GUNSLINGER (Chapter Three)
"They're gonna hang your buddy," Brad sneered, jostling Dean as he latched the chain to a D-ring in the wall. The rancher worked the links from outside the cell, his chest and stomach pressed hard against the metal bars as he tightened the chain to the wall.
"Come in here and fight like a man, you sniveling bastard," Dean said. He made a swipe for Brad's hands, snarling as the rancher lunged backwards. The chain pulled him up short, wrenched him off-balance and he went down on all fours. Pain zig-zagged through his skull while nausea moistened the glands in his mouth. He spat and slumped against the wall.
"He'll shit himself," Brad said. He wiped his hands down his shirtfront and, for a second gold glinted in his top shirt pocket. "Bowels go, you know. And eyes. Damn, they near pop right outa the skull. Mighty fine to see, that is." He peered into the cell, checking the D-ring from a distance.
Dean stood, wavering. "You need to shut the hell up." He gave a hard yank to the chains. "If you've hurt my brother—"
"You won't be breaking those anytime soon. Not till we want ya to."
"Where's Sam? Where did they take him?" Dean fisted his hands and wrenched the chain. Metal cut into his wrists, opened a thin gash on the back of his hand. The D-link held.
"It's justice." Brad moved to the cell door, but stayed on the outside. Out of reach.
"They're dead," Dean said. He stalked to the front of the cell and grasped the metal bars with both hands. Blood leaked in a thin line down his wrist. "The two Billy The Kid wannabee's, they're spirits. Walking, talking dead people. They've screwed with your mind, made you believe that you're one of them and that Sam – my brother – is a long-dead gunslinger."
"If you give us no trouble, we'll let you go."
Dean slammed his fists against the cell bars. "You hurt Sam and I'll rip your throat out!"
Brad hesitated at the cell door, momentarily pale faced, then spat and unlatched a long metal key from a ring on his side. It made a grating, raspy noise as it entered the mechanism and a single click as the tumbler slipped into place.
Dean swallowed hard, kept his chin raised in defiance. "Where is my brother?"
"Ever seen a chicken with its head cut off? How it runs around and around, spewing blood. You seen that?"
Dean snarled and jerked the chain, pulling it taut. Blood thickened and streaked his forearm, soaked into the sleeve of his jacket. Brad pulled the key from the lock.
"Hanging is sorta the same," Brad said. "Body twitches for minutes after, but you know the best part. If the neck don't snap, they feel everything and that twitchin' is the soul zappin' in and out. Couldn't think of any worse way to go. Slow like that, you know."
Dean closed his eyes as bile stung the back of his throat.
"We got no beef with you though. Just the other one."
"He's my brother." He opened his eyes and glared at the rancher. "The spirits have corrupted your mind, made you think he is someone else, that you are someone else and that this… this is somehow honorable. You are going to kill an innocent man, and when it's over you will wake up and have to live with the horror of that for the rest of your miserable freakin' life!"
Brad watched him with a curious shine in his eyes, an awkward gleam that might have been supernaturally induced or the flicker of humanity. Dean leaned forward and the chains around his wrists rattled. "Think about it. What do you remember, about here, about anything before this. You're forty years old, and I'll bet you can't even remember your last birthday. Why the hell do you think that is?"
"I had amnesia."
"That's what they've told you, but where's the head injury. Where's the scar? Christ, man, Sam's innocent, he didn't do anything, he is not who they say he is."
The man rested a hand on the bars, clasped the metal rails and looked down the hall. The ring of keys clinked on his side while he held the key to the door between forefinger and thumb. Dean heard something, a scraping sound, like something being dragged. His heart flip-flopped and he pushed closer to the door. The manacles dug deeper into his wrists.
"Please," Dean said in a low whisper as two men appeared at the far end of the hall. "Don't let them do this. I swear, it's not what it looks like and when this is over, you are going to hate yourself. Sam's innocent, he had nothing to do with the murders. Jesus, he wasn't even alive back then. Neither the hell were you."
The man looked toward him then back down the hall. The men moved closer, dragging something… someone. Dean knew before he saw him that it was Sam.
He choked on a strangled breath as he took in the sight of his unconscious sibling. They had worked him over well, and though Dean could not yet see any damage, he knew Sam was unconscious. When the men dropped him, Sam sprawled and lay still, his head twisted to the side and his face… oh God, his face.
"Sammy," Dean breathed. Anger flooded through him then, and he turned his attention to Brad. "I will fucking kill you for this. I swear, I will hunt your miserable ass down and gut you!"
The Texan looked at him again, uncertainty tightening his features. He fingered the key, toyed with it, so close that Dean could just reach out and grab it. But he didn't, because Sam lay helpless beneath the feet of two men – two spirits, who could extinguish the young man's life with one swift slash of a blade, or a shot from a rifle, or a well placed kick.
"He's innocent. He's an innocent kid, and they're killing him," Dean said, his voice as sharp and hoarse as broken glass. He raked his gaze over the older man. It stopped on the man's fingers, on the thin pale line around the older man's ring finger. Almost panting, Dean gripped the bars so hard that his hands ached. "You have a wife," he forced out in a low whisper. "Look at your ring finger, man. There's someone out there that loves you, who is missing you. Who wants you back. I can fix this, but you have to let me go and you have to buy me time."
Sam moaned and twitched as he roused on the floor between the dead men's feet. Dean couldn't see if his eyes opened.
"Give me the key and walk away. Get them drunk, share stories, I don't care, but give me some time." Dean knew he was begging, but he no longer cared. Brad had been human when he had led them here, and Dean had no reason to believe that the man had held evil intent. "Brad, please." He moved as close as the chain allowed.
"Put him in here with the other one," the Texan finally said.
Dean flinched and the two spirits looked up, stared at them with coal dark eyes, their expression's horrifically impassive.
"Why?" Conrad said, the pale scar down the side of his face curled inwards as he spoke.
Brad's hand tightened around the key. Dean held his breath, his heart pounding. He watched the dead men as they waited for a response.
"He's not lookin' so good." Brad gestured toward Sam. "You want him alive till dawn, then this one'll keep him that way."
Dean panted through barely parted lips, trembling with a mix of fear and rage as the dead men considered that, weighed it up and assessed the merits. They did so without speaking, without looking at each other, and Dean got the sick feeling that they were connected somehow: telepathically able to sense each other's thoughts, instinct and intent.
"Put 'em together," Conrad said to Tom as he leaned down and hitched a hand into Sam's armpit. Assisted by his congenial dead cohort, they raised Sam to waist height and dragged him down the hall.
Brad unlocked the cell and they threw Sam in. Dean caught his brother in a tangle of chains and slack knees, pushed to the floor by the younger man's weight. He held Sam, felt him breathe, heard the barely muted rasp of poorly veiled pain as the two spirits and Brad closed the door, locked the cell and stood outside watching them. Dean raised his chin in silent defiance.
When the three men walked away, disappeared out of sight, Dean lowered his brother to the dirt floor, rolled him onto his side into the recovery position and rested back on his haunches.
"Christ, Sammy." Dean raked his gaze over the younger man, his own stomach clenching in nauseating cramps. Sam's face bore evidence of a severe beating: a pasty mix of blood, sweat and dirt, so thick and crusted that Dean couldn't see where the injuries started and ended. The bleeding had stopped, coagulated by grit and the passing of time.
Sam was a mess. Dean stared helplessly, his fingers tingling with cold sweat. Sam blinked but made no effort to move, seemingly content to just breathe. He looked to be in shock – or damned close to it.
"Guess Brad wasn't talking bullshit afterall," Dean said dryly, and the awful humor felt like a tightening noose around his neck.
Sam slowly raised one hand to his face, shaking as he almost touched the bloodied flesh. His eyes cleared somewhat, though still heavy with pain. Dean frowned, leaned closer and gently caught Sam's hand. Grit, dried blood and sweat worked into his pores, exchanged from his brother's grasp.
"Easy, I've got you."
Sam's fingers tightened, crushing – desperate. His hand trembled, his breathing growing harsher as tears leaked from his eyes.
"Shh, hey, it'll be okay," Dean said hoarsely. The lie hung heavy and the chains rattled, calling him for a fool. He briefly closed his eyes, steadied his erratic breathing and managed to add, "Where else are you hurt?"
Sam didn't answer and his eyes roamed, shiny with pain. Dean felt a sharp stab of fear.
"Sam?" He touched his brother's face, forced the young man's focus to him. "How bad is…." His words trailed off as he got a look at Sam's neck. Abrasions ringed the flesh, as though something had been wrapped around, pinched… drawn tight. The answer came unbidden: chain.
"Can you talk?" Dean's voice shook. "Sam, look at me. Can you speak? What did they do? Sammy, what did they do?"
He knew. He knew without Sam telling him. They had choked him, wrapped chain around his throat and constricted. The potential injury ringed through Dean's ears, they could have crushed Sam's windpipe, torn his larynx, fractured his spine. The soft tissue damage alone….
Sam's hand squeezed his and the young man slowly drew his knees up. He mewled pitifully, his right hand twitching, the arm caught partially behind him. Dean's gaze drew to it and a cold hand tightened his chest.
Broken. The way the limb lay stretched out, evidence that Sam didn't dare to move it. Dean didn't need to see any blood or disfigurement to recognize the damage, he knew Sam. If Sam could draw the limb in, he would.
What else had they done?
He suddenly had to know. Dean hushed his brother, set one hand on his forehead and gently thumbed. "I'm going to check you over, try to relax."
"No… Dean… please."
Sam's voice, pain scarred and hoarse, brought tears to Dean's eyes. A mix of fear and relief washed through him. Sam could speak, he was breathing, though it sounded too much like a raspy wheeze for Dean's liking, but Sam was still in there: trapped in his broken body, but still aware.
"I won't hurt you," Dean said, his sinuses thick and burning. "But I've got to know if I can help."
Why, his overly imaginative mind queried. Sam had been beaten, choked, his arm broken… they wouldn't have left it there. Sam would have internal injuries, most likely severe. And in the morning Conrad and Tom would collect his brother, if Sam survived the night, and they would kill him.
Sam panted, his boots making restless scuff marks against the cell's floor. He whimpered, shivering. Dean quickly shucked out of his jacket and laid it over Sam's shoulders. "It'll be okay. You'll be okay."
"No."
"I won't hurt you."
"Dean…"
"Trust me, Sammy. I won't hurt you."
Sam tugged on his torn lip with his teeth, his eyes beseeching. He breathed raggedly, writhing now, restless with pain.
Dean went back to gently thumbing, his touch gentle. Tears blurred his vision and his tongue felt too thick, the words like razor blades in his mouth. "I'll make this right. I promise, I'll make it right."
Sam's gaze locked with his, hopeless and despairing. "Not… your fault."
Dean nodded, his jaw clenched. Directly not his fault, no, but Sam was his responsibility and he had allowed them both to walk into a trap – all because he wanted his little brother to relax. Well, Sam sure as hell wasn't relaxed now.
"I'll get us out of this," he said He had no idea how, but he would.
With careful movements, Dean checked his brother's abdomen for rigidity and heat. He didn't like what he found.
Sam had all the clinical signs of internal bleeding. His abdomen, though not yet rigid, was tender and he actively guarded it. Dean listed the abdominal organs in his mind: spleen, liver, pancreas and bowel. All vulnerable, all life threatening when damaged, though the duration until system failure varied. Sam's eyes were closed now, squeezed tight and tears pooled in the divot between cheek and nose. He sucked breath through flared nostrils and Dean couldn't even begin to imagine the pain. There was nothing he could do to ease it, so he comforted through touch, knowing it just wasn't enough.
The two dead men and Brad engaged in muffled murmuring toward the front of the building. It might be Brad working up a strategy to save them, or figuring a way to condemn them both. Dean raised his head and listened, tried to make sense of the muffled words.
The sound of Sam gagging brought Dean's attention back. Sam tried to push himself up, but clearly lacked the strength. Dean caught him, braced his shoulders and turned him to the side. He clasped Sam's broken arm at the wrist and held it, keeping it steady as Sam weakly retched. Stringy blood stained saliva hung from the younger man's lips, but though he heaved wretchedly, he didn't throw up and Dean wondered if he had before, when they were working him over.
Sam collapsed against him when the spasms eased: spent and barely conscious. He fisted a hand in Dean's shirt, his breathing strained.
"Rest, Sam. Don't fight it. You need to rest."
"Dean…."
"I know, kiddo. I know. Try to sleep, it'll help."
Sam fell quiet then, and Dean ached. Fear poked a fist deep into his gut. He soothed his brother, disturbed at how pliant Sam was, how accepting of the embrace. Brad had been right not to leave Sam alone. If they wanted him to survive the night, and clearly they did, then Sam needed monitoring. If he lost consciousness and threw up, he could suffocate to death on his own vomit. Dean couldn't help but think it would be the kinder of the two options the spirits had in mind for Sam.
Sam melted, his limbs loose. Dean tensed, scared, but Sam had only lost consciousness, his pulse was a little weaker than it should be, but steady. His breathing sounded strained though, and Dean worried about the damage to his throat.
He scanned the cell, searching for something cold to apply to Sam's neck, something to minimize the swelling. There was nothing. He gingerly touched at the damaged flesh and convinced himself that he was worrying over nothing. Maybe the swelling wouldn't affect Sam's breathing… maybe for once in their miserable lives they could cut a freakin' break.
Dean tried to ignore the other thoughts about what might be happening in Sam's body, what cells might be dying, how badly he might be bleeding inside. He held his brother, Sam's head on resting on his shoulder and soft breaths brushing his neck. He hadn't held Sam this way for almost twenty years, and had lived in fear of the day he would have to. The only situation that brought them this physically close was grave injury and a situation beyond their control. They had endured both injury and captivity, but never both situations together – and never so dire.
Sam had been hurt before, but Dean had always been able to cut and run. There would be no running now. Even if he could break the chains, he couldn't break out of the cell. And even if he could, he wouldn't leave Sam.
He rested his chin on Sam's head, the rancid scent of blood and sweat making his stomach cramp. His kid brother didn't deserve this, didn't deserve any of the suffering he endured. It was cruel. Sam had been blessed with a gentle soul, an insight and sensitive determination that made him feel pain deeper than most. And fate had made him pay dearly for that sensitivity.
Dean cast the miserable thoughts aside and waited for the rancher to return, to save them – to show some shred of humanity in the altered reality that now dictated their lives.
But Brad didn't come. And as darkness fell and cold ate its way into the cell, Dean relinquished his grasp of his injured brother, laid him on his side and soothed him as he struggled toward consciousness. When Sam quieted again, Dean faced the dark alone, bitterly resolved to save his brother, even if he had no clue how.
