Author: Mirrordance
Title: Open, Shut
Summary: A street prophet foresees a deadly goes to the only people who would believe him:the Winchesters and Bobby 's an open and shut case except the only solution is-how do you empty a town of four thousand people? Post-Family Remains.
Hey guys!
Because it's a Friday, haha... here's one more chapter of Open, Shut. C&cs welcome as always, and 'til the next post!
" " "
Open, Shut
" " "
5: Count on Me
" " "
"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod..." Reade sob-muttered to himself as the world steadied around him and he ran back toward Sam. He reached for the hunter's still hand tentatively; he'd never touched a corpse before, and didn't plan on ever having a first time for that.
The hand was bruised, grimed and bloody, but it felt alive. He breathlessly pressed his fingers to the pulse point on Sam's wrist, and then jerked his hand away.
"Oh fuck!" he exclaimed, not quite sure if there was a pulse or not; feeling for one was not in his skill set either. He didn't think he'd ever need it, and when you're panicked and scared it wasn't very basic or instinctive at all.
"Sam!" he called out as he began to pull away varying sizes of wooden debris to free the hunter, "Sam! Can you hear me?"
The call was more for him than for Sam; he needed help, damn it. He needed the hunter to be fine, needed Sam to tell him what to do. But the longer he worked to free the buried man, the more bold he felt; his heart pumped strong and loud in his ears as he shoved away at everything and anything that was between Sam and himself. His fingers bled and his arms were sore, the dust irritated his throat and lungs, but he kept right on going.
"I'm getting you out!" he declared confidently as he unearthed an arm, and then a shoulder, "Just hang on, I'm getting you out!"
" " "
Wei drew out his cellular phone and let its glow light the tiny cave in which he and Singer were now, apparently, quite miserably stuck.
Bobby Singer tsked at him and drew out a flashlight from the rucksack he'd brought with him. "You're supposed to be a hunter and you don't have one of these things?"
"I don't," Wei murmured as he shook his head, "But I was also checking for a signal. No such luck."
The two men surveyed the mess they had gotten into. Just as Wei suspected, and hoped, the jutting rock he had seen from above was the top of a naturally-formed cave-like structure that went about ten feet into the mountain. The roof was so low that neither he nor Singer could stand straight. The space was by no means comfortable or assuring but at any rate, it had provided them with shelter during the landslide. Now all they had to do was dig their way out.
"We gotta do it while the soil is still loose," Bobby said.
"Yeah," Wei grunted, crawling toward the blocked entrance. He clawed at the top of the soil blockage experimentally. The part he had removed was immediately replaced by more soil dropping in from above them.
"We're buried fairly deep," Bobby guessed, "But it can't be too bad."
"You think we can just..." Wei paused in thought, "Kind of push our way through?"
"We don't know how much higher the soil's piled on top," Bobby said, "We'll start out careful." He glanced at his watch. They had to get out of town with Dean before the sun sets.
"You know what," Bobby said gruffly as he dug desperately at the soil, "Screw that."
" " "
"Sam?" Reade called out hoarsely, voice suddenly feeling strained the moment he'd freed the hunter's head from the rubble. Sam's face was pale where it was not smeared with dust and grime, his eyes closed, his expression slack and lifeless.
"Sam," Reade shook him slightly, "Hey. I'm kinda shaky here, I can't tell if... if you're... not dead. Move, make a sound, something-anything..."
His plea was met by resolute silence. He tried his luck with feeling for a pulse again, this time against Sam's neck. There was a thud there that might have been just him and his own racing heart, so he pressed his ear near Sam's face, tried to feel for a breath.
"There you are," he grinned to himself as he felt air flutter against his skin. He felt renewed strength as he freed Sam from even more of the wreckage, throwing away pieces of wood and steel.
When the entirety of Sam's back was debris-free, Reade frowned to himself and contemplated if it would be wise to move him. Sam was lying on his stomach, right arm folded beneath his chest as if he had tried to catch himself when he fell, and the left one stretched out over his head, reaching for escape. His left shoulder looked busted. The back of his shirt was a tattered mess, covered in random red splotches and bloody at the collar from a hit to the back of his head. His left leg was stretched out and looked fine, though the right one was bent awkwardly. These apparent back and head injuries were enough to give him pause.
"Okay, okay," he wrung his shirt nervously. So the kid was alive, but as for how long... well, Reade would have to take it upon himself to be responsible for that. He tore at his clothes and pressed it against the gash at the back of Sam's head.
"Your hair's smooth," he rambled nervously, "Too bad... I think they'll have to get rid of some of that when they patch you up, unfortunately."
He bit his lip; he needed help, he knew that. He couldn't even feel for a pulse, much less handle major injuries on his own. But they were also running from the law, weren't they, what with Dean Winchester having exposed himself to the authorities. He felt for Sam's cell phone and found it in one of the unconscious hunter's pockets. It had survived the collapse of the house and Sam's weight, but the earthquake had robbed them of a workable signal.
"Shit," he muttered, mind racing. He was gonna flip out, his heart beating faster, What the fuck now?
He pressed against Sam's bleeding wound as he looked up at the darkening skies of late afternoon. It was getting a little bit chilly, and he felt Sam tremble beneath him a beat before he heard the hunter's low, pained moan.
"Sam!" he exclaimed, "Sam, wake up! I don't know what to do."
The moaning died, but not the trembling. If Reade had been panicked before, he was going ballistic now.
"Please don't die," he begged as he came to a decision. He ran to the Impala, where the sleeping gear had been piled into by him, Bobby and Wei before they broke out of town. He dragged out a blanket and laid it over Sam.
"I'm gonna get you some help," he declared, "To hell with the cops on your ass. The town's in chaos and lots of strangers are running around so maybe they won't even know to look for you specifically. Live first, and then we'll fix everything else later. I have a lot of good lawyers..."
He looked at the three cars parked by the collapsed cabin, none the worse for wear from the earthquake. He knew the respective keys were in them just in case anyone in the group needed to make a quick getaway. He looked regrettably at the gleaming Impala and the shameless Viper, and then ran to Singer's hybrid monstrosity instead. It was fast as hell and he had driven it already, so he jumped in behind the wheel and sped out of there toward the main road.
" " "
"Chief, the air smells kinda funny."
Dean glanced up at the cop who'd walked into the holding area where he was being kept and where Van Gerbaud, the chief of police Rosetti, Mayor Keys, and a few other cops and feds were questioning him.
Van Gerbaud and Dean exchanged a glance that the federal agent quickly looked away from.
"Funny, how?" Dean asked.
"Don't tell him a thing, Garcia," Van Gerbaud instructed.
"The air is gonna be bad," Dean said, "And then she blows, all right? I told you, you people should get outta here! You might still have time--"
"'Cos a street prophet said so, right?" Van Gerbaud snapped, "Well I'm not--"
"You know what, to hell with you," Dean snapped back, and he found he meant that from the very bottom of his gutter soul. He turned imploringly to the Mayor and the local cops, "You know this town inside out. You know how it's supposed to feel and smell. Get out there and if you tell me nothing's wrong, then we'll all stay put and I'll shut my mouth--"
"Winchester--" Van Gerbaud threatened.
Dean ignored him, "-- but if it feels wrong, get out. Just get out."
"The street prophet who saw all that," Garcia began tentatively, "You talking about Paul Reade?"
"Yeah it's Reade," Dean answered.
"Reade won the lottery twice," Garcia explained to Van Gerbaud, "From numbers he predicted. I'm not some nutjob, but there's always been weird things around that no one can explain, and maybe this is one of them."
"This is the kind of small-town thinking that marks the difference between the FBI and you yahoos," Van Gerbaud barked at the veteran officer, "Shut your goddamn trap--"
"We may not be feds," Jennings, Garcia's younger partner growled at Van Gerbaud in defense, "And Winchester may be a sick felon, but like he said, if there's anything we folk know, it's this town in and out. The air is all wrong. You can't smell it from down here and you probably won't be able to tell much of the difference up there, but we know something's wrong."
"Get a handle on your men, Rosetti," Van Gerbaud told the chief.
Rosetti was still reeling from the slander on his office, which compounded his already-existing annoyance of the feds. "I don't think my small-town thinking can do something like that." He looked at the Mayor, "I say we get out of here, ma'am. But if you ask us to hold ground, we will."
Keys looked from Rosetti, to the local police officers. And then she gave Dean a long, measuring stare.
"I can't trust what he says," she told Van Gerbaud, "But I trust my men."
"Oh for god's sakes--"
"As far as I know," Keys said, "You're a guest here at my request, Agent. Cuff Winchester, chain him, leash him to your side if you must, but as Mayor, I am ordering that this town be completely emptied."
" " "
Reade jumped out of the car and flagged down at whatever vehicle he could find on the road. It was one-way outbound from Finn's Canyon so the going was smooth, and since most of the residents had already left, the few cars on the road were official ones from emergency workers.
"Are you all right, sir?" a uniformed officer from the national guard stopped at the shoulder of the road next to Reade.
"My hunting cabin," Reade said breathlessly, relieved to have someone around who looked like he knew what he was doing, "It collapsed in the earthquake. My friend is hurt."
The guard's eyes immediately went steely with focus. "Where?"
"Just off the road," Reade replied, "I got the rubble off of him, and I'm pretty sure he's alive, but I didn't want to move him."
The man nodded, relaying the information on his radio asking for an ambulance.
"They're on their way, hop in," the man ordered, and Reade complied; he figured no one would probably want to steal the matte pink car if he left it behind anyway.
The truck went screeching toward where he had left Sam the moment the door clicked shut.
" " "
The Mayor had barked out orders he was forced to cooperate with, but it didn't rob Van Gerbaud of all his cards. He was determined that the last one out of town would be Dean Winchester.
The evacuation of the personnel was going along fairly quickly, but not nearly fast enough in Dean's eye. The sun had just set, and already it was apparent that the air was getting very foul; even from his basement cell, his throat felt scratchy and he wasn't the only one. He heard coughing here and there, and the Mayor had even revised the evacuation plan further to drive out the elderly officers first.
"They should be moving faster," Dean said quietly, but Van Gerbaud just predictably smirked at him.
"You feel like talking yet?" he asked, "'Cos you're gonna be the last one out of here."
"You're out of your mind," Dean sighed, "If I get killed, you get killed too, right?"
"I stopped worrying about things like that a long time ago," Van Gerbaud guaranteed.
Dean just snorted, which ended in a cough, "Damn air. Are you starting to think I'm right, even just a little?"
Van Gerbaud just narrowed his eyes in irritation.
"Boss," one of the younger feds called to Van Gerbaud, "Last truck's ready."
"All right, Winchester," Van Gerbaud said, "Walk to the bars, hands on your back, and back to us."
Dean was unfortunately familiar with the drill. He walked to the bars as closely as he could, turned around and put his hands to his back. The cold of the cuffs against his wrists was just as familiar. The cuffs to his ankles linked by a short chain was also not new.
They unlocked the cell and escorted him out, one man on each side as he shuffled along. He tried to go as quickly as he could, but Van Gerbaud was doing the opposite.
They shut the cell behind him, and then walked to the stairwell leading out the basement.
"Hey chief," the other fed said to Van Gerbaud, "Except for the damn air, it's actually nice out. There's a full moon."
" " "
Sam didn't stir once, but the paramedics assured Reade that the young man was definitely alive and in stable condition. They put an IV on each of his arms and an oxygen mask over half his face. The damn things looked scarier than they did in the movies, but as long as the professionals said Sam should be fine then who was he to think otherwise? They put a collar on him and strapped him to a board for transport, and were just lifting him into the ambulance when Reade noticed something strange and unfortunately familiar.
There was a tick-tick-ticking sound, small and crisp, and suddenly he noticed worms and insects come out from the wood, all headed in the same direction, away from Finn's Canyon.
The flapping of the wings, that's what had got him to look up in his vision...
Reade looked at the view of Finn's Canyon from his ruined hunting cabin. He didn't hear the flapping of the wings this time because he was too far away, but he still knew what he would find. Birds of all kinds were taking to the sky, like they all knew something no one else did and they were trying to get away.
The moon was full as she hung over the town, perfect, full and glowing. And then a massive plume of smoke rose up from the tallest and largest building in town - the pesticide plant – billowing waves taking to the skies, obscuring the moon. The sky turned from the dull light of early evening to pitch black.
"What the hell--?" someone exclaimed, but Reade wasn't sure who it was because he was lost in premature, overwhelming misery.
" " "
Van Gerbaud, his subordinate and Dean stepped out of the police station just in time to see the massive plume of smoke rising from the plant.
Dean stared at the dark column reaching from earth to heaven and barely felt Van Gerbaud's stunned eyes boring into his face. He didn't care if it was an apology, or surprise that he was right, or... whatever. He only cared that he knew what happened next.
"Too late to get out," Dean said in a clipped tone, deciding for action instead of wondering if he got to die yet again, "This place is gonna get floored. Basement, now--"
The other fed twisted Dean around and dragged him back inside, as Van Gerbaud ran for the truck waiting for them and yelled for the men to get in quickly.
As he was pushed into the stairwell, Dean looked behind him to find Van Gerbaud and four of his men running toward him. Someone stumbled, and Dean's escort ran toward them to help.
Suddenly, there was a white-hot blast, its force throwing Dean off his feet and taking him in flight. His limbs jerked uselessly against the chains that bound him, the explosion sending him down the stairs. To say that he 'landed' would have been an exaggeration. He crashed against the steps and rolled. The concussive force of the explosion and the fall robbed him of all air. He was unconscious before he rolled to a stop at the bottom of the basement stairs.
" " "
"What the hell was that?!" Wei asked, eyes wide as he looked to Bobby Singer for assurance, "Aftershock?"
The Earth shifted again, this time to the advantage of the hunters. They heaved against the thinned rock and soil blocking their exit, and they suddenly found themselves breaking into open air.
It was already night time, but one of unnatural dark. Bobby and Wei coughed; the air was sick and thick, and they looked in horror around them.
Their slight elevation still allowed them to see the town, especially since a good deal of the foliage at the foot of the mountain and bordering the town had been floored by the force of the blast that had flattened Finn's Canyon.
"Dean!" Bobby yelled, breaking into an unthinking run.
"No, Singer!" Wei called as the older hunter started dashing away. He grabbed Bobby by the collar, the force of Bobby's forward momentum and Wei's grip sending the other man to the ground on his ass.
"Oh god," Bobby choked out as he scrambled to his feet, "No--"
"Bobby!" Wei grabbed him by the chin and looked at his eyes, "If they kept him in the basement, he might still be alive, right? But now that the shit has hit the fan, we have to go in smarter, or else we can't help him."
Bobby looked devastated, but he took several quick breaths and nodded.
Wei tore at his sleeve, and wrapped it over his mouth and nose, "This isn't gonna be enough knowing what kind of air is down there, but it's the least we can do."
Bobby did the same as he got to his feet. His voice was still shaky, but his mind was whirring with plans. "Let's go."
" " "
They watched the explosion floor the town below them from where they stood on top of the mountain, mouths agape.
"It's a good thing they emptied that place out," the guard Reade had flagged down earlier whistled, "That was a solid call." His radio buzzed and he pressed it to his ear, listened for awhile before he turned to the EMT's, who tore their eyes from the ruined town and started to load Sam into the ambulance again.
"They're setting up base camp at the north edge of town," he told the EMT's, "Bring him over to the hospital, but I'm guessing they'll call you back in here right after. We're going in as soon as the big bosses think it's safe to start looking for survivors."
Or bodies, none of them bothered saying.
"You riding with him?" one of the EMT's asked Reade.
"Yeah," Reade said, "Just gimme a sec."
He took the keys of the Impala and the Viper, locked the cars and jumped in after Sam. They closed the doors and sped away.
" " "
Dean's eyes opened blearily, and he gasped at the horrifying sight right by his face. It was Van Gerbaud's subordinate's severed head.
"Hey chief," that now-ruined face had said just minutes earlier, "Except for the damn air it's actually nice out. There's a full moon..."
He stifled a horrified sob and tried to move away, but any form of shifting sent overwhelming pain coursing through his veins, and spots danced before his eyes in encompassing, inky, lazy whorls. He was lying on his chest, one cheek pressed against the ground and face turned enough to have a perfect view of that damn head as if he was cursed to see it.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice trembling. Talking tickled his throat enough to make him cough. The coughing made his chest feel as if it were caught in an ever-tightening vise; maybe it was because he's been lying on it for awhile, or maybe he had injured his ribs, or maybe it was because the air was stale and thick with fumes and smoke in the basement. Maybe it was all of the above.
He mentally examined himself. He had to know what he was capable of, before he acted. Or... or even hoped that he could act to come out of this alive.
His hands were still cuffed behind him, and his ankles were still chained together. He was sore but he could move as much as the bonds narrowly allowed, which meant – pretty much – that he could squirm and crawl.
I can work with that, he determined, as if he had a choice.
His mouth and throat felt dry, and this made the coughing worse. His stomach clenched and rolled with nausea, and he threw up foul-tasting stuff to the ground. He felt like shit, to say the least. The concussive force from the blast of the explosion felt like someone had run him over, and his body had taken a beating from his fall down the stairs. Some form of a concussion was a certainty from the time he was unconscious, and his hearing sounded a little muffled and dull, likely from the loudness of the blast.
All in all, these were things he could probably survive... if the damn air just wasn't so bad.
After evaluating himself, he sized up his situation. It was probably a given that the world above him was floored by the explosion, but the basement looked like it was going to hold for a little while. He looked up at the dusty stairwell from which he had come. He jerked in instinct when he saw the crumpled form of Van Gerbaud, writhing against the steps.
"Van Gerbaud!" he yelled, "Hey, you alive?" He ended the question with a rough cough, hacking up more thick, blackened saliva to the ground. Van Gerbaud didn't respond, but Dean heard him groaning and whimpering.
Dean grunted in pain but squirmed toward the wall. He pressed against it, using it as leverage to push himself up with his legs to a sitting position.
"Hey!" he called out again. Every time he spoke he doubled over in an exhausting coughing spell. He growled in determination and dragged himself up by the wavering strength in his trembling legs on ass, step by step. Awkwardly, he kept his back against the wall for support as he struggled up to where Van Gerbaud was, eventually collapsing on his rump next to the fallen agent.
Van Gerbaud turned to face him, the movement whipping and fast. Dean could see that half his face was burnt out, and there was dark blood coming out of his mouth. He looked... terminal, but he still found strength enough to blindly kick out at Dean and press against the other side of the stairwell, as far away from Dean as he could go.
"Get away from me!" he gasped as he gagged, "Get the hell away from me!"
"I didn't cause this," Dean explained as he carefully moved forward, "I told you, the--"
"Get away!" Van Gerbaud screamed, jerking in meager defense. His gaze having lost its smooth, cocky sheen. He had said that he'd stopped thinking about dying on the job, but he sure was thinking about it now. He looked like he was in terrible pain and suffering, and worst of all was the fear. He was afraid of Dean.
"You have to calm down," Dean told him quietly, respecting the distance and holding his ground, "You're hurt pretty bad, but the people outside... they should know we're still here. Someone will come. Just calm down and hang on..."
Van Gerbaud screamed again, and it suddenly occurred to Dean that if his own hearing was muffled, Van Gerbaud's might have been shot to hell from his proximity to the blast. And so he looked on at Dean with crippling fear and anger, could not hear the comforting words.
"You did this!" Van Gerbaud sputtered, even as he gagged out more blood, "You evil, sick son-of-a-bitch! This is all your fault..." he sobbed, "And look at you... probably won't even take home a scar... can't you just die?"
"Someone will come get us," Dean whispered, and yes, Van Gerbaud's damn words were scarring even now, "They'll take care of you."
"Oh god," Van Gerbaud gasped, clutching at his chest as he struggled to breathe, "Oh god, Jenna I'm so sorry... the kids... I'm sorry..." His eyes rolled back and his body tightened as he seized.
Dean shot forward, but was unable to do anything else with his bound hands. "Hang on!" he cried out desperately, "Just... hang on-- Help!" he decided to yell instead, his voice breaking and his throat and lungs protesting, "Help!" he yelled out, as loud as he could, as long as he could.
He stopped only when he doubled over coughing, and for a long time the world darkened around him, narrowed to his pain and his profound inability to breathe. If he had passed out, he barely noticed. All he knew was that by the time he lifted his head and turned bleary eyes back to Van Gerbaud, the agent had stopped moving, stopped breathing, he just... stopped. His eyes were open but whited out, the irises rolled back. His bloodied mouth was open and slack, stuck in a soundless cry.
"I'm sorry," Dean choked back, feeling helpless and inexplicably dirty. Van Gerbaud looked... familiar. Like a soul ripped apart. Dean backed away and it was his turn now to move as far away from Van Gerbaud as possible. He pressed himself against the wall, trembling in pain and fear and exhaustion. He closed his eyes, tried to calm down, tried to control his rattling breathing. He tried to think about what they'd accomplished here... about all the people who were saved from the blast. But he couldn't take the memory of the nameless agent's severed head or of Van Gerbaud's dying cries from his mind. 4,000 people saved... and still, two men lost made him feel like a dirty failure.
Oh god, Jenna, Van Gerbaud had said, and Dean suspected maybe she was a wife, The kids...
Dean felt hot tears leaking from his burning eyes. Nothing could cleanse him. Nothing. Because saving 4,000 people couldn't absolve him of torturing thousands. People weren't just numbers one could add and subtract. They were individuals, they had Jenna's and kids and brothers and sisters and wives and girlfriends. That's why Van Gerbaud's death could not be eased by his having saved 4,000 people. That's why saving 4,000 people wouldn't have meant anything to him if Sam had died too.
Dean let his body slide sideways down against the wall, eventually resting his entire weight on his right arm on the uneven steps. He laid there miserably, wishing for death and release until he realized that after everything he'd done, if he died now he might go back to hell anyway.
Then I don't want to die, he decided, Someone will come to help. I just have to wait...
Easy, right?
He stared at Van Gerbaud's face and his empty eyes, the sight condemning him for his mistakes and his failures.
"I said I'm sorry already!" he coughed.
... I hate waiting.
" " "
Sam's eyes snapped open in panic, mind going from profoundly unconscious and absent to wide-awake. It felt as if just moments had passed since he was running for the door and the hunting cabin collapsed over his head.
He realized he was in the hospital by the second blink; the efficient damn white of the place coupled with the smell of medicine and antiseptic made for an unmistakable combination. By the bustling sounds he could hear from beyond the curtains that were on his left and right side, he guessed he was in the emergency room.
By the third blink, he knew he was not supposed to be here. The hospital in Finn's Canyon had been emptied out, so he had to be at the one in the next town, an hour's drive away. The fact that Dean wasn't sitting beside him however, was the best reason why he wasn't supposed to be here; if Dean wasn't beside him, it only meant that he couldn't be because he was also hurt, or missing, or... or...
He gasped at the sudden pain in his head; he stubbornly pressed IV'd hands against his face, as if he could suppress the pain and keep it from rearing. Bobby, Wei and Reade had saved him from death-by-burial, but the near-death experience he had in accordance with Reade's prediction probably meant that Dean was also in deep shit.
He clenched his eyes against the rolling nausea, and scrambled blindly for handholds to sit up. He felt the rails on his bed shake with the tremor of his tight grip. He breathed through his mouth, and the mask on his face fogged. The moment he was upright, he tore it away from his face.
"Sam!" he heard Reade exclaim as the former street prophet stepped into the enclosure.
"Shut," Sam gasped, "Curtain behind you."
Reade did as he was told, and then stepped forward to put a restraining hand against Sam's shoulder, "Hey, you had a rough time, you should--"
"Where's," Sam growled as he tore off his IV's to Reade's surprised yelping, "Where's Dean?"
"Sam, calm down--"
"Where's Dean?!"
"I don't know," Reade said in a small voice, "I don't know, all right? After the earthquake and the cabin collapse, the cell phone lines died. I tried to reach him, Bobby and Wei but I can't get anything. I pulled you out because I didn't know what else to do, and then I called for help 'cos you were in a bad way. We're at that--"
"I know where we are," Sam said breathlessly. His body was sore, and it was hard putting his thoughts together with the room spinning, "Where're my clothes?"
"They had to ditch them, Sam," Reade replied, "They were torn up and they just cut at the stuff to help you."
Sam shivered with shock and pain, having freed himself from the blankets, "We need to get out of here. What else happened?"
Reade looked around the room and spotted some utility cabinets. He searched through them for some scrubs for Sam, "The earthquake damaged something in the plant. A couple of hours after the quake, she just blew up. The town's just as I saw in my dream, like a fricking wasteland. I haven't been able to get in touch with the other guys, and I've been trying since the explosion. I guess the lines are still out."
"We gotta get back to the cabin," Sam decided even as he swayed where he sat, "That's where they'll go."
"Sam, you can barely sit up," Reade said, but knew it was a lost cause because he was already helping Sam out of his hospital gown and into a pair of scrubs that he had found.
"We have to go back," Sam rasped as the world swayed again. Reade gripped him by the shoulder tightly.
"Do I need to say all this?" Reade enumerated, "Concussion, dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs, sprained--"
"No," Sam sighed, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose, "No, no you don't. But I think you should take the wheel on our drive back."
"Um," Reade hesitated, "About that... I sorta left all the cars behind. I was worried, so I rode in the ambulance with you."
Ambulance, Sam thought. An ambulance would be ideal, actually. They needed supplies, and they needed to surpass all rules of traffic. They were also in a bustling emergency room in the middle of handling a disaster, so the vehicles were shuttling in and out.
"That's perfect," Sam said, "We'll just commandeer one."
" " "
Reade was not a very good driver, and Sam suspected that even without the concussion-fueled nausea, he'd still feel just as... as... slimy and green? He was sure his face was green, and he slumped on the seat like he was ready to pour out of his skin.
He tried closing his eyes, tried opening them, tried crossing them to meet at the tip of his nose. Nothing helped, and he didn't want to stop on the side of the road to be sick; every second counted.
"I actually don't have a license," Reade said, "I used to though."
Sam wanted to yell at him, but anger was nauseating too, so he just pressed his lips together in a tight line, and clenched his eyes shut.
"I mean, why should I?" Reade explained, "After I won the lottery, I had these drivers and so on."
"Good for you," Sam tried to be responsive, but he clamped his mouth shut again. Any movement that remotely opened his mouth, had him wanting to do something else with it, like throw up everything he's eaten in his life, and then turn himself inside-out.
They sped dizzyingly past traffic, everyone rightfully making room for the ambulance and especially diligently since news of the Finn's Canyon disaster in the next town was made known in the media.
"And I've never slugged a guy before too," Reade said, "Made me feel like Rocky. That was a decent swing, wasn't it?"
It was a lucky swing, more like, but Sam didn't bother to say so. In their quest to steal an ambulance - that sounded worse than it should, Sam reflected - Reade barely slugged an EMT who had dodged most of the hit, stumbling back and tripping over a parking stop sign and knocking himself unconscious when he fell to the floor.
"I thought my fist would hurt more," Reade mused, "That I'd get these fancy cuts and bruises on the knuckles, but I guess that's just the movies."
They fell silent for a long moment, and Sam froze in a miraculous position that cleared his blurred vision and kept his pains manageable. He watched the world spin past his window, softening from the building-lined urban landscape of a city to trees and mountains in the dark as they drove toward Finn's Canyon.
"Hey," Reade glanced at him, "You're awake, right? 'Cos I think I'm not supposed to let you fall asleep or something."
"I'm awake," Sam confirmed quietly, "I just... found a spot."
"Ho-kay..." Reade said nervously... "I've never taken care of anyone before either, so if I'm doing a sucky job..."
Sam smiled to himself a little, "You saved my life, Reade. I think that's a great start."
"I wanna be good at looking after people," Reade nodded, "I mean, I'm not gonna be alone forever. I'm gonna find someone special, have my own family. And I'll provide for them really good too. Anything and everything."
"What are you planning to do after all this is over?" Sam found himself both curious, and wanting to distract himself from unproductive, worried thoughts of Dean.
"I don't think I can do what you guys do," Reade chuckled, "But I've figured a few things out. I'll tell you... maybe later. Everyone should help in the best way they can."
The answer puzzled Sam, but he didn't like the feeling of confusion in his already-burdened head, so he let that go for now.
"You were a handyman or something before you won the lottery, right?" Sam asked, "You're going back to that?"
"Nope," Reade replied, "I was thinking of traveling the world, see what else is out there. I think I got carried away with my money for a little while. Finn's Canyon felt like it was all mine, and I forgot how large the rest of the Earth is."
"If you're counting on winning the lottery again," Sam said, "Give us a ring on some good numbers, will you? Real ones, this time."
"Oh, if I see new numbers I'll just shove them where I can forget them," Reade said, "Winning the lottery a third time? I'll just end up with hunters on my ass again. And that's kind of like cheating, taking a good chunk out of the world like that. I have enough. I told you I had some stuff saved up..." his voice trailed off, and his eyes lit in realization.
"Wait a minute," Reade said, "You think I'm poor?"
"Um," Sam frowned, "You're practically a squatter in your own house, you don't have anything there, everything I read and researched indicated you lost your money, that you're a drunk, rambling outside a supermarket... what were we supposed to think?"
Reade laughed, "Fair enough. But no. I kept telling you boys I had stuff set aside. There is no way on god's green earth that anyone can burn up a million dollars in a hole like Finn's Canyon, Sam. Much less tens of millions. I got more than enough left."
"Then what's with the...?"
"I told you, I forgot that Finn's Canyon was small," Reade said, "I suppose I just got complacent. And after that disaster with wife number two, it was just as well people thought whatever they wanted to think about me and my money. I want wife number three to love the real me."
"A drunk hobo professing the end of the world outside the supermarket?" Sam smirked, "That's the real you?"
Reade shrugged.
"I'm gonna tell you something my brother taught me," Sam said, "You have to meet women halfway, man. Give them something nice to look at, something to think about, something to remember."
With his thoughts drifting back to Dean, Sam fell quiet and pensive again.
"I'm gonna try them again," Sam said, grabbing his cell phone from his pocket. The signals were still shot, and he muttered a curse.
"He's probably fine, Sam," Reade said, "And just waiting for us. Probably going crazy looking for you, and for the keys to his car."
"You were the one who said," Sam pointed out, "That you were afraid maybe we can't change the future."
"I did say that," Reade admitted, "But you're here, and you're... mostly all right. The people of Finn's Canyon are all right. We do what we can, we face what's in front of us, that's what your brother said, and maybe I'm supposed to know the future to change it. I can believe that now. We're gonna be okay somehow, all of us."
To be continued...