08

Russell Adams did what he thought was best, he answered the ring. "..Hello?"

"Dean? Where the hell have you been? I've been trying to get a hold of you for the past hour, boy!"

Russell cleared his throat. "Uh...this isn't Dean here. It's Russell Adams; your friend rented a room from my family."

There was a pause. "Oh. Well, why do you have this phone?"

Russ sighed. "Look, I don't know your friend, or you; but I can tell you that things aren't right here. There was a problem; the room's a mess, and your two friends have gone missing."

Bobby's heart skipped a beat. -aw not now-"My name's Bob Singer, those boys are my nephews. And what do you mean by problem?"

Russell described what he knew thus far. When Bobby had heard it, he cursed under his breath. "Listen; they were there cuz they were supposed to meet me. I was calling to tell them that my appointment in Bradford was a bust. I'm about two hours shy of it, can you give me directions to where you are?"

"Shy...like north or south? You're either close or you got a drive ahead."

Bobby relayed his position, and Russell directed him. "You're close then. Stay on 29 until you see the exit for Kinburn. You don't want to go as far as that, but you'll see a sign for Spencerville, hang a left there. I can meet you at the post office, it's right on the road."

Bobby agreed, and Russell decided to wait with going to the station until he'd met with him. But in the mean time, he still wanted his kin somewhere out of any possible harm. "Ok, Ma. That was a relative of your boys. I'm going to meet up with him at the post office. I want you and grandad to take your truck to Baileys' farm, can you do that?"

May scowled. "Russell, I'm not some frilly hothouse flower. I'm not scared of Frank Buell, and I won't flee my house the moment there's some kerfuffle!"

"I know, Ma. But just the same I don't know these boys, I don't know this uncle, and more than that, I do know Frank Buell. Just do this for me, alright? I can only worry so much."

She stood for a moment, hands on her hips. But she softened at his earnest expression of concern. "Well alright, Russell, but only for you. Besides, I don't want your grandad to get into any more nonsense tonight. Tsk, the drunken old piece of gristle; if I he came to grief your daddy; god rest him, would be rolling in his grave." She turned away and went indoors. Russell smiled to himself. His Ma was a fierce mother bear, but her father-in-law was her greatest challenge. He was glad they would be out of harm's way, should harm decide to join this little party. And somehow, he had a feeling it might...

Sam wore his heart on his sleeve. Dean knew his little brother was looking to him for leadership now, it was how things worked. Sam always had his back, no question, but it was up to Dean to lead when their world got complicated. He started by stating the obvious. " Bottom line; we've got to get the hell out of here. I'm guessing Buell will be back soon. I don't think he's going to want to have any long discussions, whatever his problem with us is."

Sam 's pinched expression relaxed slightly. Dean might be in rough shape, but he was still capable and in charge, maybe things would be ok... He shifted a little, shrugging off the chill that the cold floor and wall imparted. In doing so, he felt an uncomfortable lump under his ankle. "Oh! Shit!"

"What?"

Sam looked at Dean, a renewed hope shining in his eyes. "When I went looking for you, I stuck my folding knife in my sock, it's still here!"

"You're kidding me-"

But with his hands behind him and tied to the wires, Sam had no hope of reaching his feet. He bent and twisted and contorted, but he couldn't get near enough. He was too far away from Dean, he couldn't have him pull it either. He tried to snag it with his teeth, but after several tiring tries, he rested, dejected. "aw man, I can't believe it.." he muttered.

Dean was working his own tied hands. Every twist was agony, but the ropes had been stiffened by the blood and dust. Colter had done his best when he'd retied his hands in front, but the knots were affected by the filth coating them. They were definitely loosening. Sam watched as he worked them, he could see the sweat beading on his brother's forehead. Dean glanced up, intense and driven. "They're coming-" he whispered.

Sam thought he meant the knots. Unfortunately he was wrong, Dean could see the group of men turning the corner and approaching. "Sam-" he warned.

Sam could only nod. Within seconds, Frank Buell and his two lackeys were back in the space shared by the Winchesters.

Frank stood and stared at them. Finally he spoke. "So. Here we all are." He crouched, so that he could speak directly into Dean's face. "You made a big mistake coming here, Mr Federal Agent. You think I don't know who you really are?"

Dean glanced feverishly at Sam, momentarily panicked that their true identities were known. He didn't know where this was going...

But Buell kept talking. "You think I'm some sort of back-woods half-wit? I know exactly why you come all the way out here. You, and buddy here; you're DEA.."

Dean was struck dumb. DEA? Drug Enforcement..? So Buell thought they were some sort of narcs, and that was apparently a big problem for all of them. It struck him suddenly; the secrecy, the wealth...the steel doors, the windmills, the power usage. Buell was running a grow-op; they'd stumbled into a bona fide Copperhead Road..He returned Frank's stare defiantly, with a mix of admiration and disgust. "Wow...John Lee Pettimore, in the flesh."

The song reference was not lost on Buell. "That's right, asshole. I knew what you was the second I saw you in the store. You're trying to find where I'm growin'. Well, now you know. Look around you; this is the best kept little secret in the state. Me and my friends; we're gettin' rich, while the stupid bastards around here sit on their thumbs and whine about the hard times, just like they always done. You have no idea how many miles of tunnels are in these hills; abandoned, most of'em unknown. I can grow year round, and nothing the DEA has in the air will ever pick up on it. No heat signatures from way down here. No plants visible outside. No power use showing; I'm so off-grid out here that I could run my own damn country and nobody would have a goddamned clue." He leaned closer, breathing into Dean's face. "I bet you're real thrilled to break your big case now, ain't you? All your hunches come true...too bad nobody'll ever know." He laughed, and hauled back a fist, punching his glaring captive on the jaw. Dean shook his head, trying to clear away the maelstrom of lights.

"NO!" Sam yelled. Buell turned to him. "We're not Feds! Come on, that was a fake ID, it was a piece of shit, couldn't you tell that?"

Buell cocked his head a little. "Fake. Now why would he do that?"

Sam wracked his brain. "Because we're really private investigators. Not Feds, and sure as hell not DEA! The guy you beat up, the electrical safety inspector; it was his family that hired us! They paid us to look for anything to pin on you so they could sue you in civil court! They want money! Look, this is just a job for us, we don't give a shit either way-"

Both Dean and Frank Buell stared at him, intrigued. Buell frowned: "Why should I believe you?"

"Because...look at us! Do we look like feds? We're too damned young to be that high up! Look at what we're driving, does that look standard issue?" Sam was grasping at straws, but he was reaching his mark. Frank turned back to Dean.

"Private dicks. Figures. Who exactly hired you?"

Dean knew that Angus had never mentioned the identity of Buell's reason for incarceration. He made up a name. "Marcy Peterson. She's his sister, married. They're looking for any info to nail you with, maybe to settle privately. You messed him up pretty good; they want something out of it."

Buell sat back, he swore and laughed. "Well hell, boys, wish I'da known that earlier. Coulda saved us all a whole lotta trouble if I'd known you were for sale. Guess I should have figured you wasn't Washington stock when I saw that car. Whose is it, anyway?"

"Mine." Dean growled.

Frank smiled. "Nice old wreck, ain't it? Bet you're real proud of her. She's what, a 68? You got a frikkin' arsenal in the trunk too, don't you? Lotta weird shit in there. I don't know what you and Buddy here are into, but that's a small fortune in silver for one thing. And all the rest of it-" He whistled and shook his head, laughing. "Yeah, now that I think about it, nothing about you or that car says Fed to me."

Sam visibly relaxed. But Dean remained tense and wary. Just because they were now 'private investigators' instead of Law, didn't mean they were any safer. And unfortunately, his instincts were usually right.

Buell's smile faded. "Don't matter none whether you're narcs or not. You fell down the wrong rabbit hole." He leaned closer to Dean, as if conspiratorily, and laid a hand on his bandaged arm. He squeezed, just a little. "You want to know a funny thing? Bradford Fair is in a week. Biggest event is the Demolition Derby. Now, I wasn't gonna enter nothing this year; got a lot going on, you know... But now, with that old Chev falling into my lap; hell, I think I just might after all!"

He grinned at the raw horror on his captive's face. He'd guessed right that car was a cherished thing. Dean spluttered and struggled and Buell's smile widened.

"Yeah...I got my boys paintin' her up right now; bright orange, big numbers on the side. All I need now is to pull the glass, weld in a roll cage and bash the shit out of her." He squeezed hard now, brutally twisting Dean's arm. It had the desired effect. Dean's back was rigid, pressed hard against the rock wall, he gritted his teeth and blinked away tears, as he swore and raged at his captor until he was dizzy with exhaustion. Sam howled at Buell to stop but Buell just laughed. Martin Colter laughed along with him, as was required, but he everted his eyes. Finally Frank let go and stood back up.

"Wish I could stay longer with you all, but I've got shipments going out. I'll come back and visit with you later." His jovial manner changed suddenly. "Seriously, boys; you made a real bad choice here, real unfortunate. Too bad." He planted a hard kick against Dean's head, snapping it back with violence. His scrawny companion had a similar parting gift for Sam, delivered with the butt of his rifle.. When he was satisfied that both were unconscious, he ordered his men to follow him and left.

Bobby's fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel as he drove. Not only did his reason for coming all the way out to this backwoods paradise fall through, but now he had somehow led the Winchesters into danger. No, he knew better than that...Dean always dove head first into trouble like it was a hot tub full of playboy bunnies. But his anger was sharp and bitter. The Bradford thing was a good lead, it should have been worth it. He'd learned the name of a man who had supposedly managed to beat his deal with the devil. It wasn't a case of cheating death, or running scared just ahead of the snapping hellhound jaws, the man was free and clear, by some other means. Bobby had to know just what those means were. But before he got to Bradford, he received the news that his contact was dead. He died a normal, run-of-the mill death, a heart attack, apparently. No bloody end, no weeping and gnashing of teeth. Their opportunity to learn his secret went into the ground along with him. And now this. He sighed and swore to himself. It was a really crappy day.

He thought about the man who'd answered Dean's phone. Seemed normal enough. Bobby was well acquainted with the way people could be in these isolated areas; closed mouthed and loyal to their own. At least he'd agreed to meet him, and Bobby had talked him into waiting on the call to state troopers. That was a meagre plus, at least. He saw the sign that Adams had mentioned. A few more miles of anxious driving, and the Post Office loomed up ahead. He pulled in, and saw a man in a pick-up wave. Bobby pulled up beside him and rolled down his window. "Russ Adams?"

Russell nodded. "Follow me." The two drove back to May Adams' house.

Once there, they introduced themselves grimly. Russell liked the look of the man; he seemed like a working type, and he had an honest way of talking. Bobby had a similar feeling of trust. Russell filled him in on what he'd learned from May and Angus, and they entered the Winchesters' room. He stood by as Bobby examined the mess. Bobby picked up the bloody towel and scowled. "Looks like he got himself into some something, alright. This ain't no little scratch."

Russell agreed. "That's what I figured. We'd best be finding him soon, or there ain't gonna be reason to anymore." He sighed angrily. "Whatever's going on, we know Frank Buell is at the heart of it. Sonofabitch runs this little corner like it was his own personal kingdom. He keeps a cabin somewhere on Beatty Mountain. But best way to find him would be to head right up to where he's got his wind turbines, we can follow the wires from there."

Bobby was leary of involving a stranger. This was dangerous business, and he voiced as much to Russell. Russell smiled a little. "Look, no disrespect, but you ain't exactly a young man no more. This is rough country, and you wouldn't last an hour before you got lost. I know these hills like the back of my hand. I grew up on 'em, and I work in them. And no matter what your kin got themselves into; Frank Buell came to my family's house and kicked in my door. That kind of thing don't go unanswered."

Bobby nodded. "Fair enough. And I appreciate the guidance out there, especially with it being almost dark. Do you want to head out right now, or wait?"

Russell frowned. "Don't think we have a choice no more. We'll have to get back to my place and put some things together. Can you handle a gun?"

Bobby nodded grimly. "Yeah. I have what I need with me."

"Good. Pray we don't need it."

Chapter End Notes:

For reference, Copperhead Road is a sort of hillbilly anthem song by Steve Earle. John Lee Pettimore is the character from who's pov it is sung; a moonshiner's decendent who becomes a pot grower.