A/N Thank you and I hope that you enjoy!
Chapter Five
Darrion sighed heavily and pursed his lips in frustration before he took another swig from his sweating bottle of beer. Mr. Harris mimicked his actions, only with a crystal tumbler. He fingered it for a moment, before setting it aside.
"It's not working, is it, Darrion?"
Darrion scratched at his ear, before shaking his head. "No…no, it isn't. But he's not dead yet, so maybe…if we give it time it might start to work."
"Pity." Mr. Harris frowned as he pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. He held out the package to Darrion, but he shook his head.
"I quit about a month ago. Was dead broke, so I had to stop. Hardest thing that I've ever done," he said, digging a piece of gum out of his pocket and unwrapping it with a sad smile. "Though it's times like this that I miss it like hell."
He gave the package that Mr. Harris was putting away a long, yearning, look.
Mr. Harris puffed away in silence, his face thoughtful and Darrion worried at his lower lip, before speaking.
"You should let your scientist friend know that we are going to need more of the serums. We have enough to do the sessions today and tomorrow, but that's it. But hey, who knows, maybe the break will do him some good. Maybe that's what we've been missing this whole time. Maybe he—"
"—It—"
"—It just needs a chance to recover. Six doses a day of that stuff is probably pretty hard on the body. It's not exactly a Vitamin D, after all."
Mr. Harris's laugh turned into a hacking cough and he snubbed out the cigarette. "You could say that…but, they're abominations, they don't play by the same rules that pure humans do. They can handle it. It's not the six doses a day that I'm worried about." He shook his head, his smile fading. "No, I think that we've been fooling ourselves, Darrion. None of them have been close to being able to perform on command. The one down below, that was probably just a quirk, part of its powers. The other one called out for help using their damn freakish abilities and the other one answered. We've been running on a fool's hope, that's all. There was no way that we would ever be able to control the bastards. I just—I have wanted this for so long."
Mr. Harris trailed off thoughtfully, and Darrion shuffled his feet, not quite sure where the conversation was going, but not liking the sounds of it.
"You know, I guess that I let myself believe in the impossible but I think...I think that it may be time to move on to different ventures and business opportunities," Mr. Harris finally finished and pulled out another cigarette, which he took a long puff of. Darrion continued to eye it enviously, refusing to look Mr. Harris in the eyes. "I'm pulling the plug, Darrion. After the serums are gone, we're done. The serums are expensive, even for me, and the FBI could come knocking at my door any minute. The filth downstairs isn't worth the risk, I do not want to spend the rest of my days in prison."
Darrion stared at the floor as he blew out a long sigh, and then raised his head. "And if it doesn't work…?"
"What do you mean? I just told you."
"No, no. Look, that stuff killed all the rest of 'em. We've never had one still alive before. Do we put a bullet in his head? Or…?"
Mr. Harris's head jerked up, his eyes wide and frantic. "Yes! For cryin' out loud, yes! I don't care how you do it, that's up to you, but that abomination cannot leave here alive, and I'm not letting it live here rent-free. But if it gets free, we are both done for. It'll go running straight to the authorities. I'm not doing that again."
"I understand, sir," Darrion nodded once, flipping his wrist over to look at his watch. It was almost five in the evening. He was supposed to start another session at eight, but there was time before that for dinner. "You want anything to eat?"
"What?" Mr. Harris's eyes narrowed and Darrion shrugged.
"I'm hungry, and you have an excellent chef." Darrion grinned, tossing his now empty beer bottle towards the trash.
Mr. Harris shook his head. "Are you out of money already?" he asked in exasperation.
"No…but every buck counts and you have more than enough, so I figured I might as well make good use of your fortune." Darrion smiled limply. He had actually blown most of his money in the bar down the road on a badly played game of poker, but Mr. Harris didn't need to know that.
Money just seemed to flow in and out of his pockets far too easily.
"Fine, fine. Go ahead and order something down," Mr. Harris said with a slightly annoyed look, but Darrion just grinned and leaned over to spit his gum into the trashcan before grabbing the phone. Even as he ordered, he couldn't stop the disquiet at the back of his mind.
He was almost out of money, again, and he didn't like sleeping in his car or staying out of the bars. He had already given up smoking, he didn't want to be forced to give up anything else.
Part of him had always believed that if they got just one of the special kids to perform on command that he would get a certain percentage of the profits—he had brought them in and had done the dirty work, after all—even though that wasn't in his original contract. If Mr. Harris had argued with him, then he would have gone straight to the police and told them everything.
He was sure that he could handle—and break out of—jail much easier than Mr. Harris ever could.
Not that any of this mattered. Sam wasn't exactly performing…but if he would just have a vision, Darrion would never have to worry about money again.
#
It felt like Sam had just fallen asleep when a spray of water hit him right in the face. Spluttering weakly, he blinked water out of his eyes to find Darrion kneeling in front of him, looking grim.
"Rise and shine," he said dourly around the stick of gum in his mouth. Sam didn't rise to the bait as he relaxed back against the floor. Darrion's frown deepened as he leaned forward and into Sam's personal space. "Look, freak, I'm going to let you in on a little secret and you had better pay attention. Unless you have a vision, you've got about two days left to live…so, you know, if you could just have a vision…that would be great."
"I'm telling you," Sam said, and he hated how weak his voice had become. "I'm not going to have a vision. I never could control it and even if I could…" he trailed, off, closing his eyes. Even if he did, he wouldn't 'perform' for the likes of Mr. Harris and Darrion.
"Right, but just try, okay? For me? And I guess for you. It's better to live life as a captive than to die, right?"
"Because this is such the luxurious life. I was sleeping, so if you would—" he waved a hand limply towards the door before letting it fall weakly back to his chest when his strength gave out.
Darrion rose, darkness clouding his face, and kicked Sam in the gut. Sam curled inwards, wheezing out a broken cough and blinking back the tears of pain that had formed.
"That's really convincing me to want to stay and live my life as a captive," he wheezed and managed a smirk when Darrion's face screwed up, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
"You're really just a son of a bitch, aren't you?" Darrion plunged a hand into his pocket, pulling out the needle with the first dose. Yanking Sam's arm out, he jabbed the needle in with enough force to make him flinch.
The dart rifle was never used now that Sam was too weak to fight back. The cheerful optimism that Darrion had possessed was also gone.
The next little bit was filled with senseless agony, and then black oblivion.
When Sam regained consciousness, he was alone again.
The AC was blowing, and his shirt was damp. He didn't know if he sweated through it, or if the hose had been used again to clean off the floor. Sam did know that he hadn't seen a vision, and he doubted that he ever would, no matter how many drugs Darrion forced into his system.
Not that they sounded like they were going to keep trying for much longer.
Sam tried to feel fear, he really did, but all that he felt was a strange, creeping, relief.
As long as Dean didn't get caught up in everything, he would be okay. The world could do without him—hell, it was probably better off that way—but it couldn't do without Dean.
The thought of his brother made Sam's eyes start to prickle and he draped an arm over his face.
If he had one regret, it was that he wasn't going to get to say goodbye to Dean, that he wasn't going to be able to tell him one last time how sorry he was. How much he loved him.
Forcing off a sob, Sam silently cursed himself for what seemed like the millionth time. What he and Dean had was unique, he knew that, and he had broken it.
He didn't blame Dean for not forgiving him, he just wished…wished that none of it had ever happened in the first place.
#
Darrion didn't say a word during their next session, but did plunge the needles into Sam's skin with unnecessary force and left with a particularly brutal kick to Sam's knee. The anger only intensified throughout the next round of drugs, but the pleading manner that Darrion entered with for Sam's final session was not heartening.
"Please…just try to see something, anything," he almost pleaded as he pulled out the syringe. "Surely it can't be that hard, just…try. We could make millions together. Look, we might even consider cutting you in."
Sam didn't dignify that lie with a response.
Darrion inserted the needle, depressing the plunger. The pain from the first serum was almost mild now, nothing like the agony that Sam knew was coming. Sure enough, the second drug had fire and ice racing through his veins, wrenching mangled screams from his abused throat. The second dose had him rolling over and dry heaving uselessly.
Unlike any of the prior times, Darrion gave Sam a moment to regain his bearings and catch his breath.
"Anything? Anything at all, even just a flash of something?"
Sam shook his head, swallowing thickly.
"Damnit." Darrion stood, running a hand through his hair. "DAMNIT!" He slapped the wall aggressively, breathing heavily. "Your brother was right...You're useless and nothing more than a pain in the ass."
"Good," Sam risked muttering even as he tried to keep the flare of hurt at the mention of Dean out of his voice.
Darrion jammed the syringe into the bottle, filled it, and then jabbed it roughly into Sam's arm. "This is your last chance. You do know that right?"
Sam didn't have a chance to respond as the torture began. The pain tore through him, ripping him out of existence and into a void filled with nothing else. When he came down, wheezing raggedly and his heart fluttering unsteadily, Darrion was leaning over him.
"Anything?" He didn't sound hopeful and Sam didn't even bother to answer.
Darrion shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He was silent for a long time. Finally, he stood. "I'll come back for you soon, but don't be too concerned. I'll make it quick. I mean, it's not going to take much to finish you off, so it couldn't be anything but that…if you believe in God, you probably should start saying your last confession."
He disappeared through the door.
Sam closed his eyes calmly.
Death didn't scare him.
He was ready.
Taking several labored breaths, Sam worked himself laboriously up onto his knees and half-dragged, half crawled, the couple of feet that it took to reach the corner of his little prison. Slumping against the wall, he forced himself to breathe out slowly, allowing his heart to calm to a slightly less frantic pace.
It took longer than Sam had expected for Darrion to return. He was just starting to wonder if they were going to starve him to death—or freeze him to death, that seemed likely with the AC still on high—when the door swung inwards.
For just the briefest of seconds, Sam had the crazy belief that he was going to look up and see Dean striding through that door, all swagger and blustery concern. Dean had never not rushed in and saved him at the last second.
Well. Not counting Cold Oak and Jake, but Dean had fixed that. Before he had unleashed Lucifer, Sam hadn't known whether to feel never-ending gratitude or horror at his brother's sacrifice and usually ended feeling a little of both. Now, he just wished that he was already dead.
Not that any of it mattered, because it was Darrion who waltzed in. And it became immediately clear to Sam that everything had changed.
It was so alarming and surprising that Sam felt his interest stirring sluggishly before the overwhelming weakness and exhaustion reared up, swallowing everything back down.
Darrion would kill him. Or he wouldn't. It was as simple as that.
"Aren't you gonna ask what's happenin' next?" Darrion asked, bouncing up and down on his toes as he rubbed his hands together. He shrugged. Darrion was going to tell him either way, Sam didn't think that his opinion mattered that much.
Darrion's grin grew, Sam's silence not a damper on his attitude. "You would not believe what I just learned!" He rifled through his pockets, before finding what he was looking for. It was a zip tie. Crouching next to Sam, he easily overrode his feeble resistance and brought his wrists together, and secured the zip tie tightly around them.
"So, I was going up to tell Mr. Harris that I was gonna take you out back and—" Darrion made a squelching sound, drawing his finger across his throat. "—and I caught him on his computer looking at some article going over different ancient creatures with magical capabilities."
So? Sam dearly wanted to ask.
"And while I was up there, he was showing me this one, a Talamh Fortan, and it's said that if you drink its blood, you'll have a long life and good fortune. If I would have known that Mr. Harris was interested in those types of creatures, I probably would have become a millionaire long ago! Anyway, that's not the important edge of a knife. It just so happens that I've heard rumors around about one of these Talamhs. I haven't dared to go after one before because I didn't know that it could do any of that crap and also, well, they're not exactly kittens, are they? But for twenty grand, and a promised cut of any sells…well, for that, I am willing to dance the bunny hop naked."
He paused his monologue, studying Sam intently, perhaps catching the sudden flash of panic that was surging through Sam.
Sam had never gone up against a Talamh—not even the great John Winchester had sought them out—but he had read about them. Part of the reason that no one had gone after them was because they were incredibly hard to find, disappearing for half a century at a time but they were dangerous, even in hunters' circles.
Somehow, he also doubted that its blood had all those abilities. Sam had never read anything like that, and he wasn't basing his research on one internet article designed for cheap thrills.
"You're a hunter. Do you know what a Talamh is?" Darrion asked, cocking his head to the side and confirming Sam's suspicions.
"You don't—you really don't want to go up against one," Sam croaked out in alarm. "You can't kill it, its skin is like rocks, and they are almost impossible to find."
Darrion tapped the side of his nose. "Ah, but I have heard rumors of one, remember? No clue how it got there, but it's probably the last one in North America. Or at least the last known one."
Sam shook his head, making the whole room spin lazily. "Even if there is one, you won't kill it. It will kill you."
Darrion shrugged. "It's rumored to be in Big Timber, Montana, in an old mine that was abandoned about thirty years ago, even though there was still a high mineral output. Every attempt to reopen the mine has failed because everyone is too afraid to go in there. Now tell me if that doesn't check out."
Sam couldn't disagree. Talamhs did like underground lairs, and an old mine would be perfect, and the story about it being abandoned made it even more likely that it was indeed a Talamh. After eating their weight in flesh (human, animal, reptile, it wasn't picky) it would hibernate for years. To keep themselves safe from attack, it was said that the Talamh would emit a musk that created terror so strong that you couldn't get within fifty feet of it without running for dear life.
Or, at least that was what legend said and Sam wasn't eager to test the theories out.
"It will kill you…it will tear you apart without blinking an eye even if you did manage to get close to it," Sam reiterated, but Darrion just pushed himself up onto his feet. Brushing his hands off on his pants, he reached down to wrap his fingers around Sam's bicep.
"Well, aren't I lucky that you are here then? You can play both expert and bait. See, Mr. Harris said that instead of just killing you straight out, I could take you along as I'm gonna need something to draw the Talamh out. Just think of it this way. Your last noble sacrifice is to save some poor bastard deer from being the bait."
"No, not a good idea. It isn't going to work." Sam tried to jerk his arm away but Darrion easily dragged him up onto his feet. His already pounding head gave a particularly vicious throb, and Sam's knees gave out, sending him crashing painfully back to the floor.
Darrion huffed in some amusement and grabbed Sam more firmly by both arms, hauling him to his feet and frog-marching him out the door.
Sam hadn't been vertical in…well, not for a while and he found his balance skewed even when he managed to keep his feet. The hallway spun around him and he staggered to the side, throwing out his hands to keep his balance, but that wasn't helping much. Nor were the bright lights of the hallway. His whole body screamed in protest of the movement, his head threatening to fall off his shoulders as his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest.
His knees wilted out from underneath him.
Darrion caught him roughly and, much to Sam's mortification, maneuvered him over his shoulders and began to carry him up the stairs and through the mansion.
It was beyond humiliating.
Darrion's Dodge Avenger was waiting for them at the front of the steps. Darrion deposited Sam rather roughly onto the ground once they reached it and then bent over, panting heavily.
Sam, however, soaked in the fresh air. It was dark, sometime late evening or morning, and it smelled like it had rained recently. Longing stirred in Sam's chest, one that he hadn't felt in a long time…he didn't want to die like this.
But he couldn't even stand by himself, never mind make a run for it.
Darrion didn't give him time to enjoy it, however, as he began to drag him unceremoniously towards the trunk.
"You—" Sam began, but quickly shut his mouth. He had been going to say that Darrion didn't need to put him back in the trunk, but if he opened his mouth he was going to start retching and he had already sunk low enough.
Darrion was whistling an unfamiliar tune—if it could be called a tune—as he manhandled Sam up and toppled him over into the trunk. He was kind enough, however, to make sure that all of Sam's limbs had been pulled in before he slammed the lid.
The unruly movements had Sam clenching his hands together and squeezing his eyes shut to ward off the dizziness. By the time he had recovered, the engine had started and Darrion was pulling away.
The motion rolled Sam backward so that he was staring up at the lid.
He was right back where he had started.
#
Dean was thrumming with energy as he shoved a clip of bullets into his gun. He slid another into his pocket, not exactly sure of what he was walking into and how much artillery he would need. Bending over, he examined the rest of the contents of the trunk.
Sam was probably, and rightfully so, getting a little pissed off that it had taken Dean so long to find him. Hell, Dean was pissed off at himself as well. He was even more pissed at the people who had taken his brother, though, and he was more than ready for the fight that was bound to take place.
Pulling out the best of his knives, Dean tucked them away in various locations across his body before making the decision to pull out a second handgun—Sam's handgun— and adding it to his arsenal. He also grabbed the small first-aid kit as, somehow, he doubted that Sam was going to leave that mansion without needing some sort of medical attention.
They hadn't exactly kidnapped Sam to have tea parties.
With that in mind, he had parked the Impala just under a mile away from the mansion that Mr. Harris called home. It was far enough away that security wouldn't detect him, but close enough that Dean could run for the car if Sam wasn't up for the walk. If worse came to worse, it would be close enough for him to be able to carry Sam back.
Slamming the lid on the trunk, Dean straightened his jacket before pulling on a pair of black gloves.
Now was most definitely not the time to let the FBI know that he wasn't, in fact, dead.
Making sure that his lockpick was in hand, Dean began to move quickly and silently up the road. Reaching the edge of a tall, wooden, fence, he began to creep along with it until he came across a gate. It looked like some sort of service gate for the gardener or other help and had none of the fancy technology that the front gate was more than likely equipped with.
Their mistake, but Dean wasn't going to look the gift horse in the mouth.
Bending down, Dean stuck his flashlight between his teeth and began to pick the lock. He held his breath as it swung open, waiting for an alarm to sound. Nothing happened, and he cracked the gate shut behind him. That way, it didn't look suspicious or raise any alarms, but he could easily open it in case they needed a quick getaway.
Slinking into the shadows of a large tree, Dean surveyed the grounds before making his way not towards the front door, but the back. It was locked as well, but that stopped him just about as long as the gate had.
The entranceway that the door led into was dark, and Dean carefully shone the flashlight inside. There were a couple of coats hanging on pegs, a scattering of boots, and a second door that presumably led into the actual mansion.
Dean pressed his ear against the door, listening carefully for any footsteps. There were none, and he darted through and into a kitchen. From there, he found his way into the cavernous front room.
Here, he realized for the first time just how powerful and rich Harris was. His flashlight bounced off of the crystal chandelier, just illuminating massive paintings and other priceless collectibles. Flicking the light off to avoid detection, he tucked it into his pocket.
Dean was about halfway up the massive stairs when he heard footsteps, followed by muffled laughter. He paused, then backed up a few steps to melt into the shadows and assess the situation.
Two women holding baskets of laundry on their hips appeared at the end of the upstairs hallway and began to make their way down the stairs. They were talking softly with each other, and Dean held his breath.
They passed by him without notice, but Dean waited until their footsteps and voices had long faded before moving again.
The upstairs hallway stretched off in both directions and Dean wavered, unsure of which way to go. Finally, he followed his gut and turned right.
As he passed each door, he peeked inside, moving quickly on if they didn't reveal anything promising. He found a library that would have had Sam drooling, and more bathrooms and guest rooms than Dean had ever seen in one place before, but that was it.
Frustrated, Dean changed directions and moved back towards the stairs, this time taking the lefthand passage. Continuing the same procedure, he felt his chest tighten with anticipation as the rooms became more personal. He gripped the gun in his pocket tightly, tension coursing through his veins.
Now, at long last, he was getting somewhere.
It was the seventh door down that Dean opened to find what looked like the master bedroom. The room was vast, and the bed itself was probably the size of most motel rooms that Dean frequented. It was also empty, and Dean frowned.
He moved to close the door, but a light coming from underneath a second door further in the room caught his attention. Creeping towards it, Dean pressed his ear to the door, listening once again.
Someone was speaking on the other side, but there was just one voice and Dean guessed that whoever it was—probably Mr. Harris—was on the phone.
Gripping the doorknob tightly, Dean gently eased it open. The one nice thing about the rich was that they paid other people to do things that most ordinary people couldn't be bothered with, such as oiling the hinges, and Dean smirked as he peered through the crack in the door without anyone being any the wiser of his presence.
An older, balding, man was sitting at a desk with his back to Dean and pouring over something on his desk with a phone pressed against his ear. The computer was humming next to him, showing what looked to be a bank account.
This had to be Mr. Harris, and anger curled hard and strong in Dean's gut.
"Alright, Jeff, I'll put you down for two million and I'll let you know when and if we have the product in…Yeah, I'll talk to you later."
Dean rolled his eyes, waiting impatiently for Harris to hang up the phone. At last, he did with a sigh of satisfaction as he picked up a pen.
It was almost too easy.
Dean flung the door open with a bang and before Mr. Harris could do more than start violently, Dean had a hand firmly over his mouth to stifle his yell of surprise. Mr. Harris was sitting on an office chair with wheels, and Dean took advantage of that to drag him swiftly backward and into the bedroom.
Slamming the door behind him, he flung the chair around so that Mr. Harris was facing him. "Now," he began, his voice low and threatening, "I have a gun and I am a very, very, good shot. If you try and yell for help, or escape in any way, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in you. Am I clear?"
Mr. Harris's eyes were as large as saucers as he nodded fervently, his chin trembling. Dean slowly removed his hand, and Mr. Harris flinched. Dean rolled his eyes. He reached behind him, pulling out his gun. "Now that," he said, "is worth flinching over."
Mr. Harris went very pale, and his eyes carefully tracked Dean as he set the gun down on the nearest dresser and within easy reach. He jerked his eyes up to Dean, who was pleased to see that he was sweating.
"Who—"
"I'm the one doing the questioning here," Dean said calmly, and Harris fell silent instantly. Dean leaned forward with both hands on the arms of the chair and pushed his face into Mr. Harris's personal space.
"Where is Sam? Sam Winchester?"
"I don't—I don't know a Sam Winchester," Mr. Harris squeaked out.
"Really? Why is it that I don't believe you? He's not easy to forget. 6'4, shaggy hair, and puppy eyes that would make the Queen herself hand over England."
Something clicked in Mr. Harris's eyes, Dean saw it. He also saw the moment that the realization was overrun by fear and panic.
"I don't know who you are talking about, but I'll give you whatever you want. Money. I can give you more money than you could ever dream of!"
Dean snorted. "I don't want money. I want my brother. Where. is. Sam?" he punctuated the last sentence by grabbing the back of the chair and tilting it back so far that Mr. Harris's feet left the ground. He floundered, his feet swinging as distress danced through his eyes, and Dean couldn't help a smile.
"I have money, a lot of money! I can give it to you, just don't hurt me, just—please, don't hurt me!"
"I already told you, I don't want money. I want Sam," Dean alliterated. He abruptly let go of the chair, allowing it to spring back up. Grabbing Mr. Harris by the collar of his bathrobe, he dragged him out of the chair and slammed him up against the wall hard enough that his head bounced off.
Mr. Harris whimpered, his chin wobbling as tears formed in his eyes. "Gone," he finally managed in a strangled voice. "Darrion took him away, yesterday."
Dean tightened his grip, his guts clenching. "Gone? You've got to be kidding me! But he was here?"
"Yes, yes, but they're gone now! Please, please, don't hurt me, don't kill me."
"Where did Darrion take him?" Dean's hands tightened, and Mr. Harris looked away, moaning in fear as he bought up both hands to protect his face.
"I'm not sure, I don't know! Montana, I think, or maybe Wyoming? Somewhere out west, somewhere with a Talamh, that's all. That's all I know, I swear!"
That gave Dean pause, and he frowned. A Talmah Fortan? That was an abrupt left from where Dean had been expecting things to go. They were nasty sons of bitches, but what did Darrion want with one?
Dean took a step back. Mr. Harris breathed again, lowering his hands.
"Why did you want Sam?" Dean asked in a deceptively calm tone.
"Oh…" Mr. Harris began shakily, his gaze dropping.
"I suggest you tell the truth if you want to live to see the morning."
Mr. Harris licked his lips. "I—we wanted it because of the freak visions it—"
Dean wasn't aware of moving as the anger that had been smoldering deep in his chest flashed into flames that had him seeing red. His hand wrapped around Mr. Harris's throat as he rammed him up against the wall and began to squeeze. "He's not an it. His name is Sam. And he's not some sort of freak, you sick, twisted, bastard," he snarled.
Mr. Harris gasped for air and his hands came up, scrabbling at Dean's in an attempt to free himself from the intense pressure. Dean sneered, squeezing tighter to make sure that the message had been received before he let go.
Mr. Harris began to cough, sucking air in desperately.
"Now, tell me. And use Sam's name."
"Ah," Mr. Harris blinked tears out of his eyes. "Right. It—Sam—used to have visions—"
"I'm aware."
Mr. Harris winced and rushed his next words. "And we just thought it would be better for him if he could control it, so we were trying to help him control them. I swear, we were trying to help him…"
"Don't lie to me, you're not very good at it." Dean's hand flew up again, and Mr. Harris keened out something akin to a whimper.
"Okay, okay, okay. We wanted to be able to control the visions for us so that we could…" Mr. Harris paused and then squeezed his eyes shut as he threw his hands back up again. "So that we could market the ability and sell it for ourselves."
"You son of a bitch," Dean breathed out. "I should kill you right here, right now."
"No, no, no, please, don't! Please don't kill me!"
Dean had had enough. "How'd you try and force the visions?" he asked sharply over the rising pleases.
"A drug, a serum. I didn't develop it, well, I didn't personally develop it, but my scientists swore that it would work, that it would flip the switches in his head.
Dean arched an eyebrow. "And I bet that it worked just swell. How many people did you kill before you got it through your thick head that it was completely useless? You were scammed, old man, and if I—if Sam's not perfectly fine when I find him then you had better hope that the FBI finds you first because I will take those drugs, and I will shove them down your throat until you choke on them."
Mr. Harris quelled, his breath coming in harsh pants.
Dean let him go, breathing heavily himself. He turned his back on him, thinking about what to do next.
Mr. Harris glanced at him, and then took courage from the apparent closing of the interview. "Your brother was a freak of nature, an abomination. You know that, right? It wasn't like I was hurting someone, an actual human being. I help people." He thumped himself on the chest. "I give to charity! A monster like—"
Dean lashed out with a punch that connected Mr. Harris's cheekbone, snapping his head to the side. It felt good, it felt good to have a punching bag for his frustrations that deserved it, and he lost himself as he let the anger and rage flow through him.
When he came back, Mr. Harris was slumped, unconscious, and bleeding on the floor. His face resembled raw hamburger, and Dean's knuckles were split and bleeding.
Breathing heavily, Dean sniffed, wiping a hand over his mouth as he stared down at Mr. Harris. He was still breathing, and Dean supposed that it was acceptable for the moment.
Without any regret, he turned and made his way into the study.
The computer was still running, and Dean wiggled the mouse to bring it back to life. He minimized the webpage. Underneath that was a graphic depiction of a Talamh with its long fangs and its white, boulder-like skin. Closing that page, Dean frowned.
Beneath that was a Livestream, showing a small, empty, room.
Dean's stomach plummeted, curdling with sudden unease. He was sure that he did not want to know what had happened in that room, and that if he searched for the answers that he was going to give himself nightmares for the next month, perhaps for the rest of his life. But…it was Sam. And he needed to know.
Trying to brace himself for what was coming, Dean sank to kneel on the floor and began to go through the various files on the computer, looking for past videos of the room. It took him about twenty minutes, but he finally found an unnamed folder that flooded the screen with icons of video after video.
Hesitating a moment, Dean gritted his teeth and flicked on the first one. It brought up a young man, not Sam, in a room that was larger than the other one.
Dean watched, horrified, as a slightly younger Darrion entered, administering a drug. The boy's face screwed up, and Dean could almost hear his screams.
Feeling sick, Dean closed it out and began to scroll down, clicking on videos at random. Eventually, the young man changed to a woman. Dean's hand came up, covering his mouth as he scrolled down through the various victims until he found Sam.
In the small icon of the first video, Sam looked anxious and sad, but determined.
Taking a breath to steady himself, Dean clicked on it.
The grainy footage of Sam sitting against the wall began to play. Darrion appeared a moment later, a dart rifle in hand. They circled each other for a moment, talking.
Dean flinched back when the dart hit Sam in the chest. He had to look away when Sam began to scream in pain before finally, mercifully, passing out. The video ended and Dean breathed out slowly, trying to swallow the bile back. The next video was much of the same, except for Sam rolled over halfway through and threw up.
Dean wasn't fazed by that, but he almost broke the mouse he was clenching when Darrion brought out the hose, spraying down both Sam and the floor.
They were treating Sam like he was some sort of animal, like he was an 'it'.
Looking away, Dean closed his eyes to fight against the surge of emotions. Sam had never—he did not deserve that. No one did, but especially not Sam, not his little brother. Not the kid who had fought so hard to help others.
Each subsequent video grew progressively worse and Dean's rath and concern were soaring. He almost couldn't stomach clicking on the last video. Sam looked wretched, and that was being generous. His eyes had sunken into his face, which was so pale that the blood that occasionally dripped from his nose looked darker than normal.
Sam looked to be on death's door.
Dean's throat closed up and his eyes were burning uncomfortably as he emailed the videos to himself for future reference before deleting them. Sam would be fine, he just had to get to him and nurse him back to health, maybe even take him to a hospital.
He could do that, he had done it before. He would fix Sam. Sam wasn't going to die.
And he would get justice for the other kids, the ones who hadn't made it.
After a brief moment of thought, Dean emailed the rest of the videos—minus the ones of Sam—to the FBI through Mr. Harris's account. He included a brief confession on the behalf of Mr. Harris along with the suggestion to continue digging up the backyard of his old mansion. They would probably need a real confession, but if that didn't bring the FBI running, then Dean didn't know what would.
Part of him desperately wanted to kill Mr. Harris on the spot and just be done with it. After all, the FBI hadn't worked out so well last time, and the world would be a better place without the bastard. And it wasn't like Dean had qualms about killing humans in the right circumstances (Sam would doubt that, but Sam had always been able to see him in a light that he couldn't see himself).
But, as much as he hated to admit it, this wasn't the right circumstance.
Mr. Harris was still unconscious. It would be cold-blooded murder, and Dean didn't think that his soul could stand for that.
He would just have to make sure that the FBI wasn't stupid enough to mess this up and ensure that even the world's best lawyers would be unable to get him acquitted. And if they did…well, Dean was going to be following the case very, very, closely in the days and weeks to come.
If they let him off, then Dean would step in where the law left off.
Pushing himself upright, Dean was about to leave when he caught sight of the notebook that was sitting open. Out of morbid curiosity, he pulled it towards himself so that he could read the scrawled words and then immediately regretted it.
It was schemes and money balances.
It was all about how much money Mr. Harris could make off of Sam, off of the visions…although the newest entry was all about the Talamh and the supposed property that it held.
If it wasn't such a dire circumstance, Dean would have laughed at the list that Mr. Harris had written down. Long life? Good fortune? Ridiculous.
All the same, Dean ripped out the last several pages and tucked them into his front pocket before tossing the notebook haphazardly onto the desk. Let the FBI do with it as they would.
Returning to the bedroom, Dean crouched down next to the still unconscious Mr. Harris. The man's face was already swollen and turning various shades of blue and purple. His nose looked broken, and Dean would be surprised if he didn't have a concussion.
Shaking his head in utter disgust, Dean got up and grabbed the fine linen curtains and began to expertly rip them into smaller pieces, which he then used to bind Mr. Harris's limbs securely. Shoving another piece of fabric into his mouth to act as a gag, Dean took a step back and nodded in approval.
By the morning, if not within the hour, the FBI would be knocking on the door, but Dean would be long gone.
Lip curling, Dean delivered one last, sharp, kick to Mr. Harris's side before he melted back into the shadows.
No one saw him leave, just as no one had seen him come.
Dean did not get a motel room that night, instead calling Bobby as soon as he had pulled away from the Harris mansion.
Bobby had been waiting and picked up immediately.
"Do you have him?"
Dean's gut did a summersault. He wished.
"No, and I feel like I'm playing an endless version of the shell game. As soon as I think I have him, he's someplace else."
"Well, where the hell is he now, then?" Bobby suddenly sounded very old and tired, which Dean could relate to.
"I have an idea, well, I think that you might. Do you know of any rumored Talamh Fortan's in the United States? It doesn't have to actually be there, just lore or rumors…?"
"A Talamh?" Bobby asked and Dean huffed impatiently.
"Yeah, I know. It's a long story which I don't even know all of, but from what I can tell Darrion is trying to hunt one down and took Sam with him, probably to act as bait."
Bobby was quiet and Dean let him think. "Head further west," he finally began. "A Talamh typically likes mines or other underground holes, and the west is filled with abandoned ones. In fact, I think I have heard rumors of one in Montana, but I need to check town names before I can tell you for sure."
Dean checked behind him, before turning the Impala into a sharp u-turn, now heading west.
"A Talamh, really? Those things are tricky bastards, even for us."
"That's what I said! But Darrion has Sam, and if he's going after one, then I am too. He's not gonna care if Sam makes it out of there alive, but I sure as hell do. They think that the Talamh has markable properties. All they care about are get rich quick schemes, that's why they took Sam in the first place."
"And how the hell did those morons think Sam was gonna be able to do that?"
"They were trying to force him to have visions so that they could, I dunno, sell it? But Bobby…they were simply torturing him. I saw—there were these videos—" Dean stopped. He didn't think that he could recount what he had seen. The mere thought of them had his gut twisting viciously.
"Nothing makes people forget their humanity quicker than money," Bobby said wearily and Dean shook his head. Didn't make it right. "Look, Dean, if you don't catch up with Darrion and Sam in time, and if these aren't just rumors, then you do realize that you might have to go up against a Talamh? You know about the olfaction defense that they have?"
Dean slowed down just enough to check both ways before blowing through a stop sign. "Yeah, I do. Dad told me all about the Talamh one night when I was a kid and pretty beat up to distract me." Or perhaps it had been Sam, but that didn't feel right. Sam told him anything and everything about the oddest things, but he was fairly positive that this time it had been his father. "The odor that they emit is used during their hibernation, and causes crap-your-pants terror in whatever poor bastard gets a whiff of it."
"Yeah, used to work pretty damn well before the days of filtered oxygen. Which means that before you get there, you're gonna need—"
"I know, I know. I'll find some SCBA units somewhere. Fire stations always have some, I'll just have to sneak a couple out."
"Good. And you know that you can't penetrate a Talamh's skin with a gun or a knife?"
Dean sighed. "Yeah, I just hope that Darrion does as well. Not that I care too much about him, for all I care the Talamh can eat him, but if he's taking Sam, then he had better damn well know how to fight it. I mean, there's a reason that nobody hunts them. Seriously."
"I hear you, but nothing's invincible…" Bobby trailed off, apparently thinking. "Dean, I'll hit the books as soon as I can. There has got to be a way to defeat it, this situation is damned enough without you going in blind, but before I do that, I'll make some calls, figure out a location and get back to you."
"Thank you. And I'll keep you updated about anything that happens on my end." Dean waited for Bobby's agreeing hum before he snapped the phone closed and tucked it back into his pocket. He propped his elbow up against the door, letting his head rest in his hand.
Nothing about this felt right in any way, shape, or form.
He just wanted to have Sam sitting next to him, complaining about the music or researching, or chattering about nothing that Dean cared about. He would even take the silent, broody, and sad version of Sam as long as he was safe and alive.
Don't give up, I'm coming for you, Sammy! he silently pleaded, his heart heavy with fear.
#
The trunk of the car was warm. It was kind of nice, actually, after the days spent in the chilly room. But the warmth was making Sam's eyes heavy, and he found himself drifting in and out. Not that that was actually that different from the last few days. Sam didn't have the energy for much else.
It was hard enough to drag enough air into his abused body.
The car went over a bump, and Sam flinched, moaning aloud now that there was nobody to witness it. His chest was throbbing alarmingly, not helping his situation.
Closing his eyes, he shifted slowly, trying to find a more comfortable position without upsetting his body.
It was going to be a long drive to Montana.