Well, i finally have my computer back, sort of, guh . . . i hate it now!! Anywho, as promised, a new chappy...sorry about the wait and thanks for understanding!! thanks for reading and for all the awesome reviews...hopefully the chappy doesn't disappoint. bambers;)
Chapter Eleven
Dean parked in the far back corner of the school parking lot, and waited and watched for Coach Driscoll to leave the building. From what he had learned of the coach, Dean knew it would be a while before the older man left the school as he coached wrestling after classes were done for the day, so he settled in for the long haul.
After what seemed the longest time, more cars pulled into the parking lot, and kids about Sam's age began to filter out of the building. Dean sunk down further in his seat as he scanned the crowd, and spotted Driscoll talking to another teacher as they both headed toward the parking area. Completely oblivious of that fact that Dean was studying him, the coach threw back his head and laughed freely, while chatting with a dark-haired woman.
That sonuvabitch. Dean's grip on the steering wheel tightened as he fought the urge to jump out of the car and attack the man who had brutally attack Sam. He's just freakin' actin' like he didn't do anything wrong . . . it doesn't even bother him that he raped an innocent kid.
Driscoll parted company with the woman and veered off to the right, heading toward dark blue four door sedan, parked not too far away from the Impala. He slid behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and then the engine roared to life. The moment the coach pulled out of the parking area, Dean turned the key in the ignition, revved the engine and peeled out onto the road, in pursuit of the coach.
Careful to stay several car lengths behind Driscoll, Dean kept his sights on the sedan, making sure he didn't lose the coach in the rush hour traffic. As Driscoll passed by the pizza parlor he had kidnapped Sam from, Dean noticed how the older man slowed to almost a crawl as he peered inside the windows. Apparently not finding who he was looking for, Driscoll proceeded down the main street with Dean following close behind.
The coach made a left onto a quiet side street, then a right onto Mockingbird Lane, and pulled into the driveway. Dean pulled off to the side of the road, and killed the engine. After a few seconds, Driscoll got out of his car and headed toward a white two-story colonial with black shutters.
Dean glanced around at all the other homes in the area and couldn't help the look of genuine surprise that flitted across his features. For some reason he had expected the coach to live in a rundown dwelling nestled amongst other crumbling shacks, and wasn't prepared for how normal and slightly upscale the houses actually were. Although a few of the homes looked as if they could use a fresh coat of paint, none of them looked as if they falling apart.
As he watched to see if the wrestling coach would leave his home, Dean went over everything Sam had told him about the attack. The sicko had taken him to someplace with painted basement windows, but from his vantage point, Dean couldn't be certain if Driscoll's home was where the assault had occurred. His stomach churned, tears springing to his eyes as he recalled Sam mentioning that pictures of other victims littered the walls. Sam had said that he had heard the coach snapping off pictures of him as well. And that thought alone had Dean slipping out of the Impala, and heading over to Driscoll's home. I'll be damned if I let that sonuvabitch keep Sammy's pictures as some sort of sick, twisted trophy.
Dean cautiously edged his way around to the back of the house, and as he did, he noted that the dwelling was completely surround on three sides with tall, bushy hedges affording Driscoll the privacy he needed to abuse young boys without prying eyes watching his every move. Dean had also noticed the two car garage, and knew that if the coach had a automatic door opener, he could easily get his victims inside the house without other people being any the wiser.
As he approached the first of the three small basement windows, Dean squat to get a better look, and cursed under his breath when he saw they were painted black just like his little brother had said. Leaning in closer, he cupped his hands over his eyes and tried to peer inside the basement, but the room was too dark to see anything.
Damn it, I have to get inside there. He raked his hand through his scruffy hair as he glanced around the yard and the backside of the house. Two large windows flanked either side of the back door, and he counted four more on the second floor of the home. With Driscoll at home, Dean's best option was to somehow shimmy through one of the basement windows and lower himself to the ground below. Settled on his course of action, Dean tried the first of the three windows, but found that it had been painted shut, but the second one slid roughly open after a few minutes of toying with it. Sizing up the narrow opening, Dean then glanced down at his lean frame, and grimaced. There's no way in hell I'm gonna fit through there. For a moment or two longer he stared at the opening before abandoning the idea. If I get stuck in there, there's no way in hell I'm gonna get back out, an' Dad would kick my ass for not listening to him.
Frustration now warred with the need to get Sam's pictures back from the rapist who had cruelly taken them. There has to be another way . . . I'll just wait till he leaves an' break in. With that determined, Dean made his way back around to the side of the house, and abruptly had to duck back as he saw Driscoll exiting the front door with his car keys in hand. Who says Winchester luck is all bad.
Dean slipped back behind the house, and before he even heard the coach's car engine raor to life, he had already picked the lock on the door and had entered the house. Again, he stood in stunned shocked at how normal the home appeared. Trophies lined the mantle over the fireplace, and hanging above those were pictures of wrestling teams Driscoll had coached. The decor itself was decidedly masculine, the couch and chair both dark brown leather. A large hunting scene hung over the couch with two pictures of deer flanking either side of it. Sports magazines littered the coffee table, and were also stacked on the floor beside a cushioned rocking chair.
Although from outward appearances, Driscoll and his home seemed perfectly normal upon a casual glance, Dean knew better, and the padded lock he spied on the basement door proved he wasn't wrong. He made his way to the door and easily picked the lock, then flung open the door to the dank, musty basement.
Flipping on the light switch, Dean took a deep breath to calm his trembling nerves and headed down into the basement. At the bottom step, he hesitated as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. Hastily covering his hand over his mouth, he fought back the bile rising in his throat as he peered around at the pictures of young boys pasted over every spare inch of wall space.
A double bed with dirty, rumpled sheets sat in the middle of the room with a camera stand situated near the foot of the bed. Rusty colored droplets of blood stained the sheets and pillowcases, but whether it was Sam's blood or someone else's, Dean had no idea.
Averting his eyes from the sight before him, Dean stepped into the damp basement, and began the loathsome task of finding his brother's pictures mingled amongst the others. "Oh God, Sammy," he murmured as studied over all the photos of boys who looked strikingly similar to his little brother. "How could that sonuvabitch do this to you?" Angrily swatting back the tears that blurred his vision, he slowly made his way around the room.
On a low shelf beside the bed, Dean spotted various sex toys, and he lost it completely. The bile that had threatened before, rose swiftly in his throat. With his hand over his mouth, he bolted for the small bathroom at the far corner of the room. Throwing open the toilet lid, he wretched violently. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the cool tile floor as he continued to heave long after there was nothing left in his stomach.
As his stomach finally began to settle, he slid back against the wall and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Tears spilled down his cheeks unchecked as he wrapped his arms around his folded legs. Slowly rocking back and forth, he eyed the outer room, terrified to move from his spot for fear of what else he might find. God, Sammy . . . I'm so sorry . . . I can't do this.
From his position on the floor, he spied a torn, blood-stained t-shirt sticking out from beneath the bed, and that was all it took for his stomach to begin churning once more. The horrifying image of Sam uselessly struggling to break free from Driscoll played over and over before Dean's eyes as he hurtled himself toward the toilet and threw up again.
On shaky legs, Dean slowly made his way to his feet. Gripping hold of both sides of the sink to steady himself, he glanced at himself in the mirror. Tired eyes, red-rimmed, puffy and lacking any sign of life or warmth stared back into his own. His face was drawn and haggard, several days growth of stubble lining his jaw.
If his ragged appearance was any gage of how well he was handling Sam's assault, Dean would have to say he was nosediving fast into shark infested water with no hope of rescue. Severe lack of sleep was starting to take its toll on him, but whenever he tried to close his eyes, silent fears crept into his heart that if someone attacked his little brother while he was asleep, he would fail to protect him again. Constant guilt tore away at his insides, making it virtually impossible to eat much less keep it down if he did manage to get some food into his system. And then there was the even deeper guilt that came from the moment he was secretly relieved that it hadn't happened to him. That guilt cut deep into his soul, making it even hard to breathe at times.
"This is all my fault, Sammy," he cried, body trembling as he once again sunk to his knees. "If that damn car wasn't actin' up, I would've been there . . . you wouldn't have been alone." Heartbroken sobs racked his body as he lowered his head and fisted his fingers through his hair. "I'm so damn sorry, Sammy . . . how can I ever ask you to forgive me for this?"
For the longest time, he sat there on the bathroom floor, too broken and terrified to move. Every thought of what Sam must have suffered plagued his mind and shattered his battered heart all the more. His eyes stung as seemingly endless tears leaked down his flushed cheeks to soak his t-shirt. He drew his legs even closer to his chest, huddling into a tight ball as he continued to rock back and forth, wishing he could just disappear completely.
Dean, get up, you have a job to do, came his father strong and assuring voice, breaking through the darkness that now surrounded Dean. You're my son. You're soldier, and soldiers stay strong in the face of any conflict. Now get up, an' do what you came here to do.
Dean lifted his head and dried away the tears streaming down his cheeks with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. His father was right, he had a job to do. Driscoll needed to suffer for what he had done to Sam, and Dean was hellbent on making him pay for what he had done in the worst possible way. Never before had he ever imagined wanting to take another person's life, but with every fiber of his being he wanted to kill the monster who had brutally raped his brother. And if he were to admit it, if only to himself, that was the reason he had broken into Driscoll's home in the first place.
Don't worry little brother, when I'm through with that sonuvabitch, you'll never have to worry about him ever again.
Rising to his feet, Dean scoured the entire room yet again, searching through every graphic picture until he found every single photo of Sam that Driscoll had taken. Sickened by the sight of them, Dean hastily stuffed them in his jacket pocket so that he could destroy them later. He then headed back upstairs and closed and locked the door behind him.
Methodically, he worked his way through Driscoll's home, going through all his belongings as if he was on a hunt and was researching his prey. Unlike the basement, the rest of the home yielded no telling information about the monster that dwelled within the walls of the house. But what he had discovered in the cellar belied the normalcy that the coach had tried so hard to achieve. And just because he didn't have smoldering black eyes of a demon or sharpened fangs of vampire, didn't mean he wasn't evil. And it was Dean's job to kill every damn evil sonuvabitch that threatened innocent lives, and as far as he was concerned, Driscoll fit that description to perfection.
He moved to stand beside of one of the upstairs windows, and pulling back the curtain ever-so-slightly so he could see the monster pull back in the driveway, he waited.
