A/N: I wanna thank Stony Angel for pointing out that I forgot one of the most basic rules of fanfiction etiquette...I really should have put warnings at the beginnings of my chapters to let you all know the sick twisted stuff I had up ahead... bonks self on head BIG bad on my part.
I also want to thank everyone who's reading and taking the time to review. I really appreciate it, and knowing so many of you are reading and waiting for the next part really helps me write. You ALL get more Impala cookies (I should really try to make one of those, huh?)
So, if you'll all forgive my mistake, here's the next chapter... warning... there's some sick stuff in this story. ;)
(( Subliminal message : review! ))
---
Dean stared at his brother for a moment, swaying unsteadily on his bound feet for a moment.
Without another word, he fell to his knees.
"Dean?"
He looked up at Sam for a moment, the boy disheveled and confused, then back to Earl, a heap on the floor.
His brother questioned him again, the voice sounding far away.
No time, no time, no time.
He couldn't get his thoughts to organize right. He knew there was something more important to do than sitting there on his legs, staring.
Knife.
He needed a knife. He needed to the rope on his ankles. Then he needed to free Sam.
In an awkward crawl, he headed for the workbench, where Earl had left the knife he'd used to cut Dean.
On his knees, too exhausted to stand, Dean felt for the knife.
Upon reaching their target, his fingers closed around the hilt, pulling the knife off of the table. Fumbling with stiff fingers, he got a better grip on the knife, his stomach churning as he fought to ignore the sight of his own blood on the blade.
His mind was foggy.
He had distracted Earl by pleading, and satisfied him by screaming. Not long enough to keep him from Sam, and his mind raced as he tried to free himself. How badly had Sam been beaten? He was conscious, talking, but the way Earl had laid that pipe to him...
Dean blinked to clear his eyes, sawing at the rope.
He'd seen the miner take that pipe and bash his baby brother's chest. In his mind's eye, he saw broken ribs, punctured lungs. To be beaten to death was not farfetched, and not unheard of.
How he'd freed his hands was a mystery to him, even still. He could only guess that the weight of his body hanging from the line had somehow stretched the rope, or maybe he'd just lost enough skin from his wrists to slip on through. It had taken effort, effort he wouldn't have without the help of gravity additionally pulling him.
Thank you, gravity.
The rope finally severed, Dean turned slowly, and focused on Sam's hands. Rather, on not cutting Sam's hands.
He could hear his brother panting heavily as he sawed away.
As soon as the rope was removed, Sam's hands disappeared, and Dean found it unsettling. He crawled forward, unable or unwilling to try standing.
"Dean?" Sam was asking, his eyes wide.
His brother was rubbing his chafed wrists, wincing, and then wiping the embarrassing traces of tears out of his eyes.
Dean dropped the knife, looked down as if noticing it for the first time. "Fuck."
"Here," Sam said needlessly, reaching out for the weapon.
As he leaned forward to cut the rope around his ankles, he inhaled sharply.
Instantly, Dean was pushing him back, ignoring the pain in his own body. "Sammy?"
"I'm okay," Sam winced. "My ribs."
Dean took the knife again, almost dropping it. Taking a two handed grip to assure he wouldn't, he delicately cut the ropes as fast as he dared.
Once free, Sam immediately drew his legs up to his chest, cringing at the pain, then straightened them out again, trying to relieve the cramped muscles.
Dean knew they couldn't afford to sit around. They had to go. They had to go now.
The only problem was, he wasn't sure he could stand.
---
Sam watched his brother kneeling in front of him, eyes on the ground, face slack.
"Dean?" he asked, reaching out a hand to touch his brother's arm gently.
Dean's head snapped up.
"We gotta go," Sam said, climbing to his feet with some difficulty.
"Captain Obvious," Dean mumbled softly, placing his palm on the ground and trying to rise.
Wrapping one hand around his aching chest, Sam reached out to his brother, infinitely thankful for the small joke. Even if it was unfunny and overused, his brother was able to joke. That in itself was a miracle.
When his brother accepted his hand, Sam stepped backwards, pulling him up, biting his lip at the hiss of pain Dean let out.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
Dean swayed.
"No!" Sam cried softly as Dean's knees buckled.
He reached out quickly, wrapping an arm around Dean's waist. In turn, his brother yelped.
"Oh, God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Sam apologized, eyes widening.
He couldn't touch his brother without hurting him, but he knew Dean wasn't going to be able to walk without his support.
"Fuck, Sammy," Dean said in a tiny voice.
"I'm sorry," Sam said again, "we gotta go."
"I know," Dean replied, eyeing the staircase warily.
His chest stabbing bolts of pain through him with every step, Sam helped guide his brother to the staircase, the hair on the back of his neck standing up at the thought of turning their prone backs on Earl.
They climbed the stairs slowly, each in too much pain to do much but bite down and bear it.
At the top, Sam let them rest only a moment, ignoring Dean's labored breathing as he turned the knob.
Nothing.
It was locked.
Dean rested his head against the wall as Sam turned the knob furiously this way and that.
"It's locked," he wailed in a whisper. "Dean!"
Don't panic, part of him chided. The other part screamed, PANIC!
Level headed thinking is what they needed.
Okay, so they might be screwed.
What could they do? There were no windows in the basement, no other doors, this was the only way out.
"Earl," Dean said suddenly. "He has to have a key. His pockets."
Sam regarded the stairs to the basement reproachfully.
"Stay here, he said, after a moment.
Making sure Dean was settled against the wall safely, Sam hurried as fast as his injuries allowed into the basement again. Skirting Earl's body with a look of disgust, Sam knelt, and nudged him, half expecting the man to grab him.
He was still down; Dean must have got him good.
Turning his face away with a grimace, Sam reached into Earl's front pocket.
Nothing.
"Dammit," Sam grumbled, reaching into the other.
Success.
His fingers closed around the object, fishing it from the pocket triumphantly.
"Yes," he whispered, and stood up.
Again, he expected that as he turned away, Earl's hand would reach out, grab his ankle, and drag him down.
He made it to the stairs safely.
---
"Got it?" Dean asked, opening his eyes as his brother reached him.
Sam held it up with a grin.
"Thank fucking God," Dean sighed, closing his eyes again.
He was so tired...
"Let's go," Sam said, twisting the key and shoving the door open.
Dean groaned and stumbled forward, following his brother out of the basement.
The rest of the house looked immaculate in comparison to the dirt and grime of the basement. It looked familiar and the once comforting colors now made Dean sick to the stomach.
"Gun," he said.
"What?" Sam asked, turning around.
"Gun," Dean repeated, looking at the stairs to the second floor. "Car."
"Gun, car," Sam rolled his eyes. "Wait here."
"No!" Dean said, reaching forward in a sudden motion that sent ripples of pain down his back.
Sam was at his side in an instant.
"Betty," Dean explained. "She's old, but we don't know what she's capable of."
And suddenly, he was laughing, uncontrollably, quiet and breathy, trying to hold back the noise.
"What the hell is funny?" Sam demanded.
"We got fucking kidnapped by the AARP," Dean said, his laughter holding no humor. "We - we..."
As quickly as it came, the laughter was gone, and his face was stony again. He swore under his breath as Sam watched him with concern.
"Upstairs," he said, feeling a bit stronger now.
Sam shook his head, but wrapped his arm around Dean's waist again, and they crept as quietly as they could to the stairs.
It was sad is what it was. Two old bitches getting their hands on the Winchester brothers, not only getting the better of them, but almost killing them. He wouldn't let that happen again. He wouldn't be unarmed.
They struggled to their rooms and separated at the end of the hallway. Dean could feel Sam's eyes on him, making sure his brother got into the room without collapsing before he would do anything himself.
Dean stumbled to the bed and hefted his heavy duffle bag onto the comforter, digging through it without regard to what he tossed on the floor in his search for his gun.
There it was, hidden beneath several shirts and a pair of socks.
The weight comforting in his hand, Dean checked the magazine, clicked it back into place. Satisfied and with the safety on, Dean tucked the gun into the front of the waist of his jeans. No way he could reach around to the small of his back right now, and he was not going to add to his list of injuries.
He wanted desperately to sit, but instead forced himself into the hallway, happy to be moving under his own steam.
Sam met him, holding his gun and a zip up hooded sweatshirt.
He held it up for Dean apologetically.
Dean sighed and nodded silently.
Feeling like they were wasting precious time, and ridiculous that his brother had to help him dress, but knowing he didn't have a choice right now, Dean let Sam help him into the jacket. He wanted to scream as the soft fabric of Sam's hoodie touched the open wounds on his back, but swallowed it back.
Panting at the exertion it took to keep quiet, and from the fire in his back, Dean fumbled with the zipper.
"Here," Sam said, reaching for it.
Dean shoved his hands away angrily, but Sam pushed back, his eyes gentle but adamant.
Dean let his arms go limp in acquiescence.
"Let's go," he hissed angrily when Sam finished, shoving past him, and leading the way down the hallway.
"Half dead, he still thinks he's MacGyver," he heard Sam mutter behind him.
Smiling, Dean led him to the stairway.
Nothing, still.
It wasn't right... where was Betty?
"We gotta make a run for the car," Dean said, eyes searching.
Sam nodded.
Nothing else was said. On his cue, Dean and Sam descended the stairs, each silently praying the wood wouldn't creak. They hadn't had reason to notice before, and now it could be their death warrant.
They reached the bottom undetected, which only made Dean more nervous.
Something was wrong.
---
It was too quiet.
Sam had learned that mostly it was quiet when something wanted it to be. When something or someone was waiting in the darkness. When something was really wrong.
So he shouldn't have been surprised when they rounded the corner to the front door, and someone grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him backward.
With a cry, Sam was shoved against the wall.
He knew it was Earl without seeing him. The rough grasp was too familiar for comfort.
Dean spun around, hearing Sam's cry and the clattering of his gun as it hit the floor.
"Let him go," his brother said slowly.
"What's the magic word?" Earl asked lightly from behind Sam, his body pinning the younger boy to the wall.
"I'm not asking you," Dean said. "I'm telling you."
"You're not in the position to do much about it, boy," Earl replied with a drawl.
"Sammy won't scream for you, either," Dean told him, taking a step forward.
"Stay there," Earl demanded.
"Or what?" Dean asked icily, his eyes suddenly sharp and determined. "What will you do?"
Sam felt Earl shift and knew instinctively that he was reaching for his knife. He tried to pull out of his grasp, but Earl was strong, and Sam's reserves of strength were just about spent.
Faster than an injured person should be able to move, Dean launched himself forward. At the same time, Sam twisted to the side, and felt Earl's fingers slip as his brother impacted, sending them both to the ground.
Sam spun, eyes frantically searching for the knife, his body fueling him with the fight or flight response.
Fight.
Earl was on his feet as Dean got to his knees, and the knife caught a glare of light.
"No!" Sam cried.
Dean swung his fist, catching Earl in the stomach and sending him back a step, just long enough for the older brother to get to his feet. In a fluid movement, Dean jammed the base of his palm into Earl's nose, bone cracking audibly.
Earl cried out and fell to his knees, clutching his splintered nose.
Dean reared back and delivered a solid kick to his neck.
From behind the two, Sam heard a scream, saw Betty covering her mouth in horror.
If Dean heard the scream, he didn't acknowledge it. While Earl was distracted with the gushing blood, Dean pulled the gun from his pants.
---
"No, Dean!" Sam cried, reaching out a hand, but unable to make his feet move.
Would his brother really take another human life?
Earl was a monster, but still a living breathing human kind of monster.
"Don't fuck with family," Dean spat savagely, his words dripping with such hatred it shocked Sam. "Especially mine."
And with that, he brought the butt of the gun down hard on Earl's head.
Simultaneously, Earl crashed to the ground, Betty rushed to his side, and Dean ran to his brother, grabbing him by the shoulder and pushing him outside.
Adrenaline was the only reason they made it out of the house as fast as they did.
"Keys!" Sam said, and Dean retrieved them from his pocket.
They skidded to a halt in front of the car.
"Oh, shit," Dean swore.
Sam echoed his statement.
Jutting out of the front driver's side tire was a familiar hunting knife.
All four tires were flat.