Chapter Eight

Dean hated being sick. He hated the ache, the exhaustion, the nausea. He hated having to fight with himself to keep food down. He hated swallowing pills and taking shots of cough syrup. But most of all, he hated the way people treated him. He was sick, with the flu. He didn't have cancer and he sure as hell wasn't dying. But, with the way everyone was acting, you'd think he was on his deathbed counting away the minutes. It was bad enough when it was his father or Sam fussing over him, but it was worse when it was a man he'd just met. He could yell and bitch and complain to his Dad or Sam. But he couldn't do those things with Marshall. All he could do was pretend to be polite and try to smile for the man when really he felt like screaming at the man to stop his excessive hovering.

As soon as his Dad and Sam had left, Marshall had come back inside and had brought Dean some more tea and some cough syrup. He'd accepted them both with a forced "thank you" and had then watched as the man scurried around dimming the lights so they wouldn't make his headache worse or turning up the heat so it was at a nice even degree that wasn't too warm and wasn't too cold. Sam had been right to call him a nursemaid. The man thought of everything.

Finally, Marshall seemed to have everything right and he came out to stand in front of Dean. "How are we doing?" he asked, bending down to get a closer look at Dean's face.

Dean's immediate answer would have been something along the lines of fan-fucking-tastic. But he knew he had to censor himself around new acquaintances. "I'm fine, really," he said politely. "I appreciate everything. I'm starting to feel better." He put on what he hoped was a convincing smile. Marshall smiled back so he assumed it had worked. He knew this guy was his Dad's Marine buddy and everything, but he didn't really like him and he couldn't pinpoint why. There was just…too much smiling. The guy was too perky for an ex-Marine. He should be off ranting about hoodlums or something, not impersonating Mary freaking Poppins.

"I bet you're tired," Marshall said. Yeah, as a matter of fact he was getting pretty tired. "I'll go get Peter's bed ready so you can take a nap."

Dean held out his hands, trying to stop the man from running off. "Really, Mr. McAdams…"

"Marshall, please," the man corrected and Dean nodded.

"Well, Marshall," he said and put down his tea, standing up. "I don't want to be a burden…"

"Bah," Marshall broke in with a laugh. "It won't take more than a few minutes. You just wait here and I'll have it ready in a jiffy."

Dean watched the man retreat up the stairs before he sighed and shook his head. The guy was too nice and it was starting to creep Dean the fuck out. He'd never trusted people who were nice all the time. They reminded him too much of Mr. Rogers, and Dean had his issues with that television personality. Sure, he seemed like a nice old guy at first, but Dean could only imagine what went on in that cookie cutter house of his when the doors closed. Creepy old guys inviting children into their homes? Yeah right, no thank you. Never trust the guys with the friendly smile.

Sighing again, Dean scolded himself for thinking like that. Marshall was Dad's friend. And if he was a friend of Dad's, then he was a friend of Dean's, he guessed. Besides, the dude had been the one to call them down here, so he must really care about his family and his town to seek out help like this. He should cut Marshall some slack. The guy was just trying to help.

Taking a breath, Dean grabbed the cup of tea Marshall had given him, but his still shaky hands betrayed him and he spilt a bit onto the coffee table. "Dammit," he whispered and looked up, half expecting Marshall or his wife to come in and start screaming at him. But there was no one around. He sighed. God, he was so tired. That bed was sounding nicer and nicer. He bent down and tried to wipe away the spill with the sleeve of his shirt, but it only spread it around. He growled in frustration and looked towards the kitchen. Might as well find a towel to clean it up with.

Walking towards the kitchen, he paused in the doorway and tried to guess where Marshall kept the dishrags. In the process, he couldn't help but notice what a nice, extensive kitchen the man had. Well, what did you expect, Dean? His wife was a goddamn nutritionist. But still, this kitchen was like the mother of all kitchens. A magnetic strip line an entire wall and was home to an assortment of knives and utensils. There were appliances everywhere, some of which looked to be more worn than others. There was a silver fridge along the far wall, surrounded by cupboards. On the right side of the kitchen were two freezers and a line of hooks ran above them. Dean frowned at that. Why did the man need so many freezers?

Dean didn't have time to ponder when his eyes landed on a dishtowel lying on the counter next to the fridge. He walked over, setting his cup in the sink as he picked up the towel. As he turned to head back into the living room, something else caught his eye. There was an open doorway that lead to a sort of sunroom in the back. The room was in disarray, quite a contrast to the rest of Marshall's home. There was a large wooden table in the center of the room. There were hooks and rope hanging from the ceiling. But what had caught Dean's attention were the dark stains soaked into the wooden table and the cement floor. It looked almost like blood.

Ringing the dishtowel in his hands, Dean glanced at the stairs to see if Marshall was coming back down. When he didn't spot the man, he walked into the sunroom. He could see the room in more detail and was surprised to find two deer carcasses hanging from the ceiling which had been out of his view as he stood in the kitchen. They both had been gutted, recently by the looks of things. He gave a sigh of relief. The room made more sense now. Marshall was a hunter. This must have been the room he did all his gutting and skinning in. That would explain the dark stains and the assortment of knives laid out on a table in the corner, not to mention the bone saw and the cleaver. It would also explain the two freezers in the kitchen. Room to store the meat.

Dean gave out a wry chuckle. He hadn't pinned Marshall to be a hunter. The man seemed too happy and mothering, he couldn't quite see him killing and skinning a deer. But then again, he couldn't really picture him as a Marine either, so what did Dean know? He ran a hand over a length of rope laying on the wooden table and gave a smile. He wondered how June felt about all the dead carcasses in her house. The smell was raw now that Dean was in the room and he could only imagine how it was during the day, when the sun came into the room. It had to smell foul. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before out in the living room. He gave June credit. To let her husband do all this inside the house, the woman had to be a tough broad.

Turning, ready to get back to that spilt tea in the living room, Dean suddenly stopped, his eyes having fallen on something odd on the floor. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't seeing things. When the foreign object didn't fade away or move, Dean stepped towards it and squatted down, realizing just how sore and achy his body still was, but trying to ignore it anyway. He frowned heavily as he reached out and picked it up. It looked like part of an animal, but not a deer or elf or anything. He held it up so he could get a good look at it. It looked fairly old and rotted. It looked almost like a finger. And suddenly, Nicolette's words echoed in Dean's head. Someone cut off the hand then ate the meat, and it looks like they got part of the finger bone on the ring finger too. Hope they didn't choke. Dean suddenly dropped the offending body part as if it had burnt his hand. His stomach was churning, his mind was racing.

"I bet deer isn't the only thing you hunt," Dean whispered, standing up slowly. Marshall was the cannibal. But how? He's the one who had called them here. Why would he do that? He didn't know. But he wasn't going to stick around to find out. He had to get out of here and call his Dad.

Dean had made about half a turn to run back into the kitchen before an arm suddenly snagged around his shoulders, pulling him in close to a muscled body. Dean reacted instantly, bucking backwards and trying to flip his attacker, like it was engrained in him to do. But his body hurt and his head was pounding and his stomach was revolting. And in an expert move, which Dean recognized to be very military style, a foot slammed into the back of his knee, bringing him deeper into the hold. Dean gave a yell, but it was muffled as something was placed over his nose and mouth. It was a wet cloth and as Dean breathed in, he found his head suddenly spinning from the sweet, sticky smell permeating off of the rag. His vision swam and Dean felt his body start to slacken.

No, no he couldn't give in. He tried to fight back, but he was growing tired, so tired. His headache amplified, his aches multiplied, and Dean went completely limp, moaning his fading protests against the hand that held the cloth to his face. The arm around his shoulders lowered him to the ground as his eyes began to close. He felt a breath against his cheek and heard Marshall's voice quietly cooing him to be quiet. Dean tried to stay awake, he was dimly aware that if he fell asleep now, if he gave into this man, he could very well end up in pieces, stuffing into that freezer, ready to be eaten. Dean gave one last violent struggle, trying to break free, but Marshall held him still and Dean finally had to give into unconsciousness, sitting on the floor, in Marshall's arms, the last thing he heard was Marshall's calm yet menacing voice whisper, "It'll all be over soon."

And then it was.

Sam was becoming frantic. His knee was bouncing a mile a minute as he sat in the passenger seat of their car. He'd come to the conclusion that forty five miles per hour was a shitty speed limit on these back roads. There shouldn't even be a speed limit. Sure, his Dad was going about eighty, but still, there shouldn't be a restriction to how fast people can drive. People shouldn't be required to go so slow when their brother's were in danger of being chopped up and eaten by zombies. It just wasn't fair.

They'd left Nicolette's fifteen minutes ago. They'd spent a good twenty minutes there, and before that they'd been driving for about twenty five more minutes. That meant that Dean had been alone with Marshall and his zombie family for an hour. An hour. A whole fucking sixty minutes. And every minute seemed like an eternity. How many body parts could Marshall chop off of his brother in just one minute? How long would it take for a zombie to finish off a heaping helping of Rack of Dean? God, his brother could be maggot fodder by now. He could be sitting in the dead stomachs of June and Peter, he could be stuck in their rotting teeth, he could be…

"We'll find him in time, Sam," John's steady voice broke Sam's dark thoughts. He turned and glared at his father, ready to scream and yell at him and ask him how the hell he could be so sure, how the hell Dean could possibly be still alive after they'd left him alone for so long with such a fucking lunatic. But one look at his father's face told Sam that even though John's voice was confident and reassuring, his face was anything but. He looked pale, worried, terrified. As well he should be. His son was on the menu tonight.

"What if we don't?" Sam asked, ignoring the fact that his voice was broken and horrified.

John didn't look away from the road. He gripped the steering wheel harder and whether he meant to or not, he pressed down a bit more on the gas pedal, his eyes scanning all of his mirrors and all the terrain, praying there were no state troopers hiding somewhere, ready to pull him over. He wasn't sure if he'd stop. Hell, he probably wouldn't. Nothing could stop him now. Nothing. Not when his son was alone with that, that monster. God, how could he have trusted Marshall like that? It had been what, twenty five years? Of course the man wouldn't be the same smart alec best bud he'd been all those years ago. No one stayed the same forever, he should have known. He should have figured this out sooner. If Dean was…if that fucker had…John couldn't even bring himself to think of what he was doing to his son at this very moment. He'd never felt such fear for his boys, not since the fire that had claimed their mother.

"Then we'll make sure Marshall knows what it feels like to be eaten alive by his own fucking family," John growled. Sam wasn't surprised to hear the venom in his father's voice. John didn't let much get to him. He'd get angry over certain things, like disobedience or stupidity. He'd get frustrated with his sons and with hunts. But for the most part, John was a very calm man. He was patient and didn't let things bother him. Insults and death threats didn't phase him. He could keep a straight face in just about any situation. But when it came to one of his sons being in danger, it was like someone had let loose a fucking god of destruction. John became more than a hunter when it meant the difference between life and death for his sons. He became a killing machine. Nothing was safe when you fucked with one of John Winchester's sons.

Sam fingered the shotgun that laid across his lap. Why was this happening? How was this happening? They'd taken Dean to Marshall's so he would be safe. They'd done everything in their power to get him out of this hunt, to help him recover from the stupid flu. The flu! A normal, stupid disease. They'd handed him over to the monster they'd been hunting this whole time. Sam felt guilt like he'd never felt before. They hadn't known Marshall was behind all of this, but that didn't make him feel better. They should have known. They should have figured it out. They shouldn't have left Dean with a guy they barely knew. Sam shouldn't have told their Dad that Dean was so sick. He'd still be with them. He'd be flirting with Nicolette, he'd be cracking jokes and calming nerves and making this whole thing feel like just an everyday event. A day in the life of a Winchester. But the car felt empty. So empty. Sam felt his breath hitching. God, how could Dean possibly still be alive? They'd left him there for so long. There was no way they were going to find him alive. There was no way Sam was ever going to see his brother again. He felt tears stinging at his eyes.

"Keep it together," John's voice was quiet and Sam pressed his head against the glass of the window. He realized he'd been struggling to breathe, to keep his tears at bay. John didn't say anything more and Sam worked on calming himself down. Yeah, keep it together. It would do no good to have a panic attack now. Dean could still be alive. This was Dean they were talking about. He could jump off a twenty story building into a flaming pile of disease infested knives and still walk away unscathed. Dean was a walking miracle, how could Sam expect anything less from him now?

Because he was sick and vulnerable and weak. Because they'd left him alone with an ex-Marine. Because they'd given a maniac an hour and seven minutes alone with him. Because even the strongest, most pig headed hero of all heroes needed backup sometimes, and Dean's backup was probably an hour and six minutes too late. Why? Why was this happening? Why Dean? Why his Dean?"

"I don't know," John whispered and Sam realized he'd said it out loud. He turned his head to look at his father, eyes shining with unshed tears. "Sammy, we're going to find him."

Again, Sam wanted to scream that John didn't know that. He wanted to yell at his father and tell him that he knew John didn't think that. He could see it in his face. He could tell John thought his son was already dead. Instead, he just said, "Why would Marshall call you if he was the one doing this all?"

John took a deep breath before he shook his head. "I don't know," he repeated. "I honestly don't know, Sammy. He might have wanted to be stopped, or wanted to show off his work, or…" John trailed off and let out a soft sound.

Sam finished his father's train of thought. "Or wanted more people to feed to his family." John chewed on his lip and Sam knew that's what his father believed. "But why us? Why you? I thought you saved his life."

"I did," John said. "And he saved mine. I must have done something wrong. He has a grudge, I just don't know what the fuck I did to earn it."

"Are you going to kill him?" Sam asked the question so softly, so innocently and so tenderly that John had to glance away from him for a second to keep back the look of pain that flashed there. He knew the answer, but he didn't know if he could tell Sam. He didn't know if his son would understand. He didn't know if he could look Sam in the eye and tell him that he fully planned on putting a gun to Marshall's head and pulling the trigger without a second's hesitation. Sam was a smart kid. He was a good kid. He knew that Sam, no matter what happened, would never kill another human being on purpose. But he also knew that Sam was going to be devastated if they were too late to save his brother. Hell, they'd both be devastated. A part of John still held hope. He had to believe that his son was still alive, that right now he was waiting for his father and brother to come in and save him. But in his mind, he couldn't see how that was possible. Marshall had been a Marine. A damn good Marine. He was a trained killer, powerful and smart. And John had been stupid enough to tell him that they were close to figuring this out. Marshall would act fast. Dammit, Dean, why was this happening to you?

"Yes," John answered suddenly and glanced over at his son. Sam was watching him, but there wasn't that look of shock or disgust on his face. Only understanding. Sam wasn't going to try and stop him from committing murder. He wasn't going to pull the trigger, but he wouldn't stop him.

"Even if Dean's alive?" Sam asked, his voice quavering.

"Yes," John said again, looking back at the road. They were almost there. They were so close. Ten more minutes and they'd be bursting into Marshall's house, guns blazing, voices screaming, blood spraying. And he hoped, he hoped beyond all hope that they'd find Dean sitting in the middle of it, smart mouthing and cussing and just fucking breathing. He hoped they wouldn't find a body. The others had been reduced to parts. Nameless, unidentified parts buried in a pit and rottined. Not his son. Not Dean.

"Good," Sam whispered and turned to lean his head against the window again, knee still bouncing, breath still struggling, tears still coming. Sam closed his eyes. He'd never needed to have his brother sitting beside him more than he needed it right now. He never wanted to grab Dean's hand and listen to him bitch about the gross touchy feely atmosphere than he did right now. He never yearned to hear Dean say that everything would be okay more than he did right now.

God, Dean, I'm so sorry.