AN: So, this chapter got really long! But I had certain things that I wanted to get accomplished, so I just wrote until they were done. *shrugs*
Some warnings as before: here there be violence.
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Sam wasn't even fully awake before he realized that the nightmare was actually reality. How disappointing. He rolled over and the pain in his aching body surprised a low groan out of him. Every inch of him felt bruised. The front of his clothes was slightly damp and the rest felt uncomfortably stiff.
Four of the satyrs came in and Sam suddenly remembered that he needed to tell Dean that that's what the goat guys were, despite their distinct lack of horns.
Dean was staring at Sam in the mirror. His eyes practically boiled, but his words were so cold. He turned his back on Sam's outstretched hand, but Sam was still stuck on what his eyes had been saying. There had been apology there, he was sure of it.
But Dean was gone before Sam woke up enough to figure it out.
Now without an audience, Sam groaned louder getting to his feet. And, oh, his feet. Just walking the few steps to use the toilet reopened some of the cuts, and he hissed as they began to bleed again.
After he was finished, and finished washing his hands, Sam stuck his face under the tap and drank as much as he could stand. Then, painfully, he washed his feet in the sink one at a time, then washed off the rest of any open wounds the best he could.
His muscles were still screaming, and Sam knew he had to limber up. Reluctantly, he began to stretch. It sucked as much as he'd thought it would, but it helped too.
Sam thought as he stretched. He knew that 1984 was one of the few books that he and Dean had discussed at length. It had taken him a while to figure out, but he was pretty sure that that's what Dean had been trying to tell him. Big Brother is watching you. Sam's eyes flicked to the camera in the corner of the room. He'd rather have his big brother.
Then today, Dean had talked about when Sam was six and Dad said he was too big to sleep in Dean's bed. But... Dean hadn't let him go through his nightmares alone.
Was Dean really giving him messages? That he was being watched and that he still had Sam's back?
Sam hated that he had doubts...but he did. He still heard Dad's words, and the damning silence as Dean failed to defend him. Sam took a long breath as he grabbed his ankles to stretch his hamstrings. His body was hurting, he was hungry and scared and exhausted, and it was all messing with his head. Since he didn't know what to believe, he'd choose what he always did. He'd choose to believe in Dean.
Long before Sam felt anywhere close to limbered up, Propos burst through the door and shoved Sam's backpack at him.
Sam was a lot of things, but a slow study wasn't one of them. He quickly pulled on the backpack and started after the satyr.
The trip down the side of the canyon was no less nerve wracking, but at least Sam was expecting it, and he was ready to be dumped on the ground. The run was pure misery. Oh, his muscles soon warmed up, and he remembered where to go most of the time, so he didn't get hit as often. But his feet were in agony. There was no way to land a step without pain, even where the ground was smooth.
The pain turned Sam's stomach, but he knew that he had to eat and drink. When he went to dig food and water out of the backpack, he noticed that he less of each than the day before, and a tendril of fear wormed through him. He couldn't survive if they kept giving him less. He'd gone to bed hungry last night; he would go to bed more than hungry tonight.
The run seemed a little shorter, which meant it was five minutes short of forever.
In some ways, the obstacle course was easier than running, because there were some places his feet got a break. But at the jump over the fissure, his feet nearly finished him. As Sam took off, a sharp rock dug into the arch of his right foot. Sam unintentionally pulled his foot up to avoid the shooting pain, killing his momentum.
It was too late to stop his jump, and Sam threw his body forward, knowing he was going to come up short. Somehow, the upper half of his body landed on the far side of the fissure, and he desperately dug his fingers into the hard ground. Sam felt himself sliding backwards as a fingernail pulled free and knew he was a few seconds away from joining the bones waiting at the bottom.
There was a heavy thud as Propos landed next to him. Sam looked up, still sliding. He half expected a hand to reach down and help, but the satyr simply folded and arms. There was nothing in his eyes except mild disappointment.
For the first time, it truly struck home just how alone Sam was out here. He'd never hunted alone; Dean and Dad always had his back. On this canyon floor, there was no one. Staying alive was completely up to him.
Maybe it was a weird reaction, but the realization didn't make Sam despair. It galvanized him. You think I'm about to die, don't you, you stupid satyr? Well, I am not.
With a heave, Sam got his left toes up onto the edge. He crawled them forward until his whole foot, then lower leg and knee were on the ledge. Then he heaved again, getting his body up and rolling away from the edge, likely crushing all his food.
So there, jackass, said Sam's inner voice, which tended to sound like Dean.
Propos didn't let Sam catch his breath. He poked Sam in the shoulder with that damn stick. "Up!"
As Sam continued on, the satyr started up with complaints about how he'd gotten the weaker brother, about how slow and pathetic Sam was, and so forth. It was same song, new verse of what Sam had heard all day, so he mostly tuned it out.
They stopped about halfway through the obstacle course, and Sam was too grateful to look a gift horse in the mouth. He ate and drank like a madman and gratefully appreciated the shade.
Shade? Sam looked around. They were inside the end of the fissure that had almost claimed his life. Something Propos was saying caught his attention.
"Huh?"
Propos smacked Sam's shin almost absently because he'd dared to talk. "Today is your first fight day. If you don't acquit yourself well, the mistress will probably just eat you for dinner."
Fight day?
All too soon, Propos made Sam get up and they walked farther into the cleft. There were other satyrs there, some with the strange guns they sometimes carried. Propos slapped a long knife into Sam's hand. "Try to use this against me and I'll gut you," he growled, then gave Sam a hardy shove.
Sam recovered his balance and saw that the satyrs had formed a rough square around him, with the walls of the mini canyon making up two of the sides.
It felt like any high school fight, except the stakes were so much higher.
A few of the satyrs brought out big dog cages, the type you might use to take a large dog on an airplane. At an unseen signal, they opened the doors, and a couple handfuls of jackalopes tore out. That sounded funny, but it was not.
Jackalopes, while small, were no joke. Constantly ravenous, with mouths full of razor sharp teeth, they were the piranhas of the supernatural world. And they swarmed the closest target -- Sam. Any that tried to go toward the satyrs were beaten back.
It was a dirty, messy fight. Sam got bitten a few times, and killed more than few by simply smashing them into the rocks beneath his feet.
As some of the satyrs picked up the bodies and others traded money in obvious bets, Sam reasoned that the jackalopes were never supposed to beat him. Like dogs in a bear hunt, the jackalopes were to bleed, tire, and weaken Sam before the real fight.
The next opponent wasn't too bad, though. If such a thing existed, Sam would have called it a vampire. But it was frantic and starved and if it hadn't tried mindlessly to rip out Sam's throat, he would have felt guilty killing it, especially since it looked almost human.
He had no time to clean the blood off his hands before a chupacabra was charging him. There was no subtlety in its attack either, and Sam had little trouble dodging its attacks and inflicting damage with the knife. The chupacabra got wise and began to circle him, but too late; it was actively bleeding out.
There was a commotion among the satyrs that Sam couldn't afford to be distracted by. A dying monster was a very dangerous monster, so Sam ignored everything except the growling chupacabra across from him. Until he couldn't.
Until a white haired satyr he vaguely recognized stepped right between Sam and his opponent. "Might as well shoot both brothers," it cackled, sounding more than a little insane. Then he raised the gun and pain exploded across Sam's chest.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back struggling to draw a breath. Then the chupacabra jumped onto his chest and added to the pressure. Sam could barely hold the slavering jaws away from his neck. Blood and saliva sprayed Sam as he wondered which would happen first -- would he pass out from lack of oxygen, or would the chupacabra rip out his throat?
But neither happened. The chupacabra slowed, then stiffened and toppled over onto its side, blood loss finally catching up to it.
Sam shoved it away and rolled onto his side, trying to remind his lungs how to work. Slowly, they began to obey. Sam laid there, recovering, and suddenly, desperately, wanted his brother. Wanted Dean to kneel next to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and remind him that breathing isn't rocket science. Wanted Dean to tease and distract and somehow make the pain less and tell him, hang in there, kiddo.
If Sam didn't get up, he might never see Dean again. He wasn't entirely sure Dean still wanted to see him, but it was still enough motivation to struggle upright.
The white haired satyr was gone and Propos was arguing with the satyr that had been filming the fights. Sam hated the latter; besides running he camcorder, he seemed to spend his time yelling insults at Sam and betting against him.
Propos was arguing that Sam was done for the day, while the mullet wearing camcorder runner kept saying there could be no excuse for missing a fight. Finally, Propos dramatically threw his hands in the air and conceded. Seeing Sam was looking at him, Propos tossed his stick over.
Then the biggest snake Sam had ever seen slithered into the fight area. It reared back, its head higher than Sam's even with some of its length still trailing on the ground. The eyes within the broad hood were red and stared at him with malevolent intelligence.
Not snake. Lamia. And Sam had no idea how to kill one.
The head shot down, mouth gaping open, and Sam barely dodged in time. This was an untenable way to fight; every movement caused jagged pain to rip through Sam's torso, and the lamia was so long that she could lunge all the way across their little arena. Since Sam couldn't get more space, he'd have to restrict her movements. He flipped the knife in his hand and waited for the lamia to drew herself upright again.
This time when she lunged, Sam ran almost straight at her, ducking right under her head and veering only slightly to the side. Her heavy body smashed down next to Sam, and he slammed the long knife right through her and into the ground, pinning her in place.
The serpentine monster screamed and writhed, but couldn't break free. However, Sam had underestimated how long her reach still was. Her head caught him square in the back, sending him rolling across the ground until he crashed into a pair of hairy legs. Those legs, belonging to mullet camera man, kicked Sam back into the danger zone.
He could barely breathe as he staggered to his feet. The lack of weight on Sam's back registered at the same time as he saw the remainder of his provisions scattered around him. Those arm length fangs had only missing tearing into Sam's back because they'd torn through his backpack.
But Sam would have to worry about that later, if he even had a later. An idea flashed into Sam's head even as he fought back the dark spots that wanted to fill his vision. He ducked another strike, grateful the knife still held, and pulled the remains of the backpack off.
The next time the lamia's head swooped Sam's way, he threw the ruined pack over it and jumped onto the back of her hood. As he'd hoped, she didn't have the strength to lift her head with him on it, but she could certainly thrash.
Something was seriously wrong in Sam's chest, and every shake of his dangerous ride pushed him closer to passing out. But he had no weapon except a stupid stick. Twice as the lamia curled back on herself, Sam tried to reach for the knife, and missed.
There was a rushing sound in Sam's ears now and he was beginning to feel slightly disconnected from his own fight. But oddly, this helped him think. Bobby had lent Sam a book about the labors of Hercules, and the eponymous hero had come up against the nemean lion, with its impervious hide.
Hercules had strangled the beast, then, unable to skin it by conventional means, had used its own claws.
Its own...
Sam took the deepest breath he could and brought the stick down hard on one of the lamia's fangs, cracking it off. He barely grabbed it as the snake woman arched her head back as far as she could. The motion knocked the backpack loose. Without hesitation or regret, Sam stabbed the fang through the closest red eye.
His own motion finally dislodged Sam, and he watched the black spots he'd been fighting grow until that was all he could see.
Sam wasn't aware of anything else until water splashed over him. He sputtered and clutched at the bank (the bank?) to pull his head above the water. Oh. He was in the stream. And it was fully dark. Uncaring of how he'd gotten there or of his pain or getting clean, Sam drank as much as he could, only stopping when he was danger of puking.
"Come," ordered a familiar voice. Sam looked up for the first time. Propos stood on the bank. He was kicking dirt over a fire and holding something blackened on a stick. Despite the pain in his ribs and many other lesser pains, Sam was riveted by the smell. It was food. Meat.
He scrambled awkwardly out of the water and Propos held out the prize. Sam grabbed it and began to eat immediately. He normally hated organ meat, which this clearly was, but he not only didn't care, he relished it. A quote drifted to Sam's mind, Bread, soup -- these were my world. I was a body. Perhaps less than that even: a starved stomach.
Sam knew he should care about what that meant, but he just didn't. Only a few days before, Sam could have explained Maslow's hierarchy of needs to you, how someone whose physiological needs (food, water, and rest) were not met couldn't focus on any of the higher needs, like a sense of self or even a moral code.
At the moment, though, Sam knew nothing but sating his hunger.
He suddenly paused, realizing that the pain and pressure in his chest had mostly abated.
Propos must have seen the questions on his face, and for once, he answered them. "If the one who kills a lamia eats her heart, the injuries she caused are healed." He looked annoyed. "You were not supposed to be shot."
Shot. Holy shit -- how could Sam possibly have forgotten what the white satyr had said?!
Sam found himself on his feet. "Dean -- my brother -- did he really get shot?"
Propos gave a shrug, a gesture Sam was growing to hate. "I have no idea. Finish eating that."
Sam swallowed the last bite obediently. He should be repulsed by it, but he was too hungry. And too terrified by the thought of Dean being shot. What if what if what if...?
Fortunately, they were soon ascending the cliff face. The trip proved that whatever ribs had been broken weren't any more, but there were definite bruises from being shot with whatever it was. And yeah, a whole lot of other bruises. But it was back to his feet being the worst pain. It was a sad statement that that was actually a good thing.
Sam wouldn't have needed Propos to half drag him back to the room -- he would have run if he'd had the energy.
Then Sam was inside the room and Dean was standing there, whole and healthy, and the relief was so strong that Sam wavered as he stood. "Did you get shot?!" he demanded hoarsely.
For one second, there was matching relief and worry and fear in Dean's eyes. Then he turned away. Turned away, when Sam could barely stand? "Sit down before you fall down," Dean snapped. Then he added softer, "I'm fine." A beat. "Did you?"
The question didn't register with Sam. Dean had laid down on the only bed and wasn't looking at Sam. He didn't...care?
"Did you get shot?" Dean asked again, this time almost angrily.
"I'm fine," Sam parroted numbly. I did get shot. And I fought monsters and almost died. And I almost didn't get up, but then I thought of you. I think I have an infection starting in my right foot and it scares me. And...I need your help, Dean. I'm not gonna make it otherwise.
Sam didn't say any of that. Dean must want him to be tough. So he limped over to the sink and drank his fill, somehow still thirsty. It wouldn't fill his belly, but would help with the dehydration. When he was finished, Sam sat on the floor, leaning against the wall under the sink. Dean had thrown an arm over his eyes, making his shirt ride up. Squinting, Sam could make out a pristine white bandage.
Dean had a bandage? And it was so clean. Actually, all of Dean was clean. He had on fresh clothes, and his hair looked clean too. He'd toed off his boots (what wouldn't Sam give for his boots?) and even his white socks looked clean. And besides the bandage, there was no sign of injury on him.
All of that was good, but...confusing, especially combined with his apparent lack of concern for, or even interest in, Sam's state. Sam was so dirty that you could no longer tell the original color of his tshirt. He had tears and rents all over his clothes, not to mention blood. His hair hung in his eyes, lanky and wet, and he knew if he looked at his reflection he'd see his eyes were sunken with exhaustion and hunger.
Dean was Sam's touchstone, the one he could always depend on to look after him. Was that...done? Sam couldn't accept that, but his brain was too muddled to figure out an alternative, so he just sat and stared vacantly at his brother. He thought he saw the glint of eyes under Dean's arm, but he was too bleary to be sure.
Dean said something Sam didn't catch. "What?"
Dean repeated it, but not any louder than before. Sam frowned a little. Dean, who was never quiet, kept talking, still too low. Sam rubbed his eyes, then gave a mental shrug. Resigned, he crawled over next to the bed and flopped down there, where he could hear Dean. It was where he wanted to be anyway.
"Remember when Face abandoned and betrayed the rest of the A Team?" asked Dean. Huh? Dean didn't seem to require an answer. "Yeah, that was cool. He totally blew them off and worked for their enemies. I think that was my favorite episode."
Sam didn't answer. He couldn't form a coherent one. The only episode like that he could remember, Face hadn't actually betrayed the rest, it only appeared that way. But they trusted him, and in the end, he freed them all, Sam thought. And that should mean something. He'd figure it out...later.
"I'm going to sleep," was all Sam mumbled, unable to complete the thought.
Then Dean began to tell him some inane, rambling story about Caleb and an apartment building with a mouse problem. Sam couldn't really follow the twists and turns of the story (like how exactly brownies were involved). The words melted into white noise and lulled him to sleep.
But he dreamed of finding Dean with his heart ripped out...and tasting blood on his own lips.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
The trailer was empty, completely cleaned out. The car was gone, and every obvious sign that the boys had ever been there. Locals in town said Howie had taken a call the day before, then "lit outta here like his tail was on fire." Nobody had seen him since.
The cleanup job wasn't perfect, however. A few of Dean's traps were still in place, and a trained eye could make out that a wide area had been swept to cover any foot prints or tire tracks. Bobby found a shell casing and Jim found half a hoof print and all three men contemplated the desert in silence. Then John held up one hand.
A soft whimper carried on the breeze. Then a small, tan head emerged from under the trailer. It was the dog Sam had adopted. She crawled out cautiously, but went to John willingly enough. She had blood and fur in her teeth and a long scratch down her side.
John crouched down and carefully extracted the fur, handing it to Bobby. Then he turned to the dog and spoke as seriously as he would to a person. "I know you did your best to defend my boys." The dog whined again and leaned against John for a moment.
Then John stood and faced the other hunters. "I checked out Howie before we ever came out here, and I have some places we can start looking. But we have to stop in town first."
To Jim's and Bobby's obvious amazement, they stopped at an upscale kennel. They would've been more surprised if they'd come in. John laid the fee for a week, plus another $50, on the counter.
"If this is the fattest, happiest dog I can imagine when I come back, there's another hundred in it for you," he promised.
Then they were heading out of town, possibly away from John's boys. He flexed his hands until the steering wheel creaked. He was going to find Howie and have a conversation with him. Then he was going to get his boys back.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
High up in her tower, the mistress actually clapped her hands in delight. She truly doubted the boy was, as her contacts below claimed, some kind of chosen one, but he'd proved more interesting than she'd dared hope. They both had.
The older one, well she could hardly wait to enjoy him, in every way. But he was so much more than a pretty face. Already, he was stirring up dissension and discord amongst her satyrs. A few actually respected him, many hated him, and one had actually shot him...something he'd damn near shrugged off.
Mmm. Strong, too.
She knew he was plotting, but it delighted her to no end that she couldn't figure out how. And the way he obeyed her rules while managing to seem like he was the one in charge was unique and fascinating.
The relationship with the brother was fascinating too. If there was one thing she was good at, it was reading men, and she'd sensed their deep love immediately. Yet...the older acted like he didn't love the younger. Was he that good of an actor? Or was he so ruthlessly practical that he could sacrifice his brother for his own safety? He'd given himself away when he'd seen the video. She thought so, anyway. How delicious to have a man she couldn't read!
The younger one was interesting, too. He wasn't old enough to hold her attention, but she thought in a few years he just might have. It was almost a shame he was going to die. Chosen or not, he was stronger than he looked, physically and mentally.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, though. It made him so very easy to toy with.
If he survived the next few days, it was going to be so fun!
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AN: Sorry, folks. This is not a kind and gentle story. The next two chapters won't be any better in terms of violence, just so you know. But we're building the angstiness, right. (And also inventing words, apparently.) So, references.
Fighting the nemean lion was, as Sam remembered, one of the labors of Hercules. Sam covered all of the pertinent details.
The quote about being reduced to nothing but a stomach is from Elie Weisel's book Night about his time in Nazi camps Buchenwald and Auschwitz.
Maslow's pyramid or hierarchy of needs is a real psychological theory. It states that a person must have all their needs met at a given level to be concerned with higher levels. A person who doesn't consistently have enough food won't think about philosophy. Someone who isn't safe and secure is unlikely to be overly worried about status and recognition, etc. The title of this chapter comes from that idea.
I made up the A Team episode because I couldn't find one that fit my purposes. I had Dean reference it for Lena (and because it was a good idea).
Timelady66: I love that! You are so right. You sort of met the mistress in this chapter, but there's more in a chapter or two.
writingtrainingwheels: Yes, Dean is really smart, and strategic too! I definitely like emphasizing that. Just wait to see what he figures out...
JaniceC678: Oh dear! I take that as a compliment. And I'll keep writing as fast as I can! Just a glimpse of the mistress here, but more on her to come soon.
Shazza: Thank you! You're the best! I enjoyed writing Dean pushing back against his guards. Nobody keeps him down for long.
printandpolish: *hangs head in shame* But the comment did make me chuckle!
MaddyWinchester2000: You are very smart! Sorry for the continued pain. I can't seem to help myself.
muffinroo: I am grateful for your kind words! You certainly made me smile! You probably know by now that I can't write a story without including at least one flashback...and probably more. So much more pain and suffering here and to come...I may have a problem...
Scealai: I never let facts get in the way of my writing!
stedan: You're very smart! I promise that the satyrs will get what they deserve, but not just yet. More about the mistress soon, too.
Kathy: I try to keep everyone on their toes! Or my mind just works in strange ways. Everyone seems to want to see the mistress, and she's coming up soon. Life doesn't get any better for our boys in the next couple of chapters.
Lena: I never doubted you for a second! Sorry for the heart attack. I'd like to tell you it gets better, but not yet. I think 1984 was made into a movie but I only know the book. I always find it fun to highlight the lesser talked about features of the boys -- Dean's intelligence, Sam's toughness, etc. And yes, I switch POV because I learned that from you! I owe you, chiquita.