming! Dean sneered inside at the sight of his gun so close.
"Momma doesn't like to punish…"
But 'momma psycho-freak' didn't get to finish the sentence. He never, in the seventeen years that he'd been molesting, torturing and killing children had one that had been trained like Dean Winchester.
'momma psycho-freak' barely had time to register what happened as his most recent acquisition, such a strapping young man at that, palm struck him with his loose right hand, in just the right place to force his septum back into his brain while at the same time kicking precisely at just the right spot in the jaw to dislocate the bone and leave it pressed against a vital artery, cutting the brain's blood supply.
Dean set to work quickly, using his teeth to untie the knot in the rope and climbed off the bed, his face hard and cold as he reached down and took his gun into his left hand, his trigger finger a dull throb somewhere in the back of his awareness. He stood over 'momma psycho-freak' and cocked the pistol, pointing it right between his eyes, "Keep your hands off my gun you sick son of a bitch!" he snarled quite satisfied with the look of confusion on his would-be assailant's face as he lay on the floor, his heart beat barely visible in his throat.
"This… this is too fast for you," he nodded and flipped the safety back on.
In less than ten minutes he was dressed with all of his possessions in tact and secured into his pack as he stood in psycho-freaks back yard with a dozen pictures of himself, unconscious, being undressed and bound, piled in the little grill he'd found. His features remained hard, unreadable and he felt filthy in a way he wasn't sure he could ever clean. He squeezed the lighter fluid onto the pile until the fumes burned his nose. This didn't happen… no evidence, no problem. When someone finally finds him… well the other pictures will explain well enough. He struck the wooden matchstick and stood back as he threw it onto the saturated pile of polaroids and watched them go up. He was lucky the guy hadn't put any pictures of him on the walls yet but he'd had to make sure. He'd looked at each and every one of the 987 pictures, (he'd counted them too) and he knew those images would live somewhere in his mind always. There were a couple of kids that had reminded him of Sammy and he'd shuddered, nearly pulling them down. So help me God if I never do another thing in my life I will never tolerate someone hurting a kid… NEVER!
That night with his pictures turning to ash behind him, Dean Winchester turned his back on the possibility of ever being a child again.
TBC
sifi
