Chapter Six.
He awoke to the unpleasant but by no means unfamiliar sensation of concussion. Swimming vision, waves of nausea and a headache that screamed at him louder than a banshee. He let out a groan, God damn it why did people always go for the head?
The next part of him to catch alight with pain as he moved were his upper arms, twisted round and secured tightly behind him, the corners of a chair digging painfully into his sides, his chest crushed with the duality of half being pinned back and yet being dragged forward by the weight of his sagging shoulders and head.
Another groan came out, this one almost like a grumpy protest and accompanied by a heavy drag of air as he forced himself slowly upright, his skull feeling like a lead weight as his eyes tried to catch up with the change in direction all the while pitching like he was standing on the deck of a sea-tossed ship. It did little to settle the nausea, although it seemed to amuse somebody else in the room.
"Finally woken up huh, pig?"
It was a sneer, feminine and by no means friendly. He didn't need to guess who it was.
"Yeah," he bit back, managing one of the ever-defiant grins he saved for when he was really in trouble, "But I'll be honest, I've had better hospitality at a morgue."
She stared back evenly, finally throwing the F.B.I badge down at his feet and letting the picture stare up at him,
"Best place for filthy pigs,"
Great, as if his day couldn't get any worse they now thought he was the law and if there was one thing country-folk hated more than intruders, then it was men from the big towns with badges. And just when he thought they were going to go easy on him…
"Filth," she spat from where she stood across the room from him, arms folded, "Coming into my home, threatening me, frightening my children – ,"
"Are you freakin' crazy?" Dean fired back hotly, determined to ignore his pain, "Sam's not your kid. Never was, never will be."
Teeth glinting in the half-light, Belle took a step towards him, coming in close and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. He flinched underneath it, every fibre of his body screaming at the sensation. The woman put the freak in freaky, even more so as she began to run her bony fingers upwards until they snaked through his short hair, finally grabbing a handful and yanking his head back. Dean's breath came out in a gasp but he wasn't by any means broken,
"What, want to add me to your screwed up little family now too?" ducking his head sideways he managed to shrug himself free of her grip, looking up with murderous eyes, "Well sorry lady, but 'son' is already taken, and I ain't no kind of husband."
The response earned him a grin – although it was anything but comforting. Luckily however the shuffle of a pair of feet drew both their attentions and Dean looked up just in time to see Isaac plod hesitantly across the threshold,
"Great," he beamed sarcastically, "Gang's all here, huh?"
Isaac ignored him, peering up at his mother through reddened eyes, his voice low and halting,
"I – the other one's out feeding the chickens, just like you said Ma,"
Belle nodded,
"Good, he doesn't need to see this,"
Dean grinned without humour,
"Hell, why not get him to join in, Sam's not half bad with his fists."
Abruptly, something within Belle seemed to snap and she swiped the back of her hand sharp and hard across Dean's cheek, which drew a chuckle of adoring delight from Isaac. Her eyes blazed furiously as she pointed her warning at their captive,
"No. Not my boy. Jacob is a good child. A good child. Don't talk about him like that!" she seemed wild, her composure leaving her in a flash. Dean frowned,
"Jacob?"
Jed Hamilton had mentioned a Jake who had 'left them', which Dean had just taken to mean left the area, struck out on his own kind of thing, after all with a family as crazy as his who in the hell could have blamed him, but the way Belle was using Sam as a substitute, the likeness of the other missing men, it all pointed to one thing. The real Jake was dead and either through guilt or grief, his family were auditioning his role out to the next best guys they could find. Dean curled up his face in sudden ridicule,
"Oh come on, you gotta be kidding me right?" his outburst drew looks from both mother and son, "You're trying to replace your dead kid? That's why you took Sam and the others?" he laughed in disbelief, "I mean I thought we were dealing with demons here, vampires, spirits, but you? You're just a couple of backwoods frea – ,"
This time it was Isaac that caught him, abandoning the back of the hand for a full on fist to the face, glancing off the corner of Dean's mouth as he struck a blow along the jaw line, surprisingly hard for such a thin and pathetic looking guy.
"Don't talk to my ma like that," he panted as Dean's head sluggishly rose from the assault, "Just…don't."
"Isaac," Belle's voice when she spoke was harsh, her poise regained, "Pull them drapes, then go and move his car. Don't want that thing sitting out on the road all night."
Dean blinked as Belle produced his keys from somewhere, feeling himself shift in renewed anger,
"You so much as imagine a scratch on her, I swear to God I'll go primeval on your ass,"
It was a sentence that delivered a certain amount of pleasure despite his predicament, because as Isaac pushed out through the swing door a definite spark of fear flashed in his eyes. The boy was weak inside and out, although Dean had to hand it to him he threw a decent right hook.
The silence left him alone with Belle once more and suddenly the joking on his part stopped.
"Why Sam?"
She looked at him carefully,
"Jacob – ,"
"Don't give me that," he interrupted tersely, "This Jacob's name is Sam okay? Sam Winchester, the one before him was Greg Parker, the one before, Andy Cooper, then Thomas Daniels and Ja - ," as he hit the last name Dean's listing stopped abruptly, the words coming out in short syllables as the pieces of the puzzle gradually fell into place, "Jacob Whittaker."
His eyes looked up to search Belle's face and, judging by her suddenly ashen features, Dean realised he'd hit the mark. Jake, the missing Jake was Jacob Whittaker. The one victim who had been local to the area, the first one to disappear, Belle's son…
His expression sharpened in surprise and he sat forward as far as he could in case he misheard the answer to his next question, which came out about as amazed as he was,
"You killed your own son?" he asked, brows knitting together into a frown as Belle's gaze took on a faraway look, staring straight past him to an imaginary spot on the wall,
"He was such a good boy," she whispered, confirming – if she hadn't already – his total belief that the woman was insane, "Such a good boy."
"Why?"
"It was…" she paused momentarily to take a deep, shuddering breath, eyes never leaving the spot on the wall behind him, "…an accident."
Dean managed to hold onto his snort of derision, doubting strongly it was. Homes where people were kidnapped, tied to chairs and beaten up were rarely the sort of places where genuine accidents tended to happen. Particularly fatal ones.
"I – ," when Belle eventually spoke again she seemed frail, small, shocked even, "Jacob. He's…he – ,"
"Mother?"
They both turned towards the voice in surprise, Belle's eyes wide as if she was seeing an apparition. In many ways she was.
"Jacob?" she whispered, holding out a trembling hand. Sam stepped towards her quickly, letting the door swing shut behind him as he crossed the kitchen, taking the skeletal offering up in his own and watching her in fright,
"Mother what's wrong?"
Dean watched his sycophantic mamma's boy act in distaste, the muscles in his wrists straining against the ropes that pinned them together as the woman reached up to stroke his brother's hair.
"Don't touch him!" he barked angrily, drawing Sam's attention and briefly seeing a stab of something other than indoctrinated devotion – concern. Concern for him. Even if he was, at that point, still a total stranger.
"Is…" he started hesitantly, gesturing in Dean's direction, "Is he – ,"
"He's fine," Belle interjected sharply, a flash of her character coming through, "Just fine."
Sam didn't seem convinced,
"But…he – ,"
"I said he's fine Jacob," she snapped in warning, before softening again and bending forward to rest her head against his chest.
Except that anyone with eyes and half a brain cell could tell that Dean was not fine. Firstly, he was tied to a chair, which was by no means normal no matter who you were, secondly he had both hand and knuckle prints running along his cheek and jaw line, a split lip, a face colour way too pale not to be caused by concussion and, to cap it all off, an F.B.I identification badge lying open at his feet. Sam Winchester proper or not, Dean was not surprised that the sight caused alarm. He was far from keen on it himself. Still, despite the fact that to this 'Jacob' he was all but an outsider he couldn't stop from smiling across at him roguishly, keen to quell whatever fears he had,
"I'm okay Sammy. I mean, I've had worse right?"
The sentence drew a frown, one so unmistakably Sam-like that Dean could've sworn it was him. Well, it was him, just not him…he groaned softly, dropping his chin onto his chest. The whole damn thing was giving him one hell of a headache.
Sam watched him do it, tilting his head gently to one side as he tried to allay a strange feeling that clutched at him deep inside, de-ja-vu but not of a kind he'd ever had before. Something about the situation – other than a captive in their kitchen and his mother practically curled against him – felt wrong, like maybe there was something about it he was missing. Something he should know.
"Ma!" Again the moment was interrupted by the sound of the swing door and this time Isaac burst in, skittering across the floor at the sight of his mother and practically pushing Sam out of the way to get there, "I'm here ma, Isaac's here."
Sam stepped back out of the way, eyes glancing briefly over at Dean as in the background Isaac comforted his mother. The sight of her tear-streaked face seemed to outrage him and abruptly the ginger one thrashed out a fist, catching Dean clean in the midsection and doubling him over as far as he could go, coughing painfully.
"You sorry son of a – ," he stopped just short, cursing obviously outlawed in the little wooden house. If Dean hadn't been winded and struggling to breath he might even have laughed. A family who thought nothing of casual torture yet baulked at cussing. Weirder and weirder. Luckily however the assault seemed limited only to the one blow as Isaac instead favoured helping his mother from the room.
"I'll get you to bed now ma," he hushed gently, his tones no more creepy than before despite his effort, "Pig'll wait 'til the morning. He ain't going nowhere, I tied him good and tight."
They disappeared from view together, leaving Dean and Sam alone. Still bending forward, the first Dean saw of his brother's approach was the tips of his shoes, followed by a cautious sounding, "Hey, you okay?"
Dean rolled his eyes. Gee Sherlock, what do you think?
"I'll be all right when I've gotten us both the hell out of here Sam," he responded, sitting upright although wincing at the effort. Sam looked back at him dubiously,
"Look, I'm sorry my mother and brother hurt you like that, but you've made some kind of mistake, my name's not Sam. I'm Jacob."
Dean laughed, the lack of humour making his brother frown in confusion.
"No Sammy, you're not. But I swear to God I'm gonna fix this okay? I'm going to get you back."
The decisiveness of the sentence, as well as the passion and fury behind it made Sam pause, that feeling rising within him once more. It was wrong, all wrong and yet…
"Jacob!" came Isaac's harsh shout, "Come up now, ma's asking for you," the end was practically spat in disgust, "Leave the pig."
Nice. Reluctantly, and with a hesitant glance, Sam did as he was told and headed out of the kitchen, casting a final glance back into the hard eyes that stared out at him as one last sentence followed him up the stairs. Quiet, defiant, stirring.
"I'm going to fix this Sam. I'm going to put this right."
And he would – he just didn't know how.
And here's another! As usual I hope it suits, and as usual, big smiles (and blushes of the aww, you're too kind variety) go out to all my lovely reviewers.