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"Sammy!"
Ignoring the cry of the hunter still trapped to the bed, Smith focused on the job at hand. As he squeezed, the youth's eyes rolled up in his head, the shotgun dropping from his now slack grip. Loving the delicate feel of the boy's throat, the killer tightened his hold.
Pleasure began to pound through Smith, overcoming the pain the hunter's shotgun had wrought. As an added bonus, Smith reveled in the panic he could hear in the older hunter's cry.
It was obvious the youth's sudden appearance hadn't been coincidence. In fact, if Smith were to guess... "Brothers," he rasped. Not wanting to kill the long-limbed boy, he eased his grip.
The fact that his originally intended playthings had flown the coop wasn't any reason he couldn't begin anew his current guests. He'd wanted two victims to play with, and two he'd gotten.
Both were prime specimens; young enough to be resilient and each in top physical condition. As an added bonus the emotional connection between the two would far surpass Julie and Christine's friendship.
"Get your hands off him, you son-of-a-bitch," the sandy-haired hunter growled.
The complete and utter fear that reverberated in the young man's cry only added to Smith's enjoyment. As important as the physical end of his work was, it was the emotional anguish he wrung from his victims that truly made his life's work complete.
He'd long ago learned that few people shared a completely pure bond with each other. Couples who'd been happily married for years, siblings that considered themselves close, even the relationship of parent and child usually broke when enough pressure was applied. Victims when faced with the wrack or even worse the loss of a limb would quickly subcomb to his taunting. They would plead and bargain their way to freedom even if it meant dooming their other half.
The few times he had encountered truly selfless victims he'd been able to stretch his fun out for days before at last their bodies gave out. The fact that he only came along such strength of character once out of every hundred or so victims only made it all the sweeter.
Already, he found himself intrigued by the hunter, who seemed less concerned with his own well being than he was for his younger brother. Decision made, he dropped the big kid to the ground and moved toward the figure on the bed.
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Christine groaned softly as she settled onto the hard-packed earth. As she drew the soft folds of Dean's flannel shirt about her, a hint of the young man's aftershave teased her senses. Much like the man himself, the subtle smell helped to chase away some of her fears.
Keeping her gaze centered on the window from which she'd escaped, she strained to hear any sounds that might indicate what was going on. As she sat back, leaning against the gnarled tree trunk of a leafless oak she couldn't help but worry.
Though Sam's bravery had been impressive to watch in action, she couldn't help but feel that sometimes being brave was akin to being stupid. Case in point, the young man had been gone nearly fifteen minutes now and except for an emotionally charged cry from Dean, she'd heard little else.
As her adrenaline high faded, she became more and more aware of all her earlier aches and pains. To top it off, although it was a completely selfish thought and one she wasn't proud of, she couldn't help but wonder what she would do if Dean and Sam were dead. Hurt as she was, stranded in some godforsaken bit of Kentucky, she had no clue where to go from here.
Her only real chance at survival was now chained to a bed and at the killer's mercy.
While she watched shadows flicker inside the window's opening she tried to make some sense of what she was seeing. More than once she'd seen the vague outline of what she knew was Smith moving about the room.
That meant the psycho had somehow managed to get the jump on the teen who'd so willingly gone to his brother's rescue. To think that the gangly youth, with his kind eyes and soft voice, was even now perhaps dead filled her with an unbearable sadness.
Even worse was the idea that the killer would enjoy using the teen's height to play his twisted game. The kid deserved better. Unwillingly Christine's gaze drifted toward the canvas duffle bag that Sam had left lying on the top step. It didn't take a genius to know there would most likely be something she could use to defend herself in the bag.
Another glance toward the second floor showed that the killer had taken up a position at the window. Though he wasn't facing outward, Christine couldn't help the shudder that wracked her frame. Again her glance darted toward the bag with longing.
As much as she was afraid to break cover, the idea of having something more substantial than her indignation to fight with was damn tempting. Plus it only served to reason that once Smith had finished with his latest victims he would begin his search for Christine and Julie.
With a pang for her lost friend, Christine clumsily gained her feet and began to make her way toward the house.
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Relief washed through Dean as he noted the steady rise and fall of his brother's chest. He wasn't sure why the killer had let the kid go, but he had a feeling it was a major case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. It didn't take much to realize there was nothing benevolent in the killer's act.
Sam hadn't been freed, Smith was simply changing tactics. A glance toward the corner of the room, where an axe sat leaning up against the wall, had Dean wondering if in the end his younger sibling wouldn't end up wishing he'd succumbed to Smith's choking.
With little else to look forward to, Dean comforted himself with the fact that from now on at least Smith's intended victims might find themselves slightly more suspicious upon meeting him. No longer could he claim to be even the least little bit human.
Though his skin had finally stopped smoking, the damage the shotgun blasts had done was apparently permanent. With the right side of his face largely untouched, the left side looked all the more horrific in comparison. The shot had shredded the flesh along his cheek and jaw, showing bone, teeth and at times even tongue through the gaping holes.
Topping it all off was his ruined left eye. The eyelid and socket had been caught by the blast as well, unblinking and opaque, the eye bulged slightly making the killer look even more crazed.
As the creep came closer, Dean kicked out with his free leg hoping to catch the bastard with some force. The creature easily danced out of the way, his grotesque grin never slipping from his face.
"You'll be glad to know I'm giving you a reprieve," Smith declared in the same tone of voice one might wish you a happy birthday.
Unsure of what the killer had in mind and completely confident he didn't want to know, Dean growled back, "You touch him and I will kill you."
This time Smith's silver-haired head tipped back as he let out a bellow of laughter. "That's funny, you'll kill me."
With another glance at his still unmoving brother, Dean quickly switched to bargaining. "Listen do what you want with me, but set the kid free."
"You're willing to trade your life for his?"
With his heart now pounding in his chest, Dean leaned forward as much as his aching hands would allow and met Smith's teasing gaze. "Yes, set him free."
"Oh, this really is going to be fun," Smith crowed, his formally handsome face lighting up with joy, "But, I'm going to have to decline. I just couldn't break up such a matched set."
Disappointed but not surprised, Dean set himself to defending both his brother and himself to the best of his ability. "Fine then, you fugly bastard, bring it on."
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Julie heard the rumbling growl of an engine long before the car came into sight. The only question was if it was the car she was hoping for. Sam's plan that she find his father, or well allow his father to find her, was all well and good. However, the youth had failed to mention what she should do if after two hours of waiting she found no one.
Now as the sound of the engine grew louder she was left wondering what she should do. Flag down the car on the hopes that it was John Winchester, and risk dragging someone else into this mess, or hold back and chance missing the boys' father altogether.
Since the constant gnawing fear that she'd sent both brothers to their death was only growing stronger, Julie chose to act.
Figuring that she was two for two so far, she broke cover and made for the road. Acting quickly, before she lost her nerve, she darted into the oncoming path of the vehicle.
With a familiarity that was scary, she heard the squeal of breaks and found herself blinded by a set of headlights. At first rigid with fear, she only allowed herself to relax once the car ground to a halt only a foot away. Forcing her eyes open, she released a pent up breath and waited to see if she'd done the right thing.
"Son of a bitch!"
Blinded by the headlights, she could only just make out the shape of a man getting out of the big vehicle. Long strides carried the dark figure quickly to her side. She couldn't help but shrink back as he loomed over her, his face at last coming into sharp relief in the bright light.
Dark hair, a couple days scruff, and a growling countenance did nothing to reassure her that she'd made the right decision. However, his penetrating stare that made her want to confess every sin she'd ever committed, quickly convinced her that she'd found the right man.
Though Dean's darker edge was softened by his youth and his lighthearted approach, she'd witnessed first hand just how deadly the twenty year old actually was. Even Sam, with his baby-face, had shed all pretense of softness when he talked of the danger his brother was in.
"What the hell were you think-"
"You're John Winchester?" Julie interrupted, already confident of his answer.
The dark haired man's face showed no surprise that Julie recognized him, another sure sign that she'd picked the right car. Instead, he studied her, his gaze drifting from the tape that held her arm immobile to the tire iron still gripped in her right hand.
"Where is he?"
More than ready to let this man, who was probably only a couple years younger than her own father, take over Julie answered readily, "Sam said I should lead you to them."
This time the flash of emotion passed too quickly for her to understand it. "Sam's here?"
Guilt over involving his youngest son in this nightmare infused Julie's face with a hot flush. "He went after Smith two hours ago. He told me you were on your way."
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Ready to curse his youngest to hell and back for ignoring his orders, John reached out grabbed the girl's good arm and began tugging her after him. At least, he told himself as he wordlessly shoved her toward the open driver's side door, the teen had faith John would show at some point. Winchester figured he ought to be thankful for even the smallest of miracles.
As he motioned for the girl to move over, he slipped into the truck and turned the key. "Where the hell are my kids?"
The kid, eyes open wide in fear, turned to him and stammered, "...I...told you...Smith has them."
Drawing on what little patience he had, John prompted her, "And who the hell is Smith?"
As the girl launched into a breathless explanation, filling him in on what he'd missed so far, he found his panic increasing. Just how his boys had managed to stumble into such a mess was a mystery to him.
He sometimes wondered if there wasn't a big old bulls-eye tapped to his boys back. A target that was so large it tempted every last bit of bad luck to take a shot.
If the bad luck was limited to either just Sam or just Dean he could almost understand it. After all, some people were simply more apt to find trouble. However, the fact that both his boys seemed inflicted made him wonder if it was something he'd done.
He wondered if by trying to keep them safe. By making them stronger, faster, more observant and less likely to back away from a challenge, he'd also made them more prone to come up against the evil that seemed to lurk around every corner. He couldn't help but wonder if they would have been safer living life in the world of normal.
Though as he listened to the babbling of the young girl beside him, a woman who was so obviously unaware of the danger that marked the world, he couldn't help but take courage from the fact that at least when they stumbled across trouble his boys were prepared to meet it head-on.
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"Sammy, dude, come wake up. Sam!"
The sound of his brother's voice, overloading on pure panic, was enough to bring Sam awake in a hurry. Every one of his aches and pains, including the fire in his throat took a backseat to Dean's fear. If he'd been a bit more with-it he would have realized that only one thing had ever been able to get just such a reaction from his overprotective sibling.
As he forced open his eyes, he found the reason for his brother's panic.
Sam now occupied the torture device where Dean had lain earlier. His long frame took up nearly the entire narrow bed, leaving a portion of his calves and feet hanging over the edge.
"Dean?" he questioned, his own voice cracking in fear. He would have liked to pretend waking up strapped to a bed and unable to move was nothing to get worked up over, but he found it was more than he could manage.
Short on courage, he quickly scanned the room, finding and focusing on his brother. "You okay, Dean?"
It was easy to see at first glance that there was nothing 'okay' about his brother. If Sam felt as if he'd been put through the ringer, then Dean looked as if he'd not only endured the ringer, but he'd also been hit by a Mac truck.
He was crouched on the floor, a metal cuff around each wrist holding him in place. Still wearing nothing more than a pair of boxers, blood from the raw wounds on his wrists ran down each arm only to drip off the point of his bent elbows. His chest was a mass of bruises, one of which closely resembled a boot print, and his left eye was completely swollen shut. At some point, blood had dripped from both his nose and a nasty looking gash on his temple leaving a garish trail down his face.
With a half-grimace, half-grin, Dean assured him, "I'm fine, Sammy. You?"
With his brother's one good eye doing a silent catalog of his injuries, Sam figured he should do the same. "Throat hurts," he replied honestly that one injury standing out from the rest.
"Yeah, well, the lumberjack did a number on you," Dean growled as he once again jerked against the handcuffs.
Not liking the way the metal was cutting his brother's wrists, Sam forced a smile and said, "Long as he wasn't wearing a bra and high heels to do it."
Catching the Monty Python reference, Dean visibly eased and grinned. "True, nothing scarier than a cross-dressing lumberjack."
Happy that he'd managed to distract his brother just a bit, Sam jerked his head toward the open door. "How long's he been gone?"
"Ever since I woke up," Dean replied with a grimace.
Sam could only imagine just how hard his brother must have protested their change in positions given his broken and bruised body. "Any clue what he wants?" he questioned as he ran through a half-dozen possibilities, none of them good, in his mind.
The twenty year old grimaced, his one good eye flashing toward Sam then back toward the door once more. "No idea, he's not much for monologing."
Despite his brother's quick answer, Sam had a feeling the older hunter knew more than he was letting on. As fear settled deep in his bones, his gaze again darted toward the open doorway.
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Unable to maintain eye contact with his baby brother, Dean denied knowing Smith's plans. After all, the older hunter had only guesses, and a really bad feeling, to go by. Watching the killer secure the shaggy-haired youth to his demented bed, and then reverently pick up the axe that had sat in the corner before leaving the room had left him with images that would be burned in his brain forever.
To give voice to those fears, would cause Sam to panic even more, and would only serve to make the danger more real. For the moment, the threat was about as real as Dean ever wanted it to be.
In some kind of warped Goldilocks fetish, the bastard was going to ensure that both Sam and Dean fit just perfect in his bed o' death. For him that meant being stretched to fit the wrack, an unimaginable torture that would only end once he was ripped from limb to limb. For Sam, whose long coltish legs hung a good three inches past the end of the bed it meant Smith had plans to use the axe he'd so lovingly caressed earlier.
For the first time in two years, the brother's would be the same height. The fact that they'd be missing parts of their bodies to achieve this feat made it a good bit less desirable.
What it all came down to in the end was that Dean needed to be free. Trussed up as he was with both arms shackled to the floor, he was incapable of helping his baby brother.
Twice during the bed swap he'd nearly managed to overpower the silver-haired son-of-a-bitch. For his pains, Smith had beaten him to a pulp, and strapped him down tight. Leaving him with nothing other than his shorts, the old devil had severely hampered any chance of escape.
His only resort had been his left cuff. The metal shackle was a bit loose. He could feel it wiggle when he put his weight against it. It was a long shot at best, but, given his limited options, one he couldn't afford to ignore. So for the last hour, he'd kept up a steady pressure on the handcuff, hoping beyond hope he could pull it free from the floor.
As he felt the younger boy's heavy gaze, he reassured him, "Just hang on, Sammy, Dad'll come." Sammy might not put much faith in their father, but Dean had no doubts. John would be there.
The twenty year old's only job was to make sure his brother survived until then. A job that suddenly became more difficult as Smith appeared in the doorway the now shining axe propped on his shoulder.
Dean had to give the bastard credit he was one cool character. Other then a momentary lapse earlier, in which he'd managed to curse the hunter to hell for all of eternity, Smith had kept his calm. No matter what barbs, Dean had thrown at him, he'd refused to rise to the bait. That was saying something, given the fact that the green-eyed man had spent his life perfecting the art of taunting.
Sounding impossibly young, Sam ignored the old man and asked, "You think he's on our trail?"
"I know he is, Sammy." With his gaze pinned to Smith's tall form, Dean leaned even more weight against the already weakened cuff.
As he watched Smith licked a finger and put it gently to the sharpened blade. With a smile that only touched the right side of his face, he then held up one finger for the brothers to witness. A perfect drop of blood hung suspended from the digit for only a moment before it dropped to the ground.
"Dean..." Sam called out, fear causing his voice to crack.
"It's gonna be okay, little brother, I'm gonna get you out of here," Dean vowed.
Sam was pale faced and shaking, his entire body straining against the bonds that held him. As Smith stepped closer, he began to make a low keening sound that actually hurt Dean to hear.
No longer able to bear his brother's suffering, Dean began actively jerking at the loose cuff. "Sam, look at me," he demanded, needing to offer what comfort he could.
Eyes wide with fright, his chest heaving as he tried to draw air in past his panicked lungs, Sam swung his gaze toward Dean. "Dean," he pleaded.
"Look at me, Sam, not him. Do you understand!" he insisted.
Whether it was in response to the tone of Dean's voice, or simply the fact that Sam didn't want to face Smith, the kid met and kept his gaze.
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Sam stared hard at his big brother, willing all else to fall to the wayside. Only Dean, the one constant in his life, the only thing he'd ever truly had to call his own, mattered in this moment.
"What do you got, kiddo?"
As the familiar words rushed over him, he couldn't help the stream of tears that slipped over his lower lashes and trailed down his cheeks. With a weak grin for his brother's not so subtle diversion, Sam worked to answer the question. It was easier said than done.
Determined to make his brother proud, he pushed back the overpowering image of Smith and his axe, and instead focused on his brother's bright green gaze. "He can work a glamour."
"Working that witch angle, huh. Knew he was a bitch."
Dean's statement was followed by solid 'thunk', the sound of the axe meeting wood. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Smith grinning maniacally as he wrenched the weapon from where he'd driven it into the ground.
"What else do you got, Sammy?"
Focusing once more on Dean, he frowned as he realized blood was now free-flowing down his siblings right wrist. As he caught and held his brother's gaze once more, he raised one lone brow in question. Dean's answering head shake was so subtle, Sam could almost dismiss that he'd seen anything. He could, at least, if he hadn't know his brother as well as he did.
The older hunter needed time. Whether he had an actual plan, or if he was just winging it he was asking Sam to stall.
"He knows he's going to die. Isn't that right, Sammy?" Smith teased as he hefted the weapon to his shoulder.
More than ready to get Dean the time he needed, Sam growled, "Consecrated iron can kill him."
In a flash, Smith dropped his weapon and moved to Sam's side, his pale white hands wrapping around the youth's throat. "I am forever," the killer crowed as he throttled the teen.
Before the pain and lack of oxygen could make his head swim, Sam bucked once dislodging one of the psycho's hands in the process. As he drug in a burning lungful of air, he could have sworn he saw a dark shadow over the killer's shoulder.
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Christine knelt beside the open doorway and carefully peered into the unzipped bag. With a grin, she dove into the treasure trove she'd found and began pulling items out. Some seemed to be basic survival gear. Medical kit, matches, and what looked like lighter fluid. Then there was the not so normal items, a long curving knife that appeared to be made of silver, a few talismans that looked as if they'd been crafted in an Indian gifts shop, and a vial of what appeared to be dirt.
Judging the shotgun shells to be useless without the weapon, Christine went for the knife. As she hefted it in her hand, the weapon's solid weight felt good. Though she had no formal training she was pretty sure that Smith's little torture session had left her with the drive to defend herself.
Now armed and feeling slightly more in control, she turned to leave. A vague notion of trying to get Julie's Ford started playing in her mind. She'd taken only one step when a loud voice rang through the night air.
"Dean..."
Before she'd realized what she'd done the young girl had moved through the open front door and into the long hallway. It was only once she'd reached the kitchen that it occurred to her she was walking back into Smith's freaky embrace for a couple guys she didn't even know.
As memories of the pain and terror she'd already endured threatened to drown her where she stood, a slight trace of Dean's cologne reached her. The smell overpowered the cloying scent of cinnamon and apples that she now knew was just another part of Smith's pageantry.
It was the clean scent that reminded her just why Sam and his brother were in trouble. If it hadn't been for her stupidity, her smug assurance that she could handle anything, then both brothers would have had little more to do this weekend than to pick which girl to say yes to. She'd condemned them both and now she stood poised to flee, ready to leave them in Smith's psychotic hands.
"It's gonna be okay, little brother, I'm gonna get you out of here."
Dean's words drifted down the stairway, causing Julie's eyes to tear and her feet to move.
Decision made, the young girl wasted no time in making her way carefully up the stairs. Once she'd reached the top landing she eased forward spying the open doorway to the room where she'd been held captive.
This time her fear was so great black spots began to dance across her vision and she feared blacking out. Determined to do what she could, she lifted the palm of one hand to her mouth and bit down hard. The pain forcing her mind to clear.
Christine slunk to the doorway her gaze locked on Smith. The killer stood with his back to her, leaning slightly over young Sam. Ignoring the conversation that was taking place she instead concentrated on finding her chance. With both hands holding tight to the solid hilt of the knife, she waited on the balls of her feet.
Just then something one of the boys said must have triggered Smith's ire as he dropped the axe and instead dove for the boy with hands outstretched.
Acting on instinct alone, Julie plunged into the room with the knife upraised. Across the space she went, bracing herself at the last moment as she drove the silver blade directly into Smith's back.
Up to the hilt the knife slid, until only the handle protruded from between the bastard's shoulder blades. With a cry, the old man released Sam and promptly tried to grab for the weapon that now pierced him.
More scared than she'd ever been in her life, Christine tripped backward toward the open door her only thought to avoid the killer. As she watched in horror, she saw the old man stagger away from the bed and toward Dean as he still tried to reach the knife.
Just as he came within touching distance of the young man, Dean's legs swung up to deliver a solid blow to Smith's midsection. Caught with his arms behind him, the killer was unable to stop his momentum as the force of Dean's kick carried him across the room toward the open window.
She watched in disbelief as Smith's knees caught the windowsill and the crazy man tumbled out the wide open window. With a scream, the killer continued his slide, mimicking Christine's earlier fall, and rocketed right off the edge of the roof.
Stunned, and shaking at what she'd witnessed, she could only drop to her knees as her legs would no longer support her.
TBC
Chapter End Notes:
Thank you for all your wonderful reviews and this chapter is unbeta'd so any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Catch you all soon - Kel ;)