AN: To everyone who has reviewed thus far, I'm deliriously happy to have received such amazing support. Thank you!
Warning: This chapter contains some ickiness (I'm not sure if that's even a word). Given that we're dealing with trains, a subway and Sam, it shouldn't come as a great surprise, but just in case. ... I actually expect that you'll get to the chapter's end and be more upset by yet another cliffy than by what happens to our youngest Winchester, however, I thought it best to warn you that there is ickiness ahead..
Oh, and the site is once again playing funnies with email alerts, so if you've reviewed and I've not responded, please know that my response is clogged up within the bowels of the site and will surface eventually.
BLOOD ON THE TRACKS
- Chapter Four -
Dean hit the emergency stop on the train, rode through the grated deceleration then forced the door. Ted held it open and caught his arm.
"The bottle's empty, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Sorry."
"I'm not crazy."
"Your train doesn't stop at all the stations either."
Ted nodded and grimaced. "Neither would yours in the same circumstance."
Dean deliberately kept his expression neutral, his eyes locked with the older man's as Ted took in a breath.
"Stay to the walkway on the side. You'll see the trains coming. Grey against the black. But they won't see you. The driver's don't pay attention. Even if they do, they can't stop. It's relatively safe if you keep your head about you."
"Okay."
"It's two Jack's now." Ted thumbed over his shoulder to the bottle bag Dean had left on the seat. "And a Jim too."
Dean smiled faintly. "Thanks."
"Go. And tell me if you see her." Ted's eyes shone in the artificial light. "I'll be here. This is my carriage." His fingers tightened, scrunched into Dean's leather jacket. He licked his lips, hesitated then abruptly let go. "Get. Before they start this silver slug moving. And don't touch the third rail, it's opposite the walkway. Make sure you tell me if you see her. Promise."
"Promise," Dean said thickly. He jumped from the carriage and hit the ground before grabbing the weapons bag and making his way to the end of the train. He kept moving beyond it, relying on the red glow from the rear of the train to guide him. He glanced back, his stomach knotted as he took in the silver beast that hawked the yawning tunnel. The sight frayed his already shot nerves and he withdrew a flashlight, wiped at it with shaky hands and grasped it tightly by his side. Behind him, the train's ominous idle changed pitch as the mechanical beast whirred and shunted forward.
Deep breaths helped to still the fear to a tolerable level, but still his mind worked at a dizzying pace. He had twenty minutes between trains, the intervals less as the peak commuting kicked in. Any one of those trains could take Sam down. The one he had disembarked may already have. Sam could already be dead.
He started humming, deliberately jarring and distracting his morbid thoughts. He wiped sweaty hands on the thighs of his jeans and flicked the flashlight on. The beam danced crazily as his hand shook.
"Sam," he called, throaty and choked. His heart fluttered, buoyed by false hope that ebbed to a cold despair. Shivering, he moved deeper into the tunnel, keeping track of the time, the fear nestling deeper and darker as the minutes wore on and empty sheer walls met the searching beam of the flashlight.
"Sam."
He wiped sweat from his face and shivered again, his back cramping as the cold drove right to his core.
"Sammy!"
The name echoed back, bounced and tumbled down the darkened walls of the subway tunnel. Concrete closed in on all sides and the steel rail line snaked and twisted, the light playing along the walls as ghoulish shadows.
"Sammy, this is some freakish shit. I mean, c'mon, dude. Cut me a break here and show your scrawny ass so we can ditch this freakin' town. The girls aren't even pretty. And—"
Sound behind him made Dean spin. Breathing hard, he shone the flashlight and leaned forward.
"Sam?"
One step. Cautious and measured. The sound came again. Scuttling. The torch beam picked up the scurrying rodent a second later. Dean back-stepped.
"Man, that is so not cool."
He kept going. Deeper into the tunnel. Darkness wrapped around him like a death shroud, close and cold, prickled the hair on his arms, raised the hackles on his neck. Seriously freaked him out. Plains and trains. Hated them both. Hated the loss of control. What the hell had he been thinking? In reflection, maybe he had not. It sure as hell made no sense now.
Step after step. Knees locked to dislodge the shuddering tremors that were not entirely attributable to the cold. It ate away at his courage, made his mind crawl with images that he could not bear to witness, but could not entirely shake.
"Sam! You hearin' me. I told you last time I wasn't coming after you if you got your ass kidnapped. And I'm not." He grimaced sourly, and added, his voice deceptively quiet, "Sammy, please."
The deep black lost depth, took on a hazy shadowed grey. Dean noticed it and squinted in an effort to determine the significance. His footfalls slapped against the subway floor, faintly determined and sharply mocking.
"Sam," he called and hated the way his voice shook. Hated the lack of a response even more.
Intense light speared the darkness, chased shadows on the walls. Dean stared at it, his heart pounding. Beyond the pathetic beam of light that his torch provided, the subway tunnel curved. Half a mile, probably a lot less. Distance perception seemed to have abandoned him, as had everything else.
Struck dumb, Dean stood rooted to the spot as the train breached the curve and barreled toward him. Seconds. Mere seconds. Ten maybe fifteen if the sadistic fates had any part in it. Not long enough.
He spun, legs tangled and he fell. Safety lay less than two feet away in the narrow walkway that ran the length of the subway tunnel. Fear crippled him as light seared. He saw it then. A dark shape deeper in the tunnel, closer to the oncoming train. On the tracks.
"Oh sweet Jesus, no."
He closed the distance. Fell to his knees. Sam lay on his side, one arm outstretched, almost touching the live third rail. His face, pale and grey, his body cold and still. The train bore down, bathed them both in a halo of cold, vicious light.
Dean threw the weapon's bag to the side. Flashlight on top. Grabbed Sam under the armpits and grunted as the train screamed its approach.
Too slow, wouldn't get Sam's legs clear in time.
He dropped to his knees, scooped his arms beneath his brother's unconscious form, and rolled him. Sam's face: white, bloodless, the lips blue – maybe already dead. Dean realized that for the task at hand it did not matter.
In a burst of adrenalin, he got Sam's body clear, tucked the younger man's legs in, and his arms, and threw himself on top as the train screamed past. Burning steel seared Dean's nostrils, the unholy roar flaring his flight instincts so badly that he screamed and almost bolted in blind panic. Only Sam's body beneath him kept him anchored. He buried his face in Sam's hair and wondered what on earth shampoo his kid brother used. Made a mental reminder to tease the hell out of him later.
If there was a later.
The scream of tortured metal bore on and on. Dean clamped his jaw. Muscles burned with the frenetic need to cut and run. Fast. Blindly. Away from the shriek of steel on steel. Dean felt his sanity slip away. Felt the inner limits breached, the slimy slip of self control worn down.
Then it was over. The ping of contracting steel and the hiss of the train as it ploughed away. Darkness closed in, became complete again and sound fell back. Silence reigned and for a long moment Dean could not move. Then sound returned. Breaths. Rasped and wet. Constricted. Unnatural. Not his own.
Dean tensed, pushed up and ran a shaky, fumbled hand across his brother's face. He held his breath as a tortured emphysemic sound battered against his ears. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that Ted had followed him, rasping and gasping his way through the pitch black tunnel.
Not Ted. Sam.
Dean lurched back, fumbled and cursed as he reached for the torch. Found it and flicked it on. Raked the trembling beam over his brother's body, and locked on his face. His mouth went dry and something stabbed at his heart, made him wince in pain. Sam looked dead. His lips tinged blue, dried blood against his pale flesh. If it weren't for the awful sounds he made as he breathed, Dean would have believed him gone.
"Oh God, Sam, what did that bitch do to you?" His fingers ghosted – unsure – before seeking purpose as they moved to Sam's neck. Felt for a pulse, through the dried blood and the frigid clamminess. His own breath caught, burned in his lungs, as he registered a flutter against his fingertips.
He shoved the torch under his chin, the beam wavering madly as he checked for wounds. Front and back. Found no blood, no bruising. Nothing. Sam's chest bore no damage, neither did his back. Dean put the torch to one side and gently pulled his brother up, held him upright, both arms around his chest, Sam's chin on his shoulder. Thought maybe it might help Sam to breathe. It didn't. And neither did it wake him.
Shaking, Dean lay his brother on his side, in the recovery position, back pressed hard against the tunnel wall, his knees slightly bent and arms pulled close to his body. He shone the torch on his brother's face, the beam highlighting the blue tinged lips.
It made no sense. Sam was desperately ill, yet appeared physically unharmed. As though something had hurt him from the inside out. Dean knew that something had been Ted's dead daughter. He also knew that the failure of the train driver's to see the victims in the tunnel – to see he and his brother – was Melanie's doing as well. Somehow she hid them from sight, made rescue impossible. Dean was on his own.
He slung the weapon's bag over one shoulder, slid one arm beneath Sam's knees and the other around his back and hefted him into a cradled hold – a fireman's carry too risky with Sam's already compromised lungs. Dean's shoulders strained, the muscles in his arms burned and his heart pounded wildly as he staggered under the younger man's full weight. He felt it, and ignored it. Aware only of his little brother's head against his shoulder, the rough fanned breaths and the awful sound that accompanied every shallow exhalation.
He started walking and made some progress until he misjudged the shadows. He turned into the path of a train, struck stone cold with how close it was. Shoved Sam to the concrete walkway. Kneed his legs in, his arms, his head. Felt the roar of air and the brush of sparked steel less than a single heart-beat later.
Dean pressed his face to Sam's shoulder, his mouth close to Sam's ear. He started a soothing monologue to his sibling, a mindless collection of garbage from their childhood, happier times, anything other than the shocking reality of being trapped deep in a subway tunnel with hundreds of tons of metal bearing down.
The even drawl kept going even when he could no longer hear himself think. Even as panic flared and he clawed the concrete beneath them in an attempt to hold onto his sanity. Still, he kept talking, his eyes squeezed shut as sweat trickled down his neck and his heart pounded so wildly that it felt like it could burst out of his chest.
At one point Sam cried out, a weak mewed sound that Dean felt more than heard. Dean assumed it was the horror of the situation and soothed him with a hand through his hair and soft words that neither he nor his brother could hear. Sam soon went limp, consumed by unconsciousness and Dean almost envied him.
When the train finally passed, Dean almost collapsed on his sibling – but didn't, because Sam's tenuous hold on life was already too precarious and crushing him was not an option. So he pushed up on jellied limbs, retrieved the flashlight and checked Sam. Expected to find him unharmed – unchanged. Unprepared for the shocking truth.
Sam's left hand spewed blood. The fingers – all four of them – severed. It did not compute. Not really. So Dean stared blindly, his mouth filled with sourness as Sam's blood stained the concrete in a slowly growing pool of thick red gore.
Logic and reasoning told Dean what had happened. In his exhaustion and terror, Dean had not pulled Sam's limbs in close enough. Had left one of his brother's long arms vulnerable. Knew then why Sam had partially roused, and he also knew that he might as well have taken to Sam with a meat axe. The outcome and responsibility just the same.
He awkwardly and numbly shucked out of his jacket and shirt and used the soft cotton tee to bandage Sam's hand. Blood slowly soaked through the white fabric and in the glare of the torchlight, the sight made Dean gag. Sam did not rouse and continued to breathe like an asthmatic ninety year old.
Dean moved back and found the tips of his brother's fingers, all four of them. Neatly severed, slightly crushed, perfect for reattachment. Dean didn't know why he popped them in a plastic baggie and stuck them in the weapon's bag because by the time he got Sam out, if he was even still alive, they would be useless.
Dean staggered several feet down the track and threw up. While hurling his guts out, he realized that now he had no choice. He had to leave Sam and go on alone for help. Two miles to South Central. He could walk it. He did not want to.
He wiped at his mouth, blinked to clear his blurred vision, snagged the torch and returned to Sam. The younger man had not moved and hadn't stopped breathing. If the awful wet sound could be classified as that. As he looked down at his brother and felt the vibration through the track from an approaching train, Dean felt truly helpless.
Shadowed grey brought his head up and Dean watched in horrified dismay as another train approached. The leading edge of air slapped his face, struck his bare chest and made him shiver. He grabbed his shirt and gently laid it over his brother. Placed the jacket on top and tucked it around Sam's too still form. He carefully pulled Sam's long limbs in close. Checked and double checked. Tugged Sam's injured hand close to his own chest and hugged it, elevating the limb to reduce blood loss. At least that's the reasoning he gave himself.
He stayed with his brother as the train bore down on them. Felt the younger man's life force as it slowly faded. Questioned whether he should stay and give up. Accept the inevitable. Be with Sam when he died. Thought he owed it to him – to himself.
He screamed his horror and pain as the train shrieked in tortured harmony. Beneath him, Sam fought for life and gurgled in slow death. Dean made his decision then. The only choice really, the only way Sam would have a chance.
When the next train came, Dean was too far away to turn back. Too late to reconsider his decision. He hit the side of the wall, pressed himself against the floor of the narrow walkway and screamed as the metal torched the tunnel and ripped his sanity apart. Even when it had long passed, Dean remained where he lay, assaulted by images of what might have happened deeper in the tunnel. If Sam had roused. If he had regained consciousness and panicked.
He pushed himself up and hugged his arms around himself. Hunch shouldered, he scoured the thoughts from his mind and started running. Unkempt and torturous, every footfall taking him further away from his brother and deeper into the certainty that he had made the wrong choice.
Those thoughts corrupted him and only when he had ran too long and fallen to many times, did Dean realize that he hadn't had to shelter from another train. He turned and stared into the black abyss, his torch beam cutting a pathetic swathe against the deeper gloom.
Something had stopped the trains. He glanced at his watch. Over thirty minutes since the last service. He swallowed convulsively, a panicked chill going right up his spine.
"Sam," he called softly. Jerked his head like a demented owl, unsure of which way to go. He had to be close to South Central. Closer to the station than to Sam.
What could have stopped the trains?
Dean tugged on his lower lip, breathing hard, his blood pounding. Fists clenched and unclenched as he considered his options.
The driver's don't pay attention. Even if they do, they can't stop.
Ted's words hit him in the gut. Floored him. Dean's assumption that Melanie hid the victims must have been wrong. Too supernatural. Too implausible.
Dean stumbled, staggered and fell. Knew then that Sam had woken. Somehow. Had been on the track. The driver had seen him – but too late. No way could the train have stopped. No chance in hell.