I know I promised this yesterday, but it needed some editing. Hotshow and I have been developing IT, and I think IT is turning out quite well. No big cliffie this time, though I was tempted to end the chapter where Dean is cussing about Batman (you'll see what I mean). Hey – trying to be nice here!! grin
Chapter 10
Its plan was simple. It would hunt early, when darkness first fell. Then it would wait for the tall one to search for the missing doll. It smiled to itself, ran a long red tongue over its sharp, pointed teeth. Perhaps it should not hunt early tonight. Perhaps it should wait. The tall one would make several good meals.
It waited.
The black car, the only thing here without the traditional claims of Singer rust and decay, returned. It could no longer smell fresh blood, so it assumed the men left to care for the tall one's wound. It smiled. Such primitive creatures, so dependent on machines, it was a wonder that so many of their kind thrived in the world. This world where its ancestors once hunted humans, a favored prey, a delicacy. It was this delicacy that earned its family the attention of Bobby Singer, the murderer.
It listened as the men walked toward the house. They did not sound happy. So much the better for it and its plans.
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"Come on, Sammy," Dean held the door open, motioning impatiently. What little patience he did have had been blown away hours ago.
"But Dean!" Sammy stomped his foot on the front porch. "I need to find Batman! He's out there battling the Joker and Catwoman all alone!"
Dean could not fight back the snarl that crawled over his face. "I'll look for the damn thing, Sam. Now get inside!"
Sammy glared at him as his brother stomped past. It was all Dean could do not to smack his brother in the back of the head. What a trying little shit he could be! Okay, maybe not little. Huge shit! What a freaking HUGE shit he was!
"Dean," Bobby's deep voice was a little too calm.
"What?" Dean snapped. If one more person told him to calm down, he was going to beat the crap out of somebody. Or something. Whatever.
"You want to head back to town?" Bobby jerked his head toward the entrance. "I can keep an eye on Sam for a couple of hours."
Dean stared at Bobby, unable to believe he heard what he just heard. "What?"
"You look like you need to blow off some steam. It's been a hell of a day, and tomorrow probably won't be much better. Why don't you just take off for a while? Get your head together?" Bobby stood near the door, just looking at him. Dean searched the man's face for disgust or disdain, but there was none.
He stood there, looking back for a long time. "I need to look for Batman." Dean headed out into the salvage yard before it got too dark to see. He heard the door slam behind Bobby. Fortunately Bobby was not easily insulted, Dad had always needed to work extra hard to do that. The thought of Bobby chasing off Dad with a loaded shotgun brought a smile to his face as his eyes darted over the ground.
Dean walked through the salvage yard twice, but there was no sign of Batman. He sighed, stopping to watch the fading sun. Bright orange bands stretched across the sky, fading as the sun sunk slowly below the horizon. He sank down, resting against an abandoned heap to watch. The construction next door was done for the day and Bobby's place was closed. There was perfect silence. A moment all to himself. The thoughts battling for attention in his mind retreated to their respective dark corners, respecting his need for quiet.
Shuffling footsteps from behind intruded upon his silence. He felt the other man sit next to him, scoot closer until their shoulders touched. He was grateful Sam said nothing, respecting the peace. When the sun was out of sight leaving only lingering fingers of brightness low in the sky, Sammy nudged him.
"Hungry?" Sammy asked.
"Not really," Dean admitted.
"Bobby says we need to eat now, unless you're going out?" Sammy's voice was hushed, like he was afraid of breaking the spell of sunset. Dean had expected him to sound upset too, but he didn't.
"Nah," Dean replied, still unwilling to move from his spot. "I just needed a minute."
"Dean. I know it wasn't your fault." Sammy said, breaking the silence again.
Dean closed his eyes, knowing if he had kept a better eye on Sammy his brother never would have cut his hand. It was a silly thing for Sammy to say.
Sam's voice broke the silence again. "I remember it wasn't your fault, Dean."
Dean's eyes flew open and his head whipped to the side. "What? What do you remember?" He could not keep the demand or the excitement from his voice. It sounded like a shout in his own ears after the perfect silence of before.
Sammy swallowed hard, his eyes locking on the fading rays of sunlight. "I remember you were in the hospital and you wouldn't wake up. I was really scared. I think Dad was scared, too. I remember I was so mad at him until you woke up. Then he was gone." When Sammy turned to look at him again, tears streaked his face. "That's what happened, right?"
Shocked Dean nodded, turned back to look at the sky. A few stars were visible. He knew he would be able to see more if he just turned around, but he did not want to. There was one good thing he could see in all of this. There was no way five year old Sammy could ever turn evil. It was impossible. But that was the last memory he wanted his brother to recover, if ever.
He felt Sammy lean against him as more stars popped into view. Sammy's head touched his, the weight becoming heavier. Just as he was thinking that he had to carry both of them now, something strange happened. Sammy slid an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulled him close, in a weird half-hug kind of way, and just held him like that. Sammy held the weight for both of them, in the only way that he could. Dean felt his anxiety slip away and a new strength replace it. It was weird, but somehow this was exactly what he needed, more than a bar fight, more than some one nighter.
"Dean! Sam!" Bobby's voice finally broke that stillness, that silence.
Dean stood, helping Sammy up with him. "Feel like a beer?" he asked, only half-kidding.
"Yuck!" Sammy said, but his arm tightened over Dean's shoulders. "Dean, am I still allowed to play outside?"
"Don't ask me tonight, Sammy. Just don't ask tonight."
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Bobby innocently read through one of his many books as Dean eyed him, unsure how to broach the topic he wanted to discuss. Starting a serious discussion was not something that came naturally to Dean. He was far more comfortable with inane conversation in bars. Serious stuff was normally Sam's territory. 'I'm sorry, Sam is not available right now. Please call Dean with your request, and hold your breath while you're at it.'
"Bobby?" he began, wondering exactly what the right words to use were.
"Yes." Bobby said, closing his book and looking dead-on at Dean.
"I was wondering if you…"
"I said yes," Bobby interrupted. "Anything else?"
Dean blinked several times, trying to understand if Bobby read his mind or was just that good at reading him. He actually preferred the first option. "Yes what?"
Bobby groaned, shoving the book aside. "Yes, I talked to Sam. Yes, I explained that sometimes even big brothers need to get away, have some alone time. Yes, I told Sam that you would be staying here for a while and that he would need to follow my rules, too. And yes, the offer of Sam-sitting while you blow off steam is good any time." Bobby glared at him. "Do we hug now?"
Dean half-snorted, half-chuckled. He had not known what exactly to expect of Bobby, but that was not it. "I appreciate it, Bobby, everything. But I really don't need-"
"Like hell," Bobby snapped. His voice dropped below a whisper. "You think looking after a full grown man who thinks he's five years old is going to be anything like raising a freaking five year old?" He leaned back, eyes stabbing. "Wake up and smell the finger paints, Dean." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I bought some, by the way."
"Bobby, look, we can't accept-"
"Shut up, Dean." Bobby reached for a newspaper. He snapped it open. "First thing Monday morning, you are starting a total rebuild of a classic Chevy, older than yours, by the way, from the frame up. It's a mess, lots of rust. Good customer, too. He's willing to pay a fortune for a top notch job." Bobby peered at him momentarily over the paper. "It's worth good money, Dean. Don't screw it up." Bobby disappeared behind his paper.
"Sam!" Dean shouted from the couch. Sammy spun around from his spot in front of the television. "Go get ready for bed."
Sammy started to complain, but then an odd look crossed his face. "K, Dean." He snapped off the television before bounding upstairs.
Dean stood, staring at the paper Bobby hid behind. "I told Sam's doctor that I was starting a job on Monday. They're basing payments on my income."
"Tell 'em you make twenty five a year. They can call me if they need to check it." The paper did not move.
"I can hustle money for the payments," Dean said, starting to walk away.
The heavy sigh stopped him. He was not going to like this. "Damn it, Dean." The paper crumpled under Bobby's hands. "Boy, you just can't take a hint, can you?" Bobby glared at him. "This job ought to be enough to cover Sam's hospital bills. That's why I rustled it up for you." He shook his head. "Just as stubborn as John, I swear," he mumbled.
Dean hesitated, knowing Sammy waited for him upstairs for storytime. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, unsure of the emotions threatening to well up and overcome him. "I, uh, don't…" He swallowed hard, wondering what exactly he wanted to say here, but unable to stop himself. "I know this is what Sammy needs. But I just, I don't know how we could…how we will be able to…"
"You're doing all the work, Dean. You're going to earn every cent of that money." Bobby's stern face softened. "As for the other stuff," Bobby shrugged. "Let's just say that I don't mind you boys calling this place home." The crumpled paper was lifted up, a pitiful thing to hide behind. "Good night, Dean."
Stunned, Dean directed his steps upstairs. Had he called Bobby's home? He did not remember doing it. What had he said on the phone? Something about not having a home, he was pretty sure of that, then that he thought Bobby's place might be close enough. Shit. Dean rubbed a hand over his head, pausing at the top of the stairs. He had not meant to do that, to reveal that much. Hell, he did not want to admit that much to himself.
A fear of rejection surged through him. After all, that was normally what happened to him, wasn't it? Everyone either left or rejected him. Was Bobby only a matter of time? But Bobby helped out when Dad was taken. He took them in after Dad died and let Dean restore the Impala, no charge for parts found or tools broken. Lord knew he broke a few tools, windows, and a trunk lid. Bobby even trapped and exorcised Sam. Now here they were at Bobby's again, only this time it might be for the long haul, and Bobby seemed good with that. He knew Sam would tell him to accept it and move on, but it was Dean's nature to look gift horses in the mouth. This time, for Sam's sake, for Sammy's sake, he was just going to have to take it and use it, at least until Bobby decided enough was enough and kicked them out. Or…
"Sammy," Dean called out, "you brush your teeth?"
No answer. Dean looked in their room. The beds were untouched. Frowning, he checked the bathroom. Not only was it empty, but the sink and tub were dry. Sam did not get ready for bed like he was supposed to. A quick check of the other two bedrooms proved that the upstairs was void of any and all Sammys. "Sam!!" Dean bellowed at the top of his voice.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean flew down the stairs, knowing exactly where Sammy went. "He's outside," he yelled at Bobby as he ran past. "God damn Batman!"
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Its plan was working. The tall one searched in the dark for his doll. It smiled, pleased that the tall one could be separated from the others so easily. It did not wish to kill Singer, not until it could cause him pain first. The man responsible for destroying its family needed to feel the pain of loss. The other man, there was something about him that disturbed it, something it could not identify. It would have to watch and learn more to understand the other man.
The tall one walked through the salvage yard, his voice soft. "Batman? Where are you?" He moved quickly, head snapping from side to side. Was the tall one afraid of the dark? Oh, this night improved with each passing moment.
Grasping the doll tightly, it leapt down from its perch, causing barely a sound. But the tall one heard it anyway, spinning to face it. Now would be the moment of reckoning, the moment it struck fear into the hearts of its enemies. Now its revenge would begin.
The tall one's mouth flapped open and closed, unable to speak. It smiled in the way of men, prepared to rend flesh from bone.
"Lion-o?" The tall one spoke. He did not sound scared, or even angry. "Is that you?"
It paused. It had intended to shred the tall one's chest, to send a message to Singer. Perhaps take away enough for a delicious meal.
"Lion-o, you found Batman! Thank you, thank you!" The tall one approached it, showing no fear. Confused, it handed over the doll.
"You should watch where you leave your things," it said, studying the man standing before it. "Your doll could have been stolen."
"I'll be more careful, I promise." The tall one would not look away, staring at it until it began to feel uncomfortable. "Did you come here just to help find my Batman, Lion-o? Or did you come to help me?"
That was an interesting premise. It help a man? The tall one was either too simple or too naïve to understand what he faced. That would work in its favor. "To help you, of course," it purred, slinking down next an empty metal hulk. "What is your problem?"
The tall one groaned, rubbing a hand across his face. "I can't remember."
"You can not remember your problem? Then it must not be much of a problem." It purred deeply, imitating those foolish house-cats, hoping to lure him into feeling secure.
"No!" His foot stomped the ground. "That's my problem! I can't remember! I mean, I remember my name and my brother, but that's about it. I don't remember anything else." He kicked the wreckage it leaned against. "And it makes my brother sad that I can't remember. I'm letting him down."
The tall one looked at it, a small smile forming on his lips. "Can you help me remember?"
It had never heard of men having hope. That was a concept it had never imagined. But this one sounded hopeful. Could it use that? Could it raise this one's hopes and dash them away before ripping his throat out? Yes, it could toy with this one, play with him, and then take the first step in destroying Singer, the murderer, the slayer of hope. For years it had searched for a mate, but found nothing, no one. It might be the last of its kind; for it, there was no hope. To crush hope from its enemies, that would be a triumph.
"I can," it purred, showing its fangs in the man-smile.
"Great! What do I do first?" The tall one asked. He sounded excited. Could men have such emotions? What a surprising encounter this turned out to be. It was learning far more than it ever expected.
It needed to think of something the tall one would believe. How did one remember? "First, you must sit, with your eyes closed."
"Okay." The tall one sat, closed his eyes. This was too easy. Where was the fun, the thrill of the hunt? It examined its claws, wondering if it should use all or just one. This one would not require more than a single swipe across the throat. "Now what?"
"Think back," it crooned, purring deep. "Back to your earliest memory." Its tongue flicked out to caress its teeth, an involuntary action right before it fed.
"Sam! Sammy!"
It spun in the direction of men's voices. Surely they did not know of it?
"Rats," the tall one sighed, opening his eyes, spoiling the moment. "I have to go in now. I'm really gonna be in trouble now." His eyes widened. "Lion-o? I didn't know you had claws."
It lifted a paw, ready to kill this one before the other men arrived. As it swiped down, it discovered something else new. Men were capable of moving fast. Its arm was blocked by the tall one's arm. The tall one swiped at it then in the fashion of men, with a fist. It barely jumped away in time. Perhaps it underestimated this one.
Confused by the lack of fear and the quick reflexes, it leapt onto the car bodies. The sound of running men's feet greeted its ears as it scrambled away, choosing to live through the night and exact its revenge later. It would need to study these new men more, learn more, before it could act again. There was no one else to avenge its kind. It must be careful. Singer must die.