Better to burn out – than fade away

Chapter 11 – Going sideways and then some

The big black car was the first thing Bobby noticed as he swung into the motel car lot. It was still illuminated by the one working street lamp, still parked up and watching over the boys. The second thing he noticed was the door to their motel room standing slightly ajar.

It'd barely been forty-five minutes since he'd spoken to Sam and he'd nearly killed himself getting back. But past experience had taught him it didn't matter how long you had – evil always found a way. He pulled up sharply and reached for the 45 stashed in the glove compartment. It wasn't much, not as good as a decent double barrel but it was better then walking in there buck naked. Now he just had to pray he wasn't too late. He steeled himself and slid from the cab, mentally preparing for whatever was in that room.

Silently making his way forward, Bobby crept to the doorway and stole a furtive glance through the narrow gap. The room was in near darkness, the faint glow of Sam's laptop the only source of light casting an eerie yellowish hue to the interior. The bed where he'd left Dean was empty; so either he'd walked out of there under his own steam or someone else had walked in and taken him. Waiting until his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he ducked down and inched his way through the door, noticing the broken lamp on the floor…and then the large dark shape that was Sam.

He was lying on his back, face turned away, showing just enough of a large red welt in the dim light. The bruise was right on the sweet spot of his jaw line too, pretty much Dean's trademark move. Had Dean done this? That boy was always accurate if nothing else. Bobby focussed on Sam's chest until he could be sure of movement, sure that he was breathing, and then returned to the job at hand. He hadn't survived this long as a hunter by being gung-ho and he wasn't about to start now. Slowly he eased into the room, his aim following his eye line. It only took him a minute to sweep the bedroom and bathroom and then crouch down by the unconscious man.

"Sam?" He touched his throat, feeling for a pulse – slow but strong. 'Well at least one Winchester was going to live to fight another day'.

Just as Bobby reached out again, Sam swung his arm wildly, catching the older man and nearly sending him toppling to the floor. Wide-eyed and questioning, Sam groaned as he tried to sit up…and failed miserably, flopping to the side and hitting his head on the floor again.

"Easy, Sam, take it easy." Bobby's voice was all the focus Sam needed and he opened bleary eyes, turning his head towards the older man.

"Bo…Bobby?"

"Sam? Who took your brother? Come on, Sam, look at me."

"No-o…Didn't take, he j...swent."

Right at that moment, Sam looked like one of the sorriest sights Bobby Singer had ever clapped eyes on, but there was no time to feel pity, Dean needed to be found. "So…he up and walked out of here?"

"Bobby…his eyes were…they were…red." Sam twisted on the floor, forcing his knees under him and once again trying to find the leverage to get up.

Swiping one palm over short whiskers Bobby reached round under Sam's arm, helping him to sit propped against the bed. "We'll deal with that when the time's right, Sam, but for now we just gotta find him and get him back here. Think you can walk?"

Watching the younger man nod, Bobby stood up and gently helped him to stand, supporting him as he swayed unsteadily. "Okay then, well take my truck…Let's go find your brother."

Stepping out into the cool night air, Sam steadied himself on the doorframe. The dull ache in his jaw was still there and throbbing like a bitch, but at least his head was clearer now. "Where do we start, Bobby, any ideas?"

Before the older man could answer, their attention was immediately drawn to the flashing lights of the ambulance speeding towards the parking lot of the 'Hickson's Bar' over the road, and the small crowd that was now gathering at the mouth of the side alley.

Both hunters shared a silent look. Neither wanted to voice their suspicions out loud – to acknowledge what that ambulance could mean…but both men knew only too well that coincidences didn't happen in their lives. Crossing the road quickly, Bobby took the lead. If Dean was the person in need of that ambulance…?

"You go inside, Sam, find out what you can. Meet me back here in a few minutes."

Watching the youngest Winchester work his way to the swing doors, Bobby walked quietly over to the first bystander he saw; a tall, gaunt looking kid with a thatch of spiky blond hair and a spiky attitude to match. "Hey, kid. You know what's going on?"

The skinny youth looked Bobby up and down slowly before deciding to answer. "Looks like some guy's been stabbed in the throat; think he's dead. There was gunfire too. Cops are on their way…but that weird dude with a thing for jukeboxes? He just up and vanished. I'd put money on it being him, man. He was weird."

A thing for jukeboxes? Bobby couldn't decide whether that sounded like Dean or not, but if there was any chance he'd got away rather than ending up dead in an alley…hell, he was gonna roll with that. "Can you remember what he looked like, this weird guy?"

The kid shrugged, he was far more interested in the excitement going on around the ambulance. "Tall…dark hair…I don't know?"

"Can you remember what he was wearing?"

"No man, I don't know."

Bobby pushed round to face him, deliberately obstructing his view of the commotion in the alley. He spoke slowly and with more than a hint of menace. "Would you recognise him if you saw him again?" He definitely had this kid's attention now.

"Don't know…maybe?" The boy didn't look too comfortable; in fact he looked like talking to this gruff old timer was rapidly becoming one huge mistake.

From his back pocket Bobby took out a battered credit card holder and flipped it open. "Was this him?"

The photo was of both Sam and Dean, propped up on the hood of the Impala, both wearing stupid grins and Dean holding up a beer in silent salute. "Yeah, sure, that could be him, I guess."

"Now were getting somewhere. So when was the last time you saw him?" Out of the corner of his eye Bobby saw Sam walking back from the bar and hastily closed the holder, tucking it back in his pocket. He had no desire to explain why he carried around a picture of those two boys. Dean Winchester wasn't the only hunter with an aversion to chick flick moments.

"Told you, man, he just up and left, don't know where he went, just leave me alone." The kid scurried away, looking over his shoulder just once as Sam arrived next to Bobby, still gently rubbing at the sore spot on his jaw. He shook his head at the older man.

"The ambulance is for a guy called Ed, local bully by all accounts, picked fights all the time but didn't usually lose. But as far as Dean, there's nothing, Bobby. No-one knows anything, might not have been him…but my guts telling me he was here."

"I recon he was here all right, Sam. But I ain't sure we should be pleased about it." He'd barely finished speaking when his phone chirped, signalling a message.

Silently watching as Bobby retrieved his phone, Sam caught the look of fear as it flashed across his face before he had a chance to hide it. "Bobby? What is it?"

Holding up the handset, he let Sam read the two words printed on the screen…knowing it would mean nothing to him…knowing he had more explaining to do. The message simply read 'gone sideways' followed by a set of co-ordinates.

ooooo

Laughter.

That was all he could hear to start with, and then a voice, but he didn't recognise it. It wasn't Sam, he knew that, and it wasn't Bobby either.

He tried to speak, to ask where he was but his body felt like a dead fish on a slab, his tongue a useless lump of cotton wadding in his mouth.

An engine. He could hear an engine. But it wasn't a V8…it wasn't his baby.

And there was that laughter again. A nervous laugh, belonging to someone far more unsure of themselves than they cared to let on. Someone was talking and Dean strained to listen, trying to get some clue to where he was.

"That was nice shooting, kid. Lucky you didn't kill him outright." The voice was gruff, but not old and held more than a hint of irony.

"Yeah. That's me…I did that, always hit what I'm aiming at." This one was younger and his tone didn't match his words. He sounded scared, terrified actually. "Recon Cobb's gonna be pleased?"

"Who the hell knows? Wouldn't want to second guess what that man would be pleased about."

Dean could feel someone close by, could sense their presence but he was too tired to care. He was used up; empty. And so he let himself drift…catching only the briefest of snatches of what was going on around him.

"Trust me, kid, this guy had it coming."

"You're telling me. If you'd seen what he did to the dude in that alley? Man…That ain't no way to die."

"It's what's called a reciprocal world, kid. Everyone gets what's coming to them sooner or later, and this guy's gonna get his sooner…that's all."

Then the laugh again, and Dean heard nothing more as the darkness slowly covered him like a blanket, twisting around him in a protective layer of shadow.

ooooo

The lakeside boatshed was officially in use, but in name only.

The stench of salty mildew and dry rot was enough to keep most people at bay, and even those who wished to work on their crafts chose the freshness of the open air, rather than brave that dark dank structure. Cobb had chosen well.

Dean woke to a steady loud dripping in his ear. It sounded close and made him thirsty. His throat was on fire and his neck felt tight, making it difficult to breath and he could taste blood and ash in his mouth…and the sickening tinge of sulphur. Carefully, he opened his eyes but only one lid moved…the lashes of the other glued with dried blood and grit. He tried to cough but had no energy for the action so instead concentrated on his breathing; in through the nose, out through the mouth. 'Sam?'

His chest felt heavy with the effort, and it was more than a little worrying that he couldn't feel much from the waist down except the cold. 'Definitely had better days, and where the hell was Sam?' He struggled to remember, to cast his mind back to the last time he'd seen his brother but all he could come up with was lying in a bed, feeling way too hot for comfort and listening to the tapping as Sam's fingers worked the keyboard of his laptop.

His shirt had been removed and there was a large bloodstained bandage wrapped around his chest. Another wad of gauze was strapped to a wound on his thigh but he couldn't feel it. Sensation was slowly returning though, and as he tried to lift his head the tightness in his neck was replaced by sharp white pain, lancing up the side of his face and settling in behind his eyes.

Letting out a groan he let his head hang down again hoping some of the pain would subside, but instead it turned to a dull throb.

Most of what he could see from his position was the floor. And there, drawn in bright yellow chalk was a large devils trap. It only took Dean a second to realise he was sitting right in the middle of it, tied to a wooden chair with wet rope twisted round both wrists and ankles. The rope was drying, slowly biting into his skin…he wouldn't be worming his was out of those bonds anytime soon. Whoever had tied him, knew what they were doing.

He looked at the floor again, the sight of the devils trap doing more to galvanise him into action than any amount of pain. He forced his head up and felt the pull of the bandage taped to the wound on his neck. The vague memory of someone he didn't recognise, laughing at him and telling him he'd been shot, drifted into his mind but it made little sense. Scrunching his eyes he took a deep breath and forced them both open feeling the tug of his lashes as they pulled apart and finally, he could take in the rest of the dank room.

Small beams of early morning light slid through rotting holes in the wooden walls, allowing him more of a look at his surroundings. The damp timber floorboards were a rainbow of slimy greens and browns, the damp making the yellow chalk of the sigil glow thickly against the wood. At regular intervals there were large metal rings fused to the floor where boats could be moored – if anyone ever had the inclination to use the place. Against the nearest wall, a pile of wooden trunks; all padlocked but one…and that was overflowing with nautical wares. Ropes, some chain, what looked like an old style flare gun and an old tarpaulin that had all seen better days.

And he was alone. But he wondered how long that would last. Whoever had left him there must've had a reason, which probably meant they'd be back sooner rather than later.

The throbbing in Dean's head was blossoming into a full on base line and he winced at the white pain behind his eyes…

…but it was nothing to the agonising layers of memory that suddenly came crashing down as the curtain of fog was ripped away in Dean's mind, displaying all he was, and all he ever had been. Putting it all on show and playing it out in Technicolor inside his head.

The action replay of what the demon had forced his body to perform was a dim nightmare of shared experience but he didn't doubt its validity for a moment. He remembered in a jumble of images…He saw the woman putting her body on display…felt the throbbing music wind up his arms as he held tight to the jukebox…he saw the look on Sam's face as he swung hard enough to break his jaw…and…he saw the look in the big man's eyes as his throat was pulled out, his life ebbing away into the asphalt…

And he sobbed at the memories. For what his weakness had allowed the demon to do through him…for the innocent man who was now dead at his hand…And for Sammy, deserted, unprotected and confused…

The wooden panel door swung open with a deep groan, and Dean knew he wasn't alone anymore. Blinking away the tears, he looked up…right into the sour face of Stanley Cobb.

TBC