The Bringer – 10
Okay, this was the never ending chapter. I had wanted to get into some Bringer lore, but too many other things had to take place first. It also took forever to post, and I finally resorted to sending it as a text file rather than a Word document. Hope the site fixes that soon.
There's a lot of Sammy crying in this chapter, but it's necessary. I'm not making him into a baby, but if you had been through what this boy has been through, then a drop or two of saline escaping from the eye area should be excused.
Be warned – there is some seriously schmoopy stuff at the end and shocking OOCness for Dean, but dammit, Sammy needed some tenderness, and I wanted to be the one to vicariously give it to him.
Thanks to all who reviewed, and I would love to hear more (hint, hint, hint). I hope to get another chapter out before Friday, so stay tuned!
Enjoy!
The Fouke was tentative as it approached its prey. It was wriggling, but it wasn't trying to run. Was it trying to lure him in? Was it sickly, or perhaps poisonous? Best to kill it quickly and return to its den.
The air was filled with a litany of shitshitshitshit as the monster approached Sam, whose efforts to free himself had failed miserably. The shackles dug into his wrists and ankle, and blood wept from beneath the harsh metal. Remembering that fear had fueled his last bout of telekinesis, Sam attempted to use his emotions to push the monster away. His body trembled with effort and sweat poured from his skin, but the monster was unaffected.
The Fouke clambered on top of the prey but was thrust backward when the prey bent its leg and pushed its foot against the Fouke's chest. Angry, the Fouke sliced the leg causing the prey to retract its injured limb. The Fouke regained its position on top of Sam and began to slash.
As the monster cut him to ribbons, Sam didn't bother holding in his feelings. What did it matter? Dean couldn't save him and he couldn't save himself, so Sam released his carefully pent up emotions in long, jagged screams of anger, pain, hatred, and fear.
At the apex of Sam's latest cry of soul-felt agony, his voice was drowned out by the report of a handgun fired at close range. Blood, brains, and bits of bone splattered into and onto Sam as the Fouke's head disappeared in an explosion of gore. The monster's body slumped forward onto Sam, resulting in a renewed bout of screams, this time tinged with disgust.
The monster had surprised him, and NewDean nearly broke his neck upon impact with the ground. Lucky for him, this area was near the swamp so the ground was a little spongy. He'd had the wind knocked out of him and was considering the best way to move without his insides switching places with his outsides when he heard The Sounds.
The shifter part of him just heard screaming; the Dean Winchester part, however, recognized those screams as his Sammy in mortal danger. The Sounds would not be ignored and whatever was forcing those noises from Sammy had to die…or die again, whatever the case may be. The shifter felt possessed. Could he even be possessed while in another's skin? He didn't know, but it sure felt like he was possessed.
Of its own accord, or so it seemed, the shifter's body rose from where it had fallen, retrieved the gun from the pile of his discarded clothes, turned, and fired. His steady gaze met Sam's, distorted slightly by the heat and smoke rising from the gun muzzle at the end of his outstretched arm.
Sam blinked through the blood and saw the face of Dean Winchester, eyes alive with hate and not a little madness, looking back at him. Exhausted, in pain, and emotionally numbed, Sam allowed the darkness to take him.
"Sammy!" NewDean hurried to the younger man's side and checked for a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief as the beat of life thumped beneath his fingers. He quickly examined Sammy's injuries. Several of the cuts needed stitches and all needed disinfecting. He was particularly concerned about the set of claw punctures on Sammy's left side just below the ribs.
Heedless of his own nudity, NewDean grabbed the first aid kit from the car and worked at dressing the worst of Sammy's injuries. Before releasing the chains, NewDean injected Sammy with a mild sedative. It could be dangerous if Sammy were to wake up before the threat the youngster posed could be contained.
When Sammy was safely tucked into the back of the Impala, the shifter quickly dressed and gathered the scattered equipment. He would have stayed to burn the Fouke's body, but what the hell. Sammy came first, and the strange corpse would give the locals a little thrill.
NewDean drove about twenty minutes and found a small hotel, the Wailing Well Inn, on the outskirts of Texarkana, Texas. He moved Sammy into the room and the ever-present handcuffs secured the unconscious man to the king-size bed. The shifter's hands were quick and sure as they stitched the largest cuts and cleaned the various wounds. Only when he was finished with his ministrations did Sammy wake up.
And Sammy woke up screaming.
He had been injured fighting the alligator when it had taken his mate. Now, his hearing was excruciatingly acute so any unnatural noise stabbed into his brain. The shrill cries coming from the nearby farmhouse were driving him into a killing frenzy. He climbed to the second story and leapt into the open window. The wails increased in pitch as he stood over the crib. A quick movement of his hands and the wails became gurgles, and then all was silence. Not one to turn away an easy meal, he feasted on the tender flesh.
As one vision of the life of the Fouke Monster dissipated, another took its place. Then another. Then another.
It took NewDean almost an hour to retrieve Sammy from the thread of visions. He suffered a painful bite when he tried to muffle Sammy's screams but finally gave up when it seemed that no one was complaining to the motel manager.
When Sammy finally came to awareness, he had had enough. Sam was breaking under the strain of the horrific visions of murder and flesh-eating on the part of the Fouke. He begged for his brother.
"Dean. I want Dean." His mantra repeated itself over and over and hysteria began to creep into his voice.
"Sammy, baby brother, I'm here. I'm right here. Open your eyes. Just open your eyes and see me!" NewDean couldn't get Sammy to so much as acknowledge his presence. He just kept repeating his call for his big brother.
New Dean began to pace, his steps unconsciously keeping time with Sammy's request. He was losing his patience. Not with Sammy, though; the boy couldn't help it. It's just that everything with the Fouke was so fucked up. Why didn't he, or rather OldDean, know that Sammy's shining would react so explosively with Fouke blood? The irrationality of the thought didn't faze him as he pulled out Sammy's cell and hit the speed dial. It picked up in the middle of the first ring.
"It's me"
Frustration was fast becoming Dean Winchester's closest companion. It had followed him for weeks as he had been forced to follow another's bidding. It had hounded him on the way to Sam's last known location as he pushed the Bug to and past its limits. It now seeped into his soul as he stood over the smoldering corpse of the swamp monster he had found in the clearing.
The monster had its head blown off, suggesting rounds fired at close range. The monster also had blood on its claws. If the blood had belonged to the shifter, Dean knew the Fouke wouldn't be the only corpse he'd be burning. Sam would have killed the monster; then he would have killed the Fouke and the Winchester brothers would be roasting marshmallows right now. Therefore, the blood on the creature's claws did not belong to the shifter. Which meant…the blood was Sam's.
The sun had set by the time Dean finished disposing of the Fouke. He returned to the Bug and pulled out the map Candy had given him. He scoured the map and his memory for a likely place the shifter would take an injured Sam. There were two or three hospitals within a half-hour drive from here, but there were probably a hundred little motels. It all depended on how badly Sam was hurt.
Dean pulled out his cell to start calling around when the phone rang. The caller ID said Sam. His finger couldn't hit the button fast enough.
"It's me."
Dean was prepared for some taunts about how he still didn't have Sam. He was ready for some disturbing scenes of rape to be sent to his mailbox. He was even kind of hoping to hear Sam's snarky voice saying that the shifter was dead and where did Dean want to be picked up? Dean didn't expect to be lambasted by a furious version of himself.
"You miserable son of a bitch! This is all your fault. If you were half the hunter you claim to be, you would have known and this wouldn't be happening!" The voice continued on but Dean's attention was grabbed by small sounds in the background. It was Sam. He was calling for Dean.
The shifter continued his tirade, accusing Dean of deliberately hiding the knowledge of a Fouke monster's affects on psychics, of being responsible for Sam's injuries, and for never being around when his brother needed him. That accusation was the last straw for Dean.
Dean and the shifter traded shouts and insults while Sam's cries for Dean continued to build in intensity until both older men were forced to stop their bickering and listen.
Sam's breath was catching in his throat and panic was setting in. The pressure of holding back around the shifter, the humiliation and degradation he felt at each touch by the other, had finally broken through his walls and he could not stop the tears that now coursed down his cheeks.
The shifter was caught. His love for Sammy and his desire to give Sammy whatever he wanted warred with his hatred for OldDean and the hold he still had over the boy.
Dean was caught. He wanted so much to scream and rail against the evil bastard who insisted on keeping his brother from him especially when the younger man so obviously needed him but shouting and loud noises would not calm Sam in the state he had worked himself into.
The shifter lay on the bed next to Sammy and set the phone next to the pillow. The boy jerked away from the nearness and had to be pulled back onto the bed.
In as soothing a voice as he could muster, the shifter said, "Sammy, please. Stop fighting. You're gonna open those stitches. You've got to calm down now, okay?"
Sammy wasn't having it. He struggled against the shifter's hands and said, "You're NOT my brother! You're not Dean, and you couldn't be him in a million years! My Dean would never do this to me."
Sam's accusations were becoming garbled as emotion choked him causing further strain. Something had to give, and that something was Dean.
From the cell phone, a soft melody emerged. It was an old song, little Sammy's favorite song. It was his favorite because his big brother Dean had told him that their mother used to sing it to both of them when they were babies. When Mary Winchester died, lullaby duties became Dean's responsibility.
Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head close to my heart
Never to part
Baby of Mine
Little one, when you play
Don't you mind what they say
Let those eyes sparkle and shine
Never a tear
Baby of Mine
If they knew sweet little you
They'd end up loving you too
And those same people who scold you
What they'd give for just the right to hold you
From your head to your toes
You're so sweet goodness knows
You are so precious to me
Cute as can be
Baby of Mine
During the song, Sammy's tears dried and his breathing eased. He drifted off to the sound, a sound he hadn't heard in more than eighteen years, of his brother singing him to sleep.
When the song was over and Sammy was at peace, the shifter picked up the cell phone and whispered, "Thank you," before hanging up. He kissed Sammy's temple and settled down to sleep.
Dean, his own tears threatening, closed his own cell and whispered to the darkness, "Goodnight Sammy."
"Baby Mine" Lyrics by Ned Washington. From Walt Disney's "Dumbo", 1941