AN: Because my readers are the best, there are a few things in that chapter that were inspired by comments. One for printandpolish and another for Colby's girl. There might be others too, but that's all I can remember right now.
Janice not only did the beta work for this chapter, she also came up with the chapter name.
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Compartmentalize. It was a skill that was essential – or whatever was beyond essential – to a young Hunter who spent his days pretending to be a normal high school student. Sam struggled with it, but who wouldn't, at fifteen?
But right now? It was easier than usual.
Some day, probably soon, Sam would have his nightmares about the sound Rick had made the second time Sam had smashed down on him, just trying to knock him out so he couldn't use his rifle. Sam was certain he'd obsess over just how badly he had injured Rick and remember the blood spreading on the floor. And the realization that they had left him behind to be blown up by his own dad.
He could already hear what Dean would say. "They didn't give us a choice. They were torturing us and would have killed us. You weren't even trying to hurt him that much, just trying to get away." And knowing Dean, he'd probably try to take the blame on himself, too, for getting captured and 'letting' Sam get grabbed, for not being able to take out all of the guys himself or stop Sam from being hurt, because he thought he should be able to somehow protect Sam from everything perfectly. Hell, Dean would probably blame himself if he caught Sam having nightmares of Steve's sadistic smile and the blood dripping from the knife as Lance –
"Sammy?"
"Yeah, I'm good." Oops. So much for compartmentalization being easy. Sam looked down at his hands and allowed what he was holding him to distract him. An almost unwilling smile curved his mouth. "An AK-47," he breathed, stopping short of petting it the way Dean had. "Bobby never even let us touch his. Man, I feel like I should be defending some secret missile silo from James Bond."
"Or picking off swarming facehuggers on a spaceship," Dean suggested, his eyes lightening at Sam's words.
"Maybe fighting our way through the jungle against corrupt soldiers," Sam offered.
"Saving the sexy women they'd kidnapped," Dean continued. "Women who will be grateful once we've gotten them freed."
"After we blow up the bad guys' creepy jungle compound," Sam added, looking around meaningfully at the creepy underground bunker they were actually in. Man, his life was weird.
Dean's smirk grew. "Right. Where they've been breeding uber-smart, weaponized anacondas."
Sam scoffed loudly. "Sure. It's always about the anaconda for you!" He was instantly proud of his response and, after a beat, he and Dean burst out laughing. They laughed longer and harder than they normally would have, the adrenaline of the night bubbling over a little. When they finally gained control of themselves, Sam noticed that Paul was looking at them oddly.
Dean must have noticed it too, because he asked, almost defensively, "What?"
Paul shook his head slightly. His feet were tied too, because with any luck they'd be busting out soon, and they wanted it to take him a while to get free. "It's just...you're so young," he said sadly.
Sam frowned, saw Dean do the same. Sure, they were young, speaking purely literally. But in some ways, they never really had been young. Not in the way he was insinuating. Not in terms of innocence. Even Sam had known to be wary of people around them from the time that he was very, very small. Neither of the Winchesters had really had a solid place to call home for long or the sense of security and stability that could provide. Sam shrugged, not really understanding what Paul was getting at.
"We can handle ourselves," was Dean's answer.
Paul smiled faintly. "Obviously. That's not what I meant. Just...that you shouldn't have to. Not like this. Not against my family. Or against monsters, for that matter."
"Life's a bitch and then you die," Dean quoted nonchalantly. "Look, speaking of family, we're coming back with our dad or some other Hunters and cleaning out this festering mess, not to mention taking care of the monster that y'all missed, so you're gonna want to be far away from here by then. And find a deep, dark hole to hide in, cuz Dad and Bobby and them won't be thrilled when they hear about the whole Dr. Mengele act. Dad – that would be John Winchester, by the way, and Bobby is Bobby Singer. Ever heard of 'em?"
Paul paled, a reaction Sam hadn't expected, but Dean must have because he smiled wolfishly. "Uh-huh. Not exactly witches, but even more dangerous." Dean pointed at Sam's face and then his own, clearly indicating the cuts. "'Specially when they see that."
"They're...going to kill everyone, aren't they?" Paul sounded like he'd been punched in the gut and Sam had the impression that despite everything, he was thinking about his misguided family members more than himself. It made Sam uneasy, liking someone who'd been party to everything that had happened to them.
"Well, we aren't going to, at least not on purpose. But I have no control over Dad or Bobby." Dean tucked away the dagger he'd become so enamored with. Sam knew that they wouldn't kill the men, since they didn't kill humans, no matter what. (They might break a few bones and leave them trussed up in the parking lot of a police station, but only if they truly deserved it.) Sam looked at the cuts and growing bruises on Dean's face, knowing he himself looked just as bad. He imagined the older Hunters' faces once they heard the story and saw the damage. Huh. Well, they probably wouldn't kill any of the witch hunters.
And Paul didn't need to know that Dad was laid up, since Sam suspected that Dean actually kind of felt for Paul, too, and wanted to make sure he was motivated to take off once they were out of there, if he could.
"You got the plan, Sammy?" Dean asked, changing smoothly to hunting-mode.
"Uh-huh." Sam double-checked his own armaments. He had a shotgun on a sling on his back since it was one of the guns he was most comfortable with. There was a Ruger Security-9, which fit his hand like his own Glock, in one pocket of his coat, and a tactical knife and a set of brass knuckles (at Dean's insistence) in another. He'd found a really cool dagger for himself, too, and it hung on his belt. It had a wavy blade that he was pretty sure was called a flamberge style. Next to the dagger was a Beretta M9. There was a smaller straight blade at his ankle and a butterfly knife in his jeans pocket. The inside pockets of his coat were filled with ammunition for all his different guns. And under the coat but over the borrowed shirts, Sam had a tactical vest, cinched tightly to fit. Dean was similarly outfitted, in all likelihood with even more weapons, though without an AK-47 and with a rifle on his back instead of a shotgun.
It all might seem like overkill, but as Dean had said, they were outnumbered by a bunch of guys who'd already proved that they were willing to kill. He'd added, "besides, who says this place won't be cleared out before we ever get back? This could be our only chance to raid a stash like this. And, dude, we deserve it!" So...chances were good that no matter what they faced or what weapons might be taken from them, they'd still be armed with something. And if they survived, they'd come away with some awesome new toys.
"Tell me, Sam," Dean directed, sounding very much like Dad, who always made them go over any plan ad nauseam. Sam dutifully related the plan, such as it was. He didn't bother to express his dissatisfaction at how it called for him to stay relatively safe in the background while Dean courted danger. It wouldn't make any difference. Besides, he knew as well as any Hunter twice his age that no plan survives contact with the enemy, so he let Dean have his moment of thinking he was going to be able to keep Sam safe from any actual combat. Soon enough, Sam would almost certainly be engaged in his own struggle.
Sam turned and grabbed the bag of flashbang grenades, pulling out one to weigh in his hand. It was about as heavy as a shoe and should be easy to throw a long way. He turned to go, seeing Dean was ready to cut the lines to the generator. "Wait," he called, drawn to the huge sword at the back of the cabinet. He pulled it out curiously, only then noticing that the strange black blade was etched with words and symbols. He saw some Greek words, including ήρωες, προστάτες, and αδερφια, but didn't know what any of them meant. Then he recognized the largest symbol, just above the quillon – the cross bar at the top of the hilt to protect the wielder's hand. The symbol was a club or cudgel and Sam immediately remembered that it was the symbol for Hercules.
"What? What's wrong?" Dean asked, obviously impatient to get started.
"You...I think you should take the sword," Sam said, feeling the same sense of certainty and impending...something as when he'd read the prophecy in Albert Houghton's book.
"I don't need the weight and it's kind of a useless weapon," Dean argued. "It can't do anything long-range, and up close it's way too unwieldy to use before someone could just shiv you with a knife."
"It's lighter than the AK," Sam argued back, half panicked at the thought of Dean leaving without it. "You wouldn't even notice."
"I need my hands free and there's no scabbard or anything." Dean shook his head and Sam knew it must seem like a ridiculous request.
"You can carry it on your back. We could rig up one of the rifle slings in a sec. But you, you need it. Please. Dean, you gotta take it."
Dean frowned at Sam the way teachers trying to reconcile his ragtag appearance with his intelligence sometimes did. Or the way classmates looked at Sam when he actually fought back against bullies...and sometimes beat guys twice his size. Or the way Dad did occasionally when Sam asked to participate in something like debate club or soccer. Normally getting that look from Dean would piss Sam off, but he was desperate. Besides, he kind of understood it in this case, but he had no idea how to explain his conviction that Dean needed to take the sword.
Sam had a sick swooping in his stomach as Dean chewed on his bottom lip. He was waiting for Dean to remind him that in any kind of fight, even a fraction of a second could be the difference between life and death and that the last thing he needed was dead weight. Instead, Dean read Sam's face for one more minute, then said, "Well, it would make a bitchin' souvenir."
Sam felt like he could breathe again. It really didn't take much time to jerry-rig one of the slings to hold the sword securely to Dean's back beneath the rifle, and it couldn't weigh much more than four or five pounds despite its size. And yeah, he noticed the little smile on Dean's face at the prospect of going into battle with an actual sword on his back.
Dean repositioned himself near the generator and Sam flicked on the flashlight he was holding. Just before Dean cut the fuel line, he gave a chin-tilt to Paul. "Sorry about the dark, man." He deliberately set down an extra flashlight on a nearby shelf.
Paul smiled faintly. "Good luck, boys." And somehow it seemed like he really did mean it.
Dean's knife flicked. The generator coughed twice and died, leaving the cone of light from Sam's flashlight the only illumination in the room, which suddenly felt cavernous. But then Dean's hand was on Sam's elbow and Sam remembered that while there was plenty to be afraid of, the dark wasn't on the list.
When they were at the door at the end of the tunnel, Sam moved silently to the right side of the door, as flat against the wall as he could get since any gunfire coming their way would most likely come across from the right. Once Dean had taken the bar off the door, Sam turned off the flashlight and shoved it into a pocket next to the Beretta ammo. His breaths were short, but he was calmer than he'd expected to be.
"Remember to point that AK up," Dean said, probably trying to break the tension. "Don't wanna kill any moose or whatever else lives in the woods around here."
The comment made Sam think of The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle (which they both pretended to have outgrown), so he said, "Shut up your mouth" in his worst Russian accent. He knew Dean would recognize the quote from Boris Badenov from the ridiculous cartoon.
The surprised chuckle that earned him made Sam smile even as his nerves started jumping.
"Ready, Stallone?" Dean asked.
"Ready, Schwarzenegger," Sam confirmed, thinking even getting shot was preferable to sweating and waiting in the dark any longer.
"3...2...1," Dean counted, then threw the door open. They each popped the pins out of a pair of the stun grenades and threw them underhand, low but long. The noise and flash were impressive even though they'd both turned away. As soon as the flashes were done, both brothers dashed out of the door, Dean to the left and Sam to the right. Dean threw a few more grenades, these the kind that released smoke.
Sam didn't look Dean's way even as a few gunshots rang out. Their opponents were literally shooting blind, he knew. Instead, Sam dove behind a woodpile and pulled the safety lever. He rolled onto his back to fire the assault rifle in the air. The men out there would have to take cover, not having any idea that he wasn't actually firing at them, but Dean would know and could keep moving. When the gun clicked empty, Sam ejected the spent magazine and shoved in his only replacement.
He risked a peek over his cover. In the dim light of the moon, he could make out two figures rolling near the canvas-top Jeep, but even as Sam looked, one fell still and the other stood. He could tell the winner was Dean. Sam was supposed to move to a new spot before firing again, but if he could see Dean, so could their opponents. Terrified that a bullet would cut down Dean any second, Sam unloaded the second magazine over the tops of the trees.
Someone shouted, then a different figure was fleeing straight for the bunker door. They'd expected some of the men to do that and knew that they had to trap them inside before they could rearm from the arsenal inside. Hopefully the darkness inside would cost them time.
Dean was out of Sam's sight now, and Sam knew he had to move, that he'd clearly given away his position to anyone who was paying attention, but he really wanted to cover Dean or at least draw attention away from him as Dean stalked the positions of the other men. As he had the thought, Sam sensed movement behind him. He rolled on instinct and threw the empty assault rifle at the silhouette he saw. He didn't even see the kick aimed at his ribs (though he certainly felt it hit) and couldn't hear a damn thing thanks to all the shooting he'd done but he still managed to recognize Steve.
Sam kicked out and thought he might have broken the man's wrist. He aimed his next kick for Steve's injured leg, drawing out the first weapon he could find, which turned out to be the Ruger. The second kick only grazed Steve and suddenly the man was on top of Sam. His knee trapped Sam's right arm to the ground so he couldn't bring the gun up and his forearm landed hard across Sam's throat. Sam tried to push the man off with his left hand, but Steve put his weight down harder, making spots dance across Sam's vision. He bucked uselessly and gave up on pushing Steve off, instead groping for a weapon, knowing he was getting close to losing consciousness. And Steve was laughing.
Sam's fingers closed around something, and he jerked it from his pocket to swing it at Steve with strength born of desperation. Steve had laughed about shooting a grenade at them not caring about his own family members, and now Rick was dead. And Steve had laughed when he'd threatened Dean and he was not going to laugh over Sam's body.
The object Sam had in his hand was…the flashlight? Seriously? He's armed himself like a one-man guerrilla force and he'd grabbed the flashlight? Sam swung it anyway, catching Steve hard enough in the temple to at least make the asshole stop laughing. He was knocked slightly to the side but not enough to give Sam literal breathing room. Sam could hardly see anymore, and he arched involuntarily in a desperate bid for air. Make this one count, he thought. He slid the flashlight through hand far enough to get a good grip on the head and swung for the fences.
Sam felt the reverberation of the hit all the way up his arm, but he was far more concerned with the fact that he'd knocked Steve off of him. He drew in two rapid, hacking breaths. His training came to the fore, and even as he struggled for air, Sam rolled onto his hip and elbow and brought up the Ruger. Steve saw it and must not have realized that Sam's vision was still more white spots than actual sight because he took off, limping and sometimes half-crawling toward the door of the underground lair. Shaking despite using both hands to try to steady the gun, Sam worked to center his aim on the fleeing man.
Could he shoot someone in the back? Someone who was excited – amused – at the chance to strangle a teenager to death? But still someone human?
Off to Sam's right, Dean was running toward him, cutting across the open area without so much as a bush for cover. Sam shook his head to try to clear it and gave up on Steve. There was another figure so big that it had to be Lance closing in on Dean from Sam's right. Sam was still panting. There was no way he could shout a warning and he didn't trust his wavering sight to shoot that close to Dean. He tipped the Ruger almost straight up, and fired, and then used all the breath he had to give a sharp whistle of warning.
Using up the little air he had nearly tipped Sam the rest of the way to oblivion, but he fought it, needing to see what happened.
Dean, alerted, hit the brakes and turned to his left. Like it had been choreographed, Dean swung a right-handed roundhouse punch. Lance's own momentum brought him directly into the path of Dean's fist and gave the hit more power than Dean could have gotten on his own. Lance dropped like a rock.
"Cool," whispered Sam, letting himself flop flat, his face on his outstretched arms. He had no idea how long he stayed like that catching his breath, only half aware of his surroundings. He didn't pay a lot of attention as the gun was eased out of his hands since he knew who was doing it. Nor did he help when he was turned over and pulled up to sit propped against the woodpile he'd taken refuge behind. He didn't like accepting help as a general rule, and he'd push away Dean's hands any minute now. Really.
Finally Sam had caught his breath and the buzzing left his ears and his vision came back online fully. "'M not hurt," he said, voice gruff from abuse but no longer fighting for air. His throat felt like he'd been gargling ten-penny nails, but the ribs where he'd been kicked were worse. He adjusted the shotgun still on his back so he wasn't leaning against it and batted away the hand taking his wrist pulse.
"Oh yeah, that's why you were hyperventilating," Dean snapped, low and hard. Not angry with Sam even though Sam didn't follow the plan but angry that Sam got hurt.
"Steve tried to choke me out," Sam explained, going for nonchalant. But speaking of Steve… "He got to the door. Someone else too. We gotta block it."
Sam could feel Dean's hesitation at that. Sam was right because there were a lot more powerful weapons still left inside and they didn't want to face two (possibly three, though Sam as pretty sure that Paul wouldn't come after them even if he were freed) more armed men. Dean grunted as if agreeing with himself about something and set the Ruger back in Sam's hand.
"Don't move. I'll be right back. Keep breathing."
Sam would have bitched that he was breathing just fine, thank you very much, but Dean was already gone. Sam propped himself up on his knees with his elbows on top of the wood pile so he could watch Dean's back. He bit back a groan as he moved, not wanting to divide his brother's attention when he was already so reluctant to separate for even a moment. But, dammit, Sam hurt. The cold seemed to exacerbate all of his cuts, and Sam could feel the bruises blooming across his throat and on his side where he'd been kicked. He knew he couldn't do anything about it so he did his best to ignore it. Compartmentalizing again. Survive, get to safety, then triage and first aid.
In moments, Dean had started the crappy pickup parked in front of what was left of the cabin. The cabin was a whole lot more intact than he'd have guessed from hearing the explosion, with all of the walls that Sam could see still standing. The whole thing was slightly cock-eyed and all of the windows were blown out, but he'd sort of imagined that nothing was left but a pile of rubble. As Sam kept sweeping the area with his eyes, watching for any signs of movement, Dean drove the truck around and backed it up against the door.
Sam smiled a little. The three men weren't getting out of there without some outside help. Sorry, Paul. Lucky for them, they had food and drink and, heh, buckets of kitty litter.
Dean pocketed the truck keys for good measure, and Sam walked to meet him, only swaying a tiny bit when he first stood up.
"We need to secure Dave and Lance, then we can get the hell out of here," Dean announced. He paused. "I looked inside and Rick's dead." He was frowning, looking over Sam for some hidden injury.
"Did you get hurt?" Sam wanted to know, feeling guilty that it had taken him so long to ask and unable to process the confirmation of Rick's death just yet.
"At first I thought I broke my hand on Lance's stupid face, but nah, I'm good. You? Your throat isn't tight or anything, is it?"
"Nope. I'm fine." And Sam was, relatively speaking. He really wanted a shower, something hot to eat, a couple Vicodin, and a bed. He knew they'd have to get somewhere safe before he could have any of it, but he could wait that long. "That was a hell of a hit you laid on Lance," he admitted with grudging admiration. "Pretty badass."
"He did most of the work himself," Dean answered with a grin Sam could hear. "And you're the one who got to shoot an AK."
They made quick work of trussing up Dave and Lance, who were both still out cold after their respective attempts to take Dean down. They hauled them none-too-carefully over to the old pickup and dumped them in the back with a tarp thrown over the top so they didn't freeze to death before Sam and Dean were comfortable enough to call the cops to go get them. Hopefully not, anyway.
"Check out what they were loading in the Jeep," Dean invited as they headed toward the vehicle to drive out of there. Despite what they'd already seen, Sam's mouth dropped open at what Dean uncovered there. There were a few guns, but there was also more dynamite and an honest-to-God flamethrower. Now he knew why Dean had decided to take the canvas-topped vehicle instead of the pickup, which was a piece of crap but would have made a much warmer drive.
"Maybe all of this will make Dad forgive us for lying to him," Sam offered a little forlornly.
Dean laughed. "I got a better idea. Let's take all this shit to Canada and live there a couple years. Maybe he and Bobby and Caleb will forgive us by then." Despite everything, Sam couldn't help but chuckle at the idea.
They moved to get in the Jeep when there was a Godzilla-like roar so loud it made the trees shake. Then another, and another, and another in such close succession they nearly overlapped. Both boys froze and locked eyes.
"Oh, crap!"
"That came from the north," Sam pointed out, cold sweat breaking out at the small of his back. It was a sound that woke up the primitive part of his brain with deeply ingrained fear. "Like Paul said about where the two streams came together." He touched the button to make his watch light up. "It's 3am – witch's midnight – on the Ides of March. When the monster is going to feed and start, uh, laying waste to stuff unless a hero kills it."
Dean looked at the road out of there longingly. A crash sounded far in the distance, the same direction the roars had come from. He dragged a weary hand down his face, one fingernail catching on a butterfly bandage on his cheek and sighed all the way from his toes. "Well, shit. I guess we better go slay a dragon."
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AN: Facehuggers are a type of alien parasite in the Alien movie franchise.
Dr. Josef Mengele was a Nazi SS captain during World War II known as the angel of death because of the deadly experiments he performed on the prisoners at the Auschwitz concentration camp.
All of the Greek came from Google translate. Since the boys don't know what the words mean, I'm not telling you, either, though some of them will be revealed later. But, hey, if anyone's curious enough to transliterate 'em and look 'em up, more power to you!
The Ides of March just means the 15th.
sylvia37: Something had to go right eventually, right?I gave poor Sam so much to deal with. John will be coming into the story eventually, I promise.
Colby's girl: It's so funny that you brought up the bathroom question because it's one I was thinking about earlier. I was going to give them one of those compost toilet things but decided that it wasn't a redneck enough choice, so then I just wasn't going to address it at all until your comment inspired me! The word blunderbuss is such a great word, isn't it? I have certain words I just love, and that's definitely on the list. (Fartlek, for obvious reasons, facetious because it has all the vowels and in the right order alphabetically, sassafras, cattywumpus, and widdershins because they just sound fun. I doubt I'll be able to get any of those in this story, though.) You are so right about Sam drawing his self-confidence from Dean's confidence in him.
muffinroo: I had back-up. Janice whipped the chapter into shape after a few rewrites because I don't think even she could have fixed the earlier versions. I'm glad that the action worked for you.It's so hard to write!
radpineapple: Thank you!I feel like Dave and Paul show that even when being raised in the same way, there are very different possible outcomes. You know, free will, like the show explored so many times. At least, that was my intent.
Long Live BRUCAS: I may have gone overboard with the weapons, but I kind of think it's realistic that they would completely geek over all of them and arm up as much as humanly possible.
Timelady66: Thank you! I couldn't have all those weapons without Dean getting excited about them. I try to give both guys agency, so hopefully Sam had enough of a role in that fight for you. :-) I think Dave just lived the company line for so long that he couldn't let go...but there may be more on that later, depending on how the story plays itself out.
Shazza19:The guys are having too much fun with those weapons! And I may have had some fun writing about them, too.
bagelcat1: Yeah, I actually worry that I made him a little too psychotic to be believable. Hopefully not. And, yup, I definitely thought about the parallels of a family business. I'm a firm believer that zealotry can make people blindeven when the core cause or belief is a good one. JMO, of course.