Title: Now I Know My ABC's
Author: Disasteriffic Kaz
Info: A hurt/comfort romp through the alphabet, one letter at a time from A to Z. Each chapter is a stand-alone one shot. There is hurt, comfort, angst, humor, feels and all around fun.
Author's Note: Delays on this one were brought on by the other SPN fic I've been writing. I got a little sucked in for a while. Lol Sorry about that! But if you follow my naughty account, you'll know which one that is. Heh.
This is a season 1 fic. :D Because that's my comfort zone.
Beta'd by the always awesome JaniceC678 :D– Friend and Muse's co-conspirator.
**Follow me on Facebook as "Disasteriffic Kaz" for frequent fic updates or just to chat!
~Reviews are Love~
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L is for Labyrinth -
"Are we sure there's a witch here?" Dean asked as he scanned the third article he'd turned up. He spun the laptop so Sam could see and pointed at it. "A witch sends this guy on Wonka's wild ride down the river?"
Sam peered at the article, scanning down the text and gave a snort of laughter. "'The victim stated to police that a man dressed in what he called a 'snazzy, purple suit and top hat' offered him a ride on his boat. After boarding, he alleges the ride became a sail of horrors with his worst nightmares flashing all around him like the boat was surrounded by movie screens.' Wow." Sam shook his head. "Ok, that is a little Willy Wonka, isn't it?"
"Oh, it gets better." Dean pulled the laptop back and smirked. "Got another one who says flying monkeys attacked him on the roof of his office building, so Wizard of Oz. And this one who says she was lured down into her own cellar and had to escape a flood of worms."
"Worms?"
"Worms. Little wriggly bastards that tried to drown her." Dean chuckled and sat back. "So, why do you think this is a witch? I mean that last one says cheesy, horror movie fan." He snorted. "You remember 'Squirm'?"
Sam laughed and nodded, turned and grabbed a file off his bed. He opened it, flicking through several pages and pulled out a glossy black-and-white photo, and handed it to Dean. "Because they found one of those at every crime scene."
Dean held up the picture and rolled his eyes. "Well, hell. Hex bags."
"Yeah. She may like cheesy horror films, but definitely a witch operating here." Sam tossed the file on the table. "But I have no idea how she's picking her victims. These people have nothing in common that I can find. A soccer mom, a filing clerk, and the dude on the boat is a waiter at some shitty little diner. On the plus side, they're all still alive, at least."
"Huh." Dean ran a hand through his hair and thought. "So, maybe the only thing they have in common IS the witch. Maybe they each did something that pissed this chick off."
"That's gonna make it a lot harder to find her." Sam groaned and stood, stretching out his back. "We should check out where they all worked. See if anyone remembers someone giving them a hard time recently."
"Ok, but we're sticking together." Dean shook his head when Sam opened his mouth to protest. "Witches are nasty pieces of work, dude. I'm not gonna end up with you turned into a newt or something."
Sam laughed at that. "I'm not the one who ticks off uptight women," he observed with a knowing look at his brother. "Pretty sure you're the one who'd get turned into something small and rat-like."
"Hey!" Dean flipped his middle finger at his brother and closed the laptop. "I hate witches. Not my fault the feeling is mutual."
Sam rolled his eyes and looked at the files again. "We could start with the law firm the filing clerk worked at. It's downtown. Should still be someone there and the police report said the clerk's coworker was with him when he went missing. Maybe he saw something, um..." Sam dug through the pile of papers until he found the report and nodded. "Norman something. Can't read the detective's handwriting."
"Yeah, why not." Dean stood and stretched. "Get the really boring one out of the way before we go talk to soccer mom." He waggled his brows at his brother. "You see her picture? She's kinda hot."
"Mom, Dean. She's married with kids." Sam shook his head at his brother and gathered up the papers they'd need.
"And? Desperate Housewives, Sammy." Dean grinned and ran his hands through his hair, spiking it up. "They can't get enough of me."
"You're ridiculous."
"No. I'm irresistible."
"And this is why you're gonna get turned into a rat." Sam waved a finger at him and grabbed up the laptop, packing it away too. "Ten bucks you piss off the witch and she screws with you."
"You're on." Dean grabbed the laptop bag from his brother, ducking Sam's attempt to get it back and headed for the door. "Saw you screwin' with my presets earlier," he called over his shoulder. "You can have your toy back when you fix my radio!"
Sam groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face. "My big brother is a giant child."
"I heard that!"
"No, you didn't!" Sam shouted out through the open door. He laughed softly and grabbed his jacket, hoping they'd get a break in this case before his brother really DID piss off the witch.
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Dean looked around office of the law firm and gave a slight shudder at the sea of cubicles and the drones working in them. He couldn't imagine trying to go through life like that day after day with nothing but mindless busy work repeating over and over and over.
"Detective Fischer?"
Dean turned and smiled for the pretty, blonde receptionist, Terri with an 'I', as she'd informed Dean when she emerged from one of a row of offices and gave him a smile. "Did you find him?"
"I did, actually." Terri shrugged one shoulder and flicked her hair over the other one playfully. The detective was certainly a talk drink of water she wanted a chance to swall...
"Terri?" Dean quirked a brow at the dazed expression on the woman's face and smirked as her eyes snapped wide and she coughed.
"Um... him. Right." Terri giggled and could feel her face flushing a brilliant shade of red. How she was supposed to remember her own name with those bottle green eyes looking down at her, she had no idea. And every time the man swiped his tongue unconsciously across his plush, full lips, she could swear she felt IQ points falling away. "Norman. Norman, um..." She lost the name as Dean's tongue peeked out at her again and she swallowed hard. "Oh, uh... Norman Rockwell. The attorney you were... but he's not an attorney. He's an intern. One floor up."
"Norman Rockwell? Really?" Dean snorted and wondered if that was the guy's real name.
"Yeah," Terri said dreamily. "Can I take you?" She coughed and shook her head. "I mean take you... I mean can I take you upstairs and show you where... Oh, hell."
Dean chuckled at her breathless voice and took pity on her. He brushed his fingers through her blonde hair, tucking it behind her ear and gave her his best grin. "Would you mind if I gave ya' a call once this case is cleared up, Terri with an 'I'?"
"Please." Terri pulled the slip of paper out of her bra that she'd already written her number on and handed it to Dean. "You better call, detective."
"Thanks, Terri." Dean winked at her and could almost see her knees going weak as he turned away and headed for the elevators with a satisfied chuckle. "Yep. Still got it." He took out his phone while he waited for the elevator to come down and called his brother. "Heya, Sammy. Got a name; Norman Rockwell. Yeah, I know. Can't be his real name, right? Anyway, eighth floor. I'm heading up there now to find him." Dean listened to Sam and stepped into the elevator as the doors opened. "I don't know. Maybe Rockwell's an alias. Could be hiding from our witch. Meet me up there."
Dean flipped his phone closed and stepped out on the eighth floor when the doors opened. Like the floor below, it was a sea of cubicles and unhappy looking people. He singled out a young man sitting at a desk nearby and flashed his badge as he neared. "Hey. Detective Fischer. I'm looking for Norman Rockwell."
"Whoa! Norman do something wrong?" The man looked up at Dean wide-eyed and maybe a little gleefully; fresh office gossip was hard to come by.
"Nothing like that," Dean assured him and put his badge away. "We just have some questions about something he may have witnessed. Can you tell me where he is?"
"Oh." The man deflated a little and shrugged. He waved a hand toward the back of the floor. "Last time I saw him, he was in the stacks."
"The stacks?"
"It's where they keep official documents, court case filings, research..." Sam's voice came from behind Dean. "Pretty much a room-sized circular file."
Dean smirked. "Trust you to know that, college boy." He looked down at the young man at the desk. "My partner, Detective King. Thanks."
Sam followed his brother and moved up alongside him as they walked down the row of cubicles toward the other side of the building and rolled his eyes. "Can't believe you named us Fischer and King and no one's figured out that it's bullshit yet."
Dean chuckled. "People hear what they wanna, dude. You know that."
"Yeah." Sam ducked under a low-hanging sign and ignored the knowing snicker from his big brother.
"There we go," Dean said and went to the door the guy at the desk had pointed out.
"I'm gonna hang back while you talk to him." Sam followed Dean inside and lowered his voice. "If he's just another potential victim, we don't want to spook him from giving us information."
"Stay close." Dean resisted the urge to take out his gun, though he always felt better having it in his hand. "Norman?" Dean called and turned down a row of shelves that rose up to the ceiling above. "Hey, Norm! Got some questions for ya'!" He strode quickly into the stacks and heard a shuffling sound nearby and to his left. "Norman Rockwell?" Dean turned a corner and looked down the next aisle. He saw a man, about six feet tall with shaggy brown hair in a white button-down shirt and black slacks standing there. "Mr. Rockwell?"
"Oh!" Norman frowned and turned, setting a thick file back on the shelf. "Who are you? You shouldn't be in here."
"Detective Fischer." Dean flipped his badge out and let the man have a look before he put it away again. "We're looking into the, uh, attacks. The local police report listed you as a possible witness. We were hoping you could tell us something."
Norman smirked. "A lot of people work in this building. What can I tell you? I don't even really know the guy who was attacked." He shrugged. "We just happened to be going to lunch at the same time."
Dean nodded. "So, Norman." He watched the man's face carefully. "Rockwell? That really your last name?"
Norman frowned harder. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Norman Rockwell? I mean, you don't look like a turn-of-the-century painter." Dean smirked. He heard what he KNEW was a snort of disbelief from somewhere nearby and made a mental note to kick his little brother's ass later. "Aging pretty damn well for one if you are."
Norman gave a sudden laugh and waved a hand. "Right. No. My parent's sense of humor; mom actually." He shrugged. "She always said she knew when she married my dad she was going to name their first son Norman."
"Huh. Ok." Dean watched the man but couldn't get a read on him other than 'office drone'. "You sure you don't know anything else?"
"Sorry, detective." Norman grabbed his suit jacket from the shelf in front of him and gave it a snap, opening it out.
Dean's eyes followed the fall of a small, brown object that thumped softly into the floor at his feet. He saw Norman bending down curiously to pick it up just as Dean realized what it was. "Shit! No!" He bent and slapped Norman's hands away. "Don't touch that thing."
"Dean?" Sam's voice echoed in the room.
"Sammy, get over here. Got a hex bag." Dean nudged the bag with his toe and looked up at Norman. "That's, uh, detective talk for 'we don't know'." He smiled. "You should go back to work and let us handle this."
"Let you..." Norman's eyes widened when a taller man appeared at the end of the aisle.
"Here." Sam took out a lighter and tossed it to his brother. "Mr. Rockwell?"
"Go on. Get him outta here and check his desk for any more surprises." Dean took Norman's arm and gave him a nudge toward his brother. "Don't worry about it, Norm. You're gonna be fine." He knelt again and set flame to the hex bag.
"Come on, sir." Sam turned and started back toward the door.
Dean watched the hex bag go up in a gout of green flame and shook his head. "Man, who did these people piss off?" He turned when he heard a heavy thump and shot to his feet. Sam was in a heap on the floor at the other end of the aisle. "Sam? Norman, what happened?"
"This." Norman pulled another hex bag from the pocket of his jacket and tossed it to Dean who caught it reflexively. "Hunters. You guys need to work on your blending in."
"You're the..." Dean's voice choked off as a feeling of intense heat flowed through him from the hex bag. He fought to open his fingers and it rolled out of his grip to the floor, but the damage was done. He felt his knees collapse and he went to the floor and into darkness to the sound of Norman's laughter.
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Dean groaned. His head felt like someone had crushed his skull. He brought a hand up expecting to find blood, but there wasn't any that he could tell. "Sammy," he whispered, in deference to his pounding head. He slowly convinced his heavy eyes to open and blinked sluggishly for a moment before it registered that he was staring up at a cracked, stone ceiling. He felt cold, hard rock under his back and shivered.
"Sam." Dean called and then jerked upright as he remembered. "Sam!" The sound of his own voice raised in a shout speared through his skull. Dean moaned in pain with a hand wrapped around his head. He looked down when he felt something land in his lap. It was a small hex bag, and he picked it up in shaking fingers with a snarl of anger.
"Oh, you son of a bitch!" Dean dug his lighter out of his pocket, ignoring the spinning, tumbling sensation that threatened to dump him back to the floor and quickly set the small cloth bag on fire. It went up in a burst of green flame. Dean dropped it, and the pain in his head instantly vanished. It went so quickly, he swayed with the relief and nearly fell over again before catching himself. "Holy shit." He put a hand to his head and cautiously got to his feet.
"Sam!" Dean yelled and listened to his voice echoing down the hall and away from him.
"Nine hours and twenty three minutes."
"What?" Dean spun in surprise as a voice sounded behind him. His eyes widened and then narrowed angrily. Norman stood a few feet away wearing an elaborate black cloak and had, of all things, a grandfather clock beside him that was taller than he was. "Where's my brother, you asshole?" Dean strode forward, intent on grabbing the idiot and grunted as he bounced painfully off an invisible barrier.
"Nine hours and twenty... sorry, twenty-two minutes now." Norman said after consulting the grandfather clock with a smile. "That's how long you have to find your brother before you lose him forever. Find him or Sam is mine."
"Look, pal. I know the hair's a little confusing, but Sam don't swing that way." Dean threw a fist out in front of him and snarled when it too bounced off. "Find another dance partner."
Norman scowled. "You're not taking this very seriously. I have Sam."
"Yep. Got that." Dean nodded and checked to see if he was armed. His gun was gone, but he could feel the weight of the knife secreted at his back and the second, smaller blade in his boot. He looked up to Norman and smirked. "You leave him alone?"
"What? Yes. He's tied up, of course." Norman gave what he hoped sounded like a menacing laugh. "The handcuffs are very tight."
"Uh-huh. You left him alone." Dean raised his brows and then snorted a laugh. "Only one person I know picks locks faster than me, man." Dean smirked when Norman suddenly looked concerned and twitchy. "So, tell you what. You let Sam go. We walk away. No harm, no foul."
"Nine hours and twenty minutes!" Norman yelled instead. He wouldn't be deterred. "I'd move quickly if I were you."
Dean yelled inarticulately in frustration when Norman vanished in a melodramatic cloud of smoke. "Son of a BITCH!" He reached out and the barrier that had protected Norman was gone. Dean pulled the knife from the back of his jacket and started down the tunnel. "Alright, you asshole. Let's dance."
The tunnel Dean followed quickly turned and split into two more tunnels, and, as he looked in either direction, they seemed to elongate and stretch on forever in front of his eyes with bare light bulbs making pools of light at regular intervals. "The hell?" Dean muttered in confusion. He shook his head and started jogging, choosing one direction and and quickly worked up to a run. No matter how far or fast Dean ran, the tunnel kept extending ahead of him until it seemed to go on forever.
Dean slid to a stop, sweating and winded. He barely resisted punching the stone wall beside him and turned to lean against it with a heavy thump instead. He spent a few moments catching his breath and looked left and right. Nothing had changed. The tunnels still went on far out of sight, which was impossible given that Dean knew they were under the public works building and there was no way the city had tunnels that long and straight.
"Dammit." Dean groaned and wiped a hand over his face, clearing the beads of sweat from his brow before they could run into his eyes. He froze as a small, flickering figure zipped into his line of sight. It swept up near his face and Dean saw translucent wings fluttering behind a tiny female body. Dean yelped as the fairy, it was definitely a damn fairy, darted forward and bit his thumb before streaking off and up out of sight. He looked up while shock and realization coursed through him. "No." Dean straightened and looked in either direction. He put a hand out to touch the cold, stone wall. "No way in hell!" It had all begun to seem eerily familiar and the clues fell into place with a rush; all their victims had been tormented with one movie or another and Dean had just worked out what film Norman had captured him in.
"Labyrinth?" Dean bellowed it and fervently wished he had his gun and Norman to shoot at. "Really?" He threw his arms out in frustration. "This is not a damn movie and you are NOT David Bowie!"
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Sam slumped on the stone floor in front of the chair he'd been handcuffed too. It hadn't taken him more than a few seconds to free himself once he'd managed to reach the safety pin he kept at the end of his jacket sleeve, just inside the cuff. What had taken a while was overcoming the effects of the damn hex bag that had been left in his lap.
"Crap," Sam groaned in relief as the flame from his lighter caught it and the bag went up in a flare of green fire. The pain that had been crashing through his head dissipated in a rush, and he sat back, rubbing his head. He looked down at the silver cuffs dangling from his left wrist and shook his head at how useless they were. He easily removed the second cuff and tossed them to the floor, then reattached the safety pin inside his sleeve.
"Now, where the hell am I?" Sam muttered and got to his feet. He looked around the room, but there was nothing to give him any idea; just the chair he'd been cuffed to, a table with a glass and pitcher of water, and the door. He went to the door and tried the handle, then shook his head again when he found it unlocked. Obviously, whoever had captured him hadn't thought he'd escape the handcuffs. "Amateurs."
Sam pulled the door open and stepped out into a long stone hall. He ran his fingers over the wall, feeling dampness and the scummy residue of seeping water. "Underground, then." He looked left and right, shrugged, and headed left not having any better idea of where to go. Sam moved quickly, wanting to be away before whoever had taken him - and it had to be the witch considering the hex bag - returned.
"I don't think so."
Sam startled at the sound of the man's voice and grunted in surprise and pain as he slammed into an invisible barrier. He bounced back and fell to the floor in a heap. "What the hell? Norman?"
"Ok, so your brother wasn't kidding." Norman appeared on the other side of the barrier and stared down at Sam angrily. "Get back in the room."
Sam rubbed his sore nose, disgusted to feel it bleeding and quirked a brow. "Nope. What the hell are you?"
"The man who can kill you with a thought if you don't obey!" Norman yelled.
Sam looked at the imperious finger Norman aimed down the hall and snorted. He winced as it sent pain stabbing through his nose and used his sleeve to wipe the blood off his chin. "Look. I don't think you're going to kill me."
"No?" Norman demanded.
Sam shook his head and got back to his feet. "No. Obviously, you're the witch or warlock or whatever, that's been traumatizing those people, right? Well, you didn't kill any of them. So whatever else you are, you're not an evil person."
"I can be evil."
"Sure, you can. Look. Just let me go." Sam tried for his most reasonable tone and resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man. "Before Dean finds you. This doesn't have to get any messier."
"Dean has nine hours to find you," Norman said and shrugged. "After that, well..."
Sam waited for him to finish the sentence and when he didn't, Sam did roll his eyes. He scrubbed a hand over his face and tried to remain calm. "After that, what? Clearly, you want me to ask."
"You need to go back to your room." Norman ignored Sam's question, deciding to let the man stew in his curiosity and, hopefully, fear for a while. "You can go or I can make you."
Sam straightened his stance and readied himself. "Go ahead and try it."
Norman shook his head and made a soft tsking sound. "Physical force is so beneath me." He waved a hand and Sam was picked up from his feet and thrown backward down the hall.
"Oof," Sam grunted in pain as he hit the floor and slid along it. He shook his head, looked up, and had no time to react as something small and brown sailed through the air to land on his chest. He reached for it but his arm fell to the floor with a thump, then his head. It felt suddenly as though his body was weighted to the floor by an impossible pressure. He could only watch as Norman appeared in his line of sight and stared down at him. "Don't... don't do this."
Norman plucked a second hex bag from inside his robes and dangled it over the younger Winchester. "You could have walked all on your own. This is going to be a lot less pleasant."
"Wait. Wait!" Sam swallowed and coughed. "I'll... I'll walk, ok?" He felt like he was being pressed through the floor beneath him. Any moment, he expected to feel his ribs crack and break. Breathing was becoming a serious issue. He didn't know what the second hex bag was, but he was absolutely sure he didn't want to find out if he could help it.
Norman considered and, after a moment, he smiled and tucked the bag away again. He leaned down over the straining man and put his hand over the bag on Sam's chest. "Now, try to remember I can kill you with my brain and don't do anything stupid."
Sam heaved in a great gulp of air as Norman lifted the bag and the weight crushing him vanished. He rolled slowly to his side, relearning how to breathe and got cautiously to his feet. He looked over and saw that Norman had wisely backed up a few feet, but the man was still holding the hex bag ready. Sam raised a hand and shook his head. "Not gonna... try any... anything."
"Back to the room." Norman didn't let his guard down while Sam staggered back to the room he had left him in. He scowled, wondering just how Sam had gotten out of the handcuffs when he saw them lying on the floor.
"Probably should have locked the door," Sam observed sarcastically as he went to the chair he'd woken up in and sat down grudgingly. "It's like you weren't even trying."
"Look, you two stepped on my turf!" Norman slammed the door closed behind him and picked up the handcuffs. "What am I supposed to do now that you've found me, huh? Just let you go? You're hunters! I know what assholes like you do to witches!"
"Burn their altars." Sam looked at Norman steadily. "We don't kill witches. They're humans. You're human. We don't kill humans, moron."
"Right." Norman laughed with disbelief heavy in his voice. "And it's Norman, not moron. Don't make me hurt you to shut you up."
"What exactly are you going to do?" Sam leaned back in the chair and tried to look relaxed. "What's the end game, here?"
"Assuming you don't piss me off?" Norman smirked. "You two meat-heads spend the day in here, giving me plenty of time to pick up and leave town and start somewhere else where you won't find me."
"We will find you." Sam met his gaze steadily. "If you keep doing this, screwing with people magically, you're gonna set off alarms for us or other hunters. Just let us torch your altar and you won't have to worry about us again."
Norman snorted. "Not gonna happen. Do you know how long it's taken me to amass this much power?" He curled his fingers and flicked them out.
Sam gasped as a table appeared in front of him. It was set with a silver coffee service and steam curled gently from the carafe. "Uh... not bad."
"Have some coffee. Get comfortable." Norman pulled the door open. "And if you step foot outside this room again, you will regret it."
"This isn't going to end well for you!" Sam called and nodded when Norman stopped before leaving. "Dean, my brother? He gets a little... upset when the bad guys pick on me." Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. "It's annoying, but he goes full-on mama bear. And, believe me, man, you do not want to deal with him if I get hurt."
Norman shook his head. "That's entirely up to you and him. Stay in the room; don't get hurt."
"And what about Dean?" Sam demanded and stood. "What've you done with him?"
"Given him a puzzle to solve." Norman smiled. "Goodbye, Sam."
"Wait! Dammit," Sam groaned as the door closed. He dropped back to sit in the chair and looked at the coffee service. "Yeah, I'm not gonna drink that." He looked up at the door and blew out a breath. "Come on, Dean. Before I have to try that door again."
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"This SUCKS!" Dean bellowed. His voice carried down the tunnel and he scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. "Ah, dammit!" he cursed and felt the mud that had been clinging to his fingers now pulled through his hair and sticking it in clumps. He snarled incoherently and checked his watch. He had lost seven hours so far walking and running through what seemed an endless maze of tunnels.
"Labyrinth," Dean grumbled. "At least the asshole didn't put me in a white dress."
"I could arrange that." Norman chuckled when Dean cursed and spun to glare at him. "Although, you're no Jennifer Connelly."
"Can we just can the damn games now? Let me have Sam!" Dean started toward Norman and stopped, knowing he would just run into another invisible wall.
"You've got two and a half hours left to find him." Norman shrugged and snapped his fingers. "Maybe you just need motivation to move faster."
"What..." Dean growled in frustration as Norman disappeared. "Great. Really want to shoot that guy in the ass." He started down a new tunnel and stopped. He tilted his head and heard a grinding sound coming closer. "What the hell is that?"
Dean turned and looked behind him. His eyes widened as he saw something big moving up the tunnel toward him. It filled the width and height of the tunnel and glinted in the overhead lights. There was a muffled crash and pop each time it reached a light and the fixture exploded in a shower of sparks.
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me!" Dean turned away and ran. "I remember this bit! Not good!" He put on an extra burst of speed as the sounds grew closer and watched the walls to either side of him for any sign of a door or a new tunnel. He chanced a look over his shoulder and the contraption was closer; close enough for him to make out the whirling blades on the front and the 'snowplow' at the bottom crafted from gleaming knives that would shred his legs if they got close enough.
"Come on!" Dean yelled and then spotted a pair of vertical seams in the wall ahead of him. He slid to a stop, braced his back on the opposite wall and kicked. The section of wall between the seams shuddered with the impact and Dean kicked harder. There was a loud crack and the section of wall tilted slightly inward. Dean looked back and the machine was nearly on him. He ran and slammed into the wall. It collapsed away and he rolled out of the hall and into a room in a cloud of dust.
"Shit," Dean groaned and rolled to his back. He looked up in time to watch the machine reach the new hole in the wall. It rumbled past and he stared at the three, miniature Normans peddling behind all the blades as it moved on and out of sight.
"This is a bad acid trip." Dean got to his feet, brushing dust off his hands and shook his head. "That's it. Bad burrito maybe. I'm gonna wake up any minute now." He pinched his arm and groaned when nothing changed. "Fantastic." He looked around the room he was in and spotted two doors; one with a bright red cross on it and the other with a skull and crossbones. He stared gape-mouthed for a moment and then squared his shoulders, walking to the doors. "This shit is getting old."
Dean put a hand to the door with the red cross and jumped when the other door coughed. "The hell?"
"You sure you want to open that one, Sparky?" The skull grew out from the door until it could turn empty eye sockets to look at Dean and grin. "Might not be the best idea ever."
"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," Dean groaned and backed up a step as a face appeared out of the red cross in front of him. "What? You wanna talk some shit now too?"
"Just wanted to tell old Bonehead to can it." The red cross nodded its head toward the other door. "He's a little senile. Clearly, this dapper young gentleman knows what he's about. I am the right door."
The skull snorted. "Yeah, if he wants his loved ones picking his pieces up for a month. I'm telling you, you're picking the wrong door. Open me. You want to find your brother?" The skull grinned again. "Shortcut through me!"
Dean's hand itched for his gun. If he'd had it, he would have planted rounds in each of the doors just on principle. As it was, he looked between them and scowled. "So, what? I get to ask one of you one question?"
The skull snorted a laugh. "Hell no. I mean, you can ask, but we don't care. Just pick a door already so I can go back to my hundred year nap."
"See? Senile," The red cross chuckled. "Now, I am obviously a symbol for life-saving, recognized the world over while that grumpy ass has never meant anything but bad. Open me and you will find your brother."
"Uh-huh." Dean rubbed his hands on his pants and rolled his eyes. "When I get my hands on Norman, I'm gonna enjoy taking him apart." He turned and went to the skull and crossbones and grabbed the handle.
"Hey! Hey! Don't you even want to talk anymore?" The red cross called worriedly.
"Nope." Dean yanked the door open and let it slam into the wall behind it with a satisfying thud. He grinned when he heard the skull yelp. He ignored both doors shouting for him and strode into the darkened hall beyond. He hoped he was making the right choice and that he wasn't about to end up messy and dead. But something told him Norman didn't have that much imagination and that the whole labyrinth had been a spur of the moment creation upon nearly being caught by him and his brother. He felt sure of it since the doors, while being there as they had been in the movie, were different and didn't do the whole question thing.
"Sammy!" Dean shouted for his brother and wished for his flashlight. The further he walked, the darker the tunnel became as the lights came further and further apart. He checked his watch beneath one and scowled. Somehow, he had lost an hour. "Oh, now he's just cheating. Sam!"
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Sam paced the interior of his cell for the hundredth time and sighed. He sat in the chair again and looked at the door. "He's probably long gone by now," he muttered. "He said he was running. Bet the stupid door isn't even locked." Sam looked down at the table and its coffee service. He was damn thirsty but not thirsty enough to risk drinking anything Norman left behind. And he still had no idea where his brother was or what Norman had done to him.
"Screw it." Sam stood and strode to the door. He took hold of the handle and turned it experimentally. As he'd figured, it wasn't locked. He stood there listening and leaned in to put his ear to the door, but there was no sound at all to hear from the other side. "He doesn't want to kill us." Sam shook his head. "He could have done that already if he wanted to, so it's not lethal, whatever he left on the other side of the door. I just have to get past it."
Sam inched the door open and took a deep breath. "I can do this." He yanked the door open and tensed, but nothing happened. Outside was the hall as he'd seen it the last time - badly lit, dank, and empty.
"Huh. That was anticlimactic." Sam waited another moment, and when nothing happened, he relaxed slightly and smiled. "Guess he really was in a hurry."
Sam took a breath and stepped through the door out into the hall. He looked in either direction but didn't see any difference. "Dean?" he called. His voice echoed away from him. He shrugged and turned to his left, deciding it was as good a direction as any. He didn't get even a step away from the door before there was a loud clatter behind him in the room. He spun and his eyes widened in shock as what had been the metal coffee table was now a towering metal creature, reared back on two legs while the other two reached out and wrapped around his arms.
"Shit!" Sam struggled to free himself and grunted in pain as the metal bit into his arms. He shouted as he was picked up from his feet and thrown back into the room. He crashed into the coffee service that had somehow been set pristinely on the floor. Scalding hot coffee coated his chest, burning everywhere it touched and he rolled into and through the chair until he slammed into the back wall in a heap.
Sam blinked to clear his vision, that had gone fuzzy when he hit the wall, and looked up. A pint-sized copy of Norman was riding the back of the coffee table creature, controlling it. It gave a shrill war cry, and the coffee table loomed over Sam before stomping down into his side and hip. Sam yelled in pain and tried to roll away but the legs of the table were blocking him. He caught his hand around one leg and pulled to throw it off balance. The table wobbled and Sam crawled quickly out from under it while it righted itself.
He groaned, trying to get to his feet, but pain from his ribs robbed him of breath and he dropped heavily back to his knees. He could hear the table monstrosity clanging and stomping behind him. "Crap," Sam gasped and put a hand up on the wall to support himself. Metal wrapped around his wrist above him and yanked his right arm back and over his shoulder. He couldn't stop the scream of pain as his right shoulder was wrenched from its socket.
The coffee table threw Sam to the floor again, and he slid to a stop in the center of the room amidst the shards of the coffee pot and cups. He felt them cut into his legs and back but couldn't find the energy to do more than groan where he lay. Sam looked up as the construct loomed over him and mentally kicked himself for misjudging Norman so badly. Turned out the man wasn't above killing them after all.
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Dean jogged as quickly as he dared down the dimly lit hall, senses alert for anything that might jump out and attack him. He checked his watch and picked up the pace. He was running out of time and didn't trust Norman not to speed things up again. "Sam!" Dean yelled and slid to a startled stop as the floor ahead of him suddenly gave way.
"Shit. Shit!" Dean fell backwards and slid. He rolled to his stomach, trying to find any purchase on the grimy floor to hold onto. His feet went over the edge, then his knees, and finally he managed to brace his hands on either wall and stop with his chest at the edge. His legs dangled down over the side and he couldn't look down to see what was below him without falling.
"Really startin' to piss me off." Dean worked to inch his chest further up on the floor and then groaned aloud as a hideous stench assaulted his nose. "What the hell is that?" He sneezed and blew out a disgusted breath. "Smells like Sam's old gym shorts!"
Dean inched further up and froze when the floor beneath him began to rumble. His eyes widened in horror as he remembered just what part of the movie came with that smell. "No, no, no. Come on!" he yelled and shouted as the floor crumbled beneath him and he slid backwards.
The fall was shorter than he'd feared, and Dean crumpled at the base of the wall with a grunt. His knees folded into the chunks of the floor from above, and he grimaced as he straightened and stood cautiously. The smell was even stronger, and he clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. His eyes watered as he turned to look. An expanse of twenty feet or so stretched out ahead of him to the wall on the other side. Between the walls, lay a field of thick, bubbling mud, making obscene farting noises as it spewed out the stench. Dean would have found the sound hilarious under any other circumstance, but just then, it was keeping him from his brother and he couldn't help but feel as though he were running out of time; that Sam was.
"Dammit." Dean looked down and saw he had only inches before his toes were in the mud. There were several large boulders in a haphazard line across the mud to the other side, and he shook his head. "If this shit makes me stink forever, I WILL find your ass, Norman, and bury you!" Dean shouted it up and then squared his shoulders, hoping the stink was all he had to worry about.
"Alright. I can do this without landing on my ass." Dean braced a hand on the wall, curled his knees, and jumped. He landed on the nearest boulder and swung his arms to stay standing as one foot tried to slide out from under him.
He grinned in relief once he had his balance and looked at the next. It was a little closer, and he made the hop over easily. Dean went from stone to stone, sweating with the tension of trying not to dip any part of himself in the mud, not even the toe of his boot. He leaped onto the last stone and yelped in fear as it wobbled beneath him.
"No, nope! Shit!" Dean's arms pinwheeled as he tilted precariously. He made a panicked jump from the shifting stone to the shore and pressed himself to the wall on the other side. "Holy shit," he gasped. When he'd caught his breath, he turned carefully on the spot, and saw that he was bare inches from the muck. Worryingly, he saw a spatter of three drops of the mud on the toe of his boot. Dean shook it off and leaned against the wall, letting his head thump back into the brick. "This is not happening."
Dean shook his head and looked for a way up. He found a questionable looking rope ladder and started up, seeing as there was no other choice. Every time the rope creaked or stretched beneath his weight, he expected it to fail and dump him down in the muck. He was surprised and relieved when he reached the top at last and climbed over the edge to safety. Dean rose to his feet and wrinkled his nose from the smell lingering in the air. He held his arm over his nose and moved quickly away from the impromptu bog. The light dimmed again as he jogged, the lights in the tunnel becoming further apart but never leaving altogether.
"Sam?" Dean called as he turned another corner. He could still smell the bog and rubbed a hand over his nose, hoping it was just temporary. The new tunnel stretched ahead of him, and Dean slid to a stop as a voice, Norman's, suddenly filled the silence.
"No! No, stop! What are you doing? You're killing him! You're not supposed to do that! Stop! STOP!" Norman's voice rose with hysteria and carried down the tunnel to Dean.
"SAM!" Dean bellowed his brother's name and broke into a run. He heard Norman begin to scream as there was a loud racket of metal on stone. Dean followed the commotion to an open door. He caught himself on the frame and lunged into the room into chaos. His eyes widened in surprise to find Norman the witch being held above the floor by some weird, metal contraption that kind of looked like a table standing on two legs. Blood dripped from Norman to spatter on the floor, only feet away from where Sam lay, and that pulled Dean further into the room. His brother was on his back and covered in blood; his or Norman's or both, Dean had no way to tell, but there was far too much of it.
Dean's eyes were dragged back up to Norman as the man gave a particularly pained scream that was cut off abruptly as the table monster wrenched Norman's head horrifically around and then dropped him to the floor with a wet splat.
"Holy shit," Dean breathed and braced himself as the thing turned toward him. He looked around frantically for any weapon to defend himself with, but there was nothing. Long metal arms reached for him, and Dean swallowed hard. He backed up a step through the open door with the intent of luring the creature in a run back to the bog. His only hope was to trick it over the side and hope it stayed trapped down there long enough. "Come on, ugly," Dean snarled at the thing as it advanced.
The metal monster took two lumbering steps toward the door and then stopped. Dean frowned, tensed in readiness to run, and he stumbled in surprise as the table collapsed to the floor in a pile of twisted metal. "The hell?"
Dean moved closer and kicked one of the legs. It shifted but didn't move on its own. He looked over at Norman's body and back to the destroyed table and understood; it had been a construct of Norman's magic and once he was dead, so was the magic. Dean looked down at the dead witch and shook his head.
"Got what was comin' to you. Sammy." Dean kicked the remains of the table out of the way and slid to his knees beside his brother. "Shit, Sam. Hey." He smoothed Sam's shaggy hair from his face, smearing spots of blood across his brother's skin, and put his fingers to his throat to feel for a pulse. He dropped his head, relieved, as Sam's pulse thrummed beneath his fingers. "Ok, Sammy. Ok."
Dean felt the room around them shudder suddenly. "What now?" he yelled. He bent over Sam, shielding him with his body and slammed his eyes closed as bright light flared blindingly through the room. There was a rush of wind that nearly knocked him over and a roar of sound until finally it all died away into silence. Dean lifted his head warily and looked around. The room had changed. They were still underground, but rather than the small room and maze of halls, they were now in a large basement, dotted with support poles and bare light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. There were stacks of boxes across from them, and each was labeled with the logo of the law firm Norman had worked for.
"Son of a bitch. We're under the damn law firm!" Dean shook his head, bemused, and bent back to his brother. "Sammy? Need you to wake up for me." He ran his hands down his brother's arms and both legs but found no obvious injuries before he turned to his chest. Dean lifted the blood-wet fabric of Sam's shirt and grimaced. His chest was a riot of bruises and cuts, and Dean could tell just by looking that he had to have at least one or two broken ribs. "Jesus, Sam. That thing did a number on you."
Dean leaned back up to his brother's head and looked angrily at the livid bruises beginning to appear around his throat. He narrowed his eyes as he looked along Sam's right shoulder and realized his brother's arm was lying funny. He pulled Sam's jacket back and slid his fingers under the neck of his shirt to the joint. Dean hissed between his teeth in sympathy, feeling the obviously dislocated joint.
"Well, hell." Dean moved around to his brother's head and took careful hold of his right arm above and below the shoulder. "Bet this'll wake you up, kiddo. Sorry about this." Dean gave Sam's arm a practiced jerk, popping the shoulder joint neatly and expertly back into place and wrapped his arms around his brother's chest when Sam lurched up with a choked cry. "Easy! Easy, Sammy! I gotcha!"
Sam slumped back into his brother and gasped, trying to catch his breath while pain burned through his right shoulder and around his chest and back from the beating he'd taken. He was beyond comforted to hear his brother's voice and feel Dean supporting him against his chest. "Dean," he panted and got his left hand up to hold on to his brother's arm.
"Yeah, buddy." Dean eased Sam a little higher against his chest and waited for his breathing to slow a little. "We need to get outta here."
"Norman?" Sam asked, still in a bit of a daze.
"Didn't make it." Dean told him calmly. "Near as I can figure, he set that thing on you to keep you from escaping and it got away from him. Damn near ripped his head off, but all the hocus pocus died when he did."
Sam nodded and let his eyes fall closed. "Used himself... to power it. Dangerous."
"No kidding." Dean eased out from behind his brother and held on to him so Sam didn't slide back to the floor. "We're under the law firm. Gotta get you outta here before someone finds this mess."
"Ok." Sam nodded again and didn't argue about letting his brother help him get to his feet. He knew there was no way he would manage it on his own. He hurt too much to even move without help, and his head was still swimming from banging into the wall. He leaned heavily on Dean once he was on his feet and wrinkled his nose. "What... what's that smell? S'awful."
Dean's eyes widened comically and he looked down at his boot. There were still several drops of the noxious mud clinging to it and he groaned. "That's just not fair."
"Smells like... like a sewer." Sam tilted his head into Dean's neck and sniffed, then sneezed. "S'you. How come you smell... smell like sh..."
"Shut it, Sammy," Dean cut him off with a bad-tempered snarl, but his hands were gentle as he pulled Sam's good arm over his shoulders and got him moving toward a door on the far side of the basement.
Sam smirked and then had to focus on just putting one foot in front of the other as they walked. It was all he could do not to cry when they went through the door and found a flight of stairs facing him.
"You can do this," Dean said surely. By the time they made it to the ground floor and found an exit door, Sam was almost out on his feet, hanging from Dean's shoulders like a drunk. Dean grunted with the effort of keeping him up and smiled when he saw the gleaming black shape of the Impala where they'd left her in the parking lot. "Here we go, buddy. Get you fixed up in no time."
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Sam pulled another ice chip out of his cup and flung it across the room at his brother. He smirked as it struck between Dean's eyes and left a wet spot.
"Cut it out, bitch." Dean glared over at Sam.
"Said I didn't need a hospital," Sam said with a hoarse laugh. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over rock, thanks to the creature's efforts to strangle him before Norman had intervened.
"Dude." Dean stood and went to the bed. He plucked the cup out of Sam's left hand before his brother could dig out another ice chip. "Two broken ribs, two cracked, a bruised hip, bruised larynx, a bruised freakin' lung, and a concussion that had you callin' the doctor 'Bobby' for three hours." He rolled his eyes and sat next to Sam's hip with a snort of laughter. "Yeah. You needed a hospital."
There had been a horrifying moment just as Dean had pulled up to the emergency room when Sam's abused throat had finally had enough and closed up on him. Dean had all but carried his suffocating brother into the lobby and stood by and watched helplessly while they had shoved a tube down his throat to let him breathe. It had been barely an hour now since the tube was removed. "You kinda sound like Darth Vader right now."
"Shuddup." Sam slapped his brother's arm and let his still aching head drop back to the soft pillow and his eyes closed wearily.
"I'll bust you outta here tonight now they got you all patched up." Dean absentmindedly tugged the blanket up his brother's chest to his chin and then set the cup on the bed tray. "Figure we'll go hole up at Bobby's for a while, since you keep callin' everybody his name anyway. This way there won't be any confusion." He laughed as Sam's left hand caught him in the side and pushed it back.
"You still smell like a sewer," Sam observed sleepily and smiled. "S'bog of eternal stench. 'Course..." he yawned and rolled slightly so he was facing his brother without even realizing he was curled around him. "No way to tell the difference from how you normally smell." He snorted. "Jerk."
Dean considered all the ways he could make Sam hurt, as was his big brotherly duty, and decided to save it for when the kid could put up a fight. It was more fun that way. "Go to sleep, princess." He leaned his head over and sniffed his shoulder. "I do not smell."
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The End.
Next Chapter: M is for Mistaken Identity
