All right. It's time to once again check up on our boys and see how they're doing. Chances are, they're about to get into even more trouble. Thanks for all the reviews!
Dean checked his watch. It had been almost twenty minutes. He had finished off his own burger and fries, and now just sat staring at the door his brother had disappeared behind. He was starting to get worried.
Slowly, he slid out of the booth and walked up to the door. He knocked lightly, calling out his brother's name. No reply. Fear and panic began bubbling up within him, and he tried the door. Locked.
Looking around, Dean reached into his pocket. Since the incident at the Bender residence he'd decided to start carrying paper clips, and they had come in handy a few times. He hoped now was one of those times.
He slipped the clip into the lock and jiggled it around until he heard the familiar click. He pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside. No sign of his brother, and the single small window in the room was broken. Clearly, Sam had abandoned him.
Dean turned to the mirror and gasped. A few small dots of red marred the reflective surface. He looked closer and found that it wasn't paint, but blood, and it was still fresh.
Pushing back his panic and fear, the hunter went to the broken window and looked out. There were fresh tracks in the mud.
He ran from the small bathroom, grabbing the Styrofoam container with his father's lunch off the table and throwing down a wad of bills he had to assume was enough to pay for the meals. Dean hurried around to the back of the building and stopped by the window, looking at the ground.
One set of tracks led toward the building, and one led away. Near those tracks were two long marks in the mud, like something or someone had been pulled through the muck.
Taking a deep breath, Dean stood in the tracks that led toward the building. They matched his own exactly. He had kidnapped his brother.
He'd had worse headaches, of that he was sure, but it was the cause of the headache that really hurt him. Slowly, Sam opened his eyes and looked around the room. He was in a basement, a nicely furnished one, and was sitting on the carpeted floor with his wrist and ankles bound together with thick rope. He wasn't alone.
"Where are we?" Sam asked the petite woman that was tied up in a chair by one of the walls.
"My basement," she said, smiling weakly, "well, actually, it belonged to my husband and I. He's dead now. He answered the door and saw that man standing there with a toolbox in his hands. He said he was with the gas company and that there may have been a leak. Mark let him in, and the man… the man shot him."
Sammy sighed, laying his head back against the couch he'd been propped up against. "And he tied you up down here?"
"Not right away. He killed my daughter first. She was three. He, um, suffocated her while she was taking a nap. That was late yesterday evening."
"I'm so sorry." He looked at her. She was pretty, blonde, and seemed to be taking the sudden death of everyone she loved extremely well.
"What's your story?" she asked quietly, "why are you here? What happened?"
"We've kind of got a history. He doesn't like me much, and he ambushed me in a bathroom. But we can make it out of here. I've gotten away from him before."
"He'll kill us," the woman remarked sadly, "he told me so. He said he'd rape me, then kill me. It's OK, though. I suppose that when he's done, I'll be with my family again. I'm Marcy."
"Sam."
"It's nice to meet you," Marcy smiled, "even under the conditions."
Footsteps echoed overhead and a door slammed. Feet padded down the carpeted stairs and their captor appeared, smirking, knife in hand.
"Now where have I seen this before?" Sam asked sarcastically as the evil man approached.
"Sammy," Dean scolded, "this is completely different. I left one of them alive this time. Thought you should see the kill." He walked slowly over the Marcy, who recoiled. "Shhh. It'll all be over soon, babe."
"I thought you said," she gasped as the knife drew near her throat, "that you wanted to have some fun with me first."
"This is fun," he smiled, "for me." The blade of the knife glinted in the weak light that filtered into the room through a single window. "Hold still." He slashed out at her, the blade whistling through the air and cutting effortlessly through her neck. Blood bubbled from the deep cut.
Dean turned, wiping the blade of his weapon across his dark shirt, and approached his brother. "It's gonna be a slow, painful death for her, Sammy. Like it was a slow, painful life for me. But, I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I'm free now. All that crap you and dad gave me is far behind now."
"You killed the whole family?"
"What was I supposed to do, ask for free room and board?"
Sam sighed, glancing over at Marcy, who was gasping for breath. She made a series of gurgling noises as she died, her brown eyes pleading for him to make it stop.
"Ok," Sam muttered, "you got my attention. What do you want."
"I want to gloat," Dean smirked, "I want to prove once and for all that I'm smarter than College Boy. Of course, I'd like for daddy dearest to be here, but that wasn't possible. I'll just tell you instead."
"Tell me what?"
"I know something you don't. I hate to break it to ya, Sammy, but even when you and dad put your heads together, I'm smarter. I know, it's a shock. See, I did my own research after you guys abandoned me again, and found out something very interesting about my current condition.
"Apparently, there's a reason that both of me get hurt at the same time. Mentally, we're split, but psychically, we're still one person. The only way around that is to make me 'whole' again."
Sam smiled. "You can't stay like this, then. You have to get back together."
"Not exactly, Sammy. The definition of 'whole' is very loose when it comes to this sort of thing. 'Whole' just means that I have to have part of the other me in me. Confused?"
"It doesn't make any sense."
"That's what I thought at first," Dean said, kneeling on the floor so that he could meet his brother's eyes, "but then I thought about it. All it takes is a little bit of the goody-goody. Just a drop of blood shed into one of my own wounds. Then, I can finally be rid of my better half without any adverse affects.
"Unfortunately, the same is true for him. One drop of my blood and he'll be whole again. That's why I have to kill you now."
Sam glanced at Marcy, who had finally fallen still and silent in the basement. "You're going to slit my throat?"
Dean shook his head. "No fun in that. It's kind of getting old. I stole the car back. Gotta love that trunk. I'll find something more fitting, maybe some way to torture you. I'm thinking I'll shoot you in the leg, cover the wound with salt, then douse you in gasoline, and light you on fire. I'll do that a couple of times before grabbing a machete and chopping you up slowly, bit by agonizing bit. I think I'll start with your ears, then feet and hands, maybe take off your nose, too. Eventually, you'll die."
"Or pass out."
Dean smirked, standing up and looking down at his little brother with raw hatred burning in his hazel eyes. "Now where's the fun in that? I intend to keep you conscious the whole time, little brother, no matter what."
"You're not my brother," Sam muttered, struggling against his restraints as the older man sauntered toward the stairs.
Dean turned, his eyes flashing angrily in the dimly lit room. "Never say that," he growled, "I'm Dean Winchester, whether you and daddy like it or not. Pretty soon, I'll be the only Dean Winchester, so get used to the idea of having me around."
"Even if you can kill me, they won't let you get away with it. They won't let you win."
Dean stopped by the foot of the staircase and turned to face his little brother. He smirked. "Whatever, man. Listen, it might be a while before I get back and I don't want you to get bored. So, uh, here," he dropped his weapon on the floor and looked back up at Sam, "you wanna get away and warn them, be my guest. Make the knife float to you, there, Psychic Boy." Laughing, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Sighing heavily, Sam looked at the knife. Just a month earlier, he'd made a similar knife skitter across the floor to him, but without his brother there to cheer him on he doubted he could do it again. Just need a distraction, he thought, at least, that's what Dean thinks. I hope he's right.
Desperate to take his mind from the knife lying across from him on the floor, Sam turned his eyes to Marcy's blood-drenched body and shuddered. Maybe not the best choice.
"How about this," he muttered to himself, "Dean's probably back at the motel room with dad, who, I'm sure, is ripping him a new one. He can't be taking it that well." He shook his head, glancing back at the knife. It hadn't moved.
Sam searched the room, hoping to find something to take his mind off of his current problem. His head began to throb dully as he looked around. He was sure a lump was forming there, if one hadn't already. The dull pain got worse, searing through his skull.
"Not now," he mumbled, hanging his head and trying to will the coming vision away, "anytime but now."
Dean stood with his back to them. His white shirt was again covered in blood, but not as badly as it had been the first day of the split. He was talking to someone Sam couldn't see.
"We'll see about that," Dean remarked, getting up in the other guy's face. Sammy could hear the defiance in his brother's voice. Something big was happening, he just wasn't sure what. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out through the dark room.
Dean's head turned back as the blood began to seep through his shirt, staining it crimson. He looked at Sam, no, beside him. Sam turned, too, to see his father holding a smoking gun.
He looked back to his brother, panic beginning to worm its way into his chest. Dean was bleeding a lot, more than he should have been, and, as the older man fell, Sammy realized that the bullet had probably pierced his heart. The look of hurt in his eyes gave it away, all of the pain he'd ever endured, and his life had come to this. His father had shot him.