Chapter 12
Dean stared at the young woman who now knelt on the floor, her blank gaze pinned to the open bedroom window through which Smith had just disappeared. It didn't take a genius to figure out she was losing her grip on reality.
That didn't work for the hunter. With Sammy strapped to the rack, and Smith possibly still in the game, he needed Christine functioning.
"Christine," he barked, trying for his best 'John Winchester' drill sergeant voice.
The girl remained slack-jawed and staring, without so much as a flinch for his harsh tone.
"Dean?"
At his brother's anxious call, the hunter closed his eyes in weariness.
No longer was Sammy the bad-assed hunter who'd blazed his way into the room with fire in his eyes. In his place was a sixteen-year-old kid who'd been throttled twice and even now remained strapped down to a torture device.
"It's okay, Sammy," he reassured the youth. "I'm gonna get us free in a minute. Just hold tight, kiddo."
"'k, Dean," Sam rasped.
The harshness of the teen's voice caused him to wince. It was just another in a long line of reminders of the trouble they were in. Sam couldn't take much more.
"Christine," Dean cajoled trying for a more soothing tone. He wasn't surprised when the brunette continued to ignore him. At that moment, with his adrenaline still jacked into overdrive, comforting was a bit hard for him to channel.
Frustrated beyond belief, Dean suggested, "Sam, try talking to her."
More than once his baby brother had succeeded where he had failed. It wasn't surprising given his too long hair, his bony body just begging for a feeding, and the whole baby faced-earnest thing the kid had going. If the kid's success rate with senior citizens was any indication he should have no problem with the freaked-out young woman.
The teen nodded in affirmation before shifting slightly, putting the woman in his line of sight.
"Hey, Christine, it's me, Sam."
The older hunter couldn't help but roll his eyes at the girl's non-response. They really didn't have time to coddle her into action. With a wary glance toward the doorway, Dean began jerking against the loose cuff. If nothing good came of Sam's effort then at least he might be able to get one arm free.
What good it would do the battered twenty-year-old was something Dean refused to think about. Far as he was concerned, it was better to try and fail then to do nothing and die. He was a Winchester through and through and like his dad no one would ever accuse him of taking the easy way out.
888
"Hey, Christine, it's me, Sam."
Sam winced as he spoke the words. The pain in his throat had grown to epic proportions. Each spoken word or swallow hurt as if he'd swallowed glass. It was the sound of his brother once again working his cuff that gave him the will to go on.
Like a fox caught in a trap, he had little doubt Dean would be willing to gnaw off his own leg if the need arose. The fact that the need would only arise if Sam was in trouble was something the teenager had known for awhile now. His brother had long ago appointed himself Sam's keeper and it was a position he took with deadly seriousness.
So seriously, in fact, he was willing to risk permanently crippling his left hand on the off chance that he could break free.
Holding back the words he longed to say to this brother, Sam instead focused on the brunette he could just barely make out from the corner of his eye. Quickest way to get Dean to stop hurting himself would be to snap the young woman out of her daze.
Doing his dead-level best to keep his voice soothing, Sam called out to her once more, "Christine, you did good. You stopped him from hurting me."
He could only hope that reminding the woman of what she'd done wouldn't make her regress even more. "Come on, Christine, we need you. Please," he cajoled. "You've been so strong. You came back for us instead of staying safe. We need you to be strong for just a bit longer so we can all get the hell out of here."
Quickly losing heart, Sam shut his eyes as he tried to ignore the rhythmic banging of his brother's own bid for freedom. "You want to go home, don't you?"
A whisper of noise reached the teen's ears, making him tense up in fear. The idea that he might open his eyes to find Smith occupying the doorway was nearly enough to make him want to cry. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and forced his lids open.
Rather than the ravaged old man, he found Christine on her feet and swaying slightly. This time there was no stopping the tears that slipped down his cheeks unchecked.
"I want to go home," the battered brunette said on a sigh as she reached toward Sam's cuff.
888
Julie chanced a glance toward the other occupant of the vehicle and sighed. The dark, gruff, man, who'd neatly man-handled her into the warm cab of the intimidating pick-up, hadn't said a word in nearly ten minutes. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she'd somehow managed to trade the danger Smith presented for a whole new set of troubles.
With another sidelong glance, she pointed out the access road that would lead to Smith's house. "There."
John Winchester's grunt was his only response as he spun the wheel, the vehicle's momentum causing her to slide across the vinyl seats and into the rough looking man. The force of the impact caused a grunt to escape her but he made not a sound.
"Sorry," she mumbled, hating like hell the tremble in her voice as she scooted back on her side.
"My boys, are they hurt?"
At this first sign of fatherly concern, Julie felt a shred of pity for the hardened man. "Sam was fine when I saw him," she answered honestly. She didn't bother to point out the last time she'd seen the teen he'd been in hot pursuit of a killer.
Her words seemed to ease some of the tension in the older man's shoulders making her more hesitant to share what she knew of Dean.
"And Dean?"
Unable to lie, Julie answered as best she could, "I'm not sure. He ran into Smith, told me to run...so I did."
"You did right. Dean's tough."
Though his words were harsh, Julie couldn't help but notice the way his grip tightened on the steering wheel. It was obvious the man was more worried than he let on. Unsure of how to comfort him, she let it go and returned her gaze outward.
They'd finally come to the familiar road that had led her to Smith's house. As they drove in silence, she couldn't help but worry about Christine. With a prayer that her friend would be okay, Julie concentrated on locating the driveway to hell.
888
Smith took a deep breath, cringing at the sharp stabbing pain that centered in his back, and gained his feet. With one last glance toward the window he'd just found himself tossed out of, he began to lumber his way toward the barn.
As he moved, he took stock of his wounds. Though he was in no way immortal, he did have healing powers that far outshone any human. Even as he moved, the tiny pieces of buckshot that had littered his injuries were being squeezed to the surface as the tissue mended itself.
It would take some time for the scars to heal themselves completely, but time was something he had plenty of. Until then he would simply use the disfigurement to his advantage. Pity had a way of lowering people's guards, making them more willing to trust you.
As he reached the rundown building, he carefully slid inside and paused to draw a deep breath. Again a stabbing pain, centering in his back, left him gasping from its intensity. Carefully he reached behind him, his hands ghosting over the hilt that jutted from his back. Grimly, he then tightened his grip on the handle and slid the weapon from his flesh.
With a cry of pain he dropped to his knees, the knife still clenched in his fist. He took only a few shallow breaths before he began to feel the itching he associated with healing.
Ready to exact his revenge, the killer gained his feet and lurched toward nearest dirt encrusted window. Content to wait for the trio to leave the house, he kept to the shadows and waited. He hated being forced into the shadows; it had never been his style. However, if the tactic gave him the time and strength to do away with the hunter for once and for all then it would be well worth it.
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"Come on," Dean whispered under his breath as he watched Christine reach for Sam's cuffs. Without thought he straightened, putting more strain on his wrists.
"On the floor, Christine, the pick's on the floor," Sam urged, his voice breaking with fear.
The sound of his brother's weak voice had Dean straining even more. He couldn't bear to sit by and do nothing when the kid seemed so close to breaking. "Easy, Sam," he urged hoping his tone would help to still the tremors he could see wracking the teen's slim torso.
Stalled by Sam's side, Christine made no move to pick up the shining silver pick that lay near her foot. Instead, she seemed once more consumed by fear.
Frustration, pain and fear for his brother had Dean lashing out with his fist once more. To his great surprise, the cuff that held his left hand to the floor came loose leaving him to lunge forward.
Still bound by his right hand, the hunter ignored the throbbing pain in his left and reached forward to touch the young girl before him.
As his hand made contact with her shoulder, she screamed, a sound that threatened to burst his eardrums. "Easy," he cautioned as he maintained his grip. "It's me, Chris, you're gonna be okay."
A shudder ran through the young woman as she turned to face him. "Dean?" she whispered, as a streak of color dusted her high cheekbones.
"Yeah, kiddo, you did good. Now, all you have to do is give me that pick and I'll have us all out of here in a jiffy."
The idea getting out seemed to appeal to the young girl as she dropped to the ground and felt along the floor for the slim piece of metal. Without bothering to stand she held the tiny item up toward Dean.
The twenty-year old wasted no time in accepting the slim tool. "You two ready to go home?" he asked as he quickly freed his right hand. As he stood, his legs nearly refusing to obey him, he pressed his left hand against his chest.
With a gentle touch he drew Christine to her feet and carefully moved her to the side. Stepping up to his brother, he reached out and traced one finger against the bruised flesh of Sam's neck.
"Dean, your wrist," Sam gasped his pale face and shadowed eyes full of concern.
Indicating the beating Sam had taken, he shrugged and offered, "Yeah, well you're not looking so hot yourself, Sammy."
"Guess not," the kid replied as he held his cuff taunt for Dean. As soon as the youth was free, he was up and off the table as one last shudder shook his frame.
Once Sam was free, Dean wasted no time in checking out the roofline. Unsurprised, he could saw no sign of the creature. "Smith must have hit the ground. Let's man-up."
"Man-up?" Christine questioned with a slight smile.
"'Man-up' in Dean-speak means we strap on every weapon we have and see if we can find Smith," Sam translated.
The young woman drew her arms about herself and demanded, "What do you mean see if we can find him? You said we'd get out of here."
"You will," Dean assured her as he began rifling through the contents of the bag he'd brought. "Sam's gonna get you free, while I deal with Smith."
Before he could complete the sentence both Christine and Sam were shaking their heads.
"No way," Sam stated in a voice eerily reminiscent of their father. "I won't go without you."
Not ready to start a debate, Dean ignored the kid's protest as he began to draw forth what weapons he had. "Here you go," he said as he offered Christine a knife that was the near twin of the one she'd stopped Smith with.
Without looking up, he gave his brother his colt, keeping the shotgun for himself. "We ready?"
A snort had him looking up to find his brother's lips twitched up into a smirk. "What?" he demanded.
"Nothing, I'm just really looking forward to Dad's reaction when he sees you."
Just then a draft of cold air ghosted over his body causing his skin to break out in gooseflesh, a not so subtle reminder of his state of undress. "Instead of running off at the mouth why don't you make yourself useful and give me that flannel you're wearing."
With a good natured shrug, Sam began to unbutton his outer shirt. "Yeah, cause a shirt'll give you back your dignity."
Not ready to concede the kid's point, Dean moved to take a swipe at his head. Instead of coming in contact with Sam's shaggy brown mop, the youth gripped his arm.
"This looks bad."
"I'm fine," Dean offered by rote, though his wrist throbbed with his every breath.
His brother's snort made it clear he didn't believe him. From experience he knew it would be easier to allow Sam to fuss then it would be to try and put the kid off. With a familiarity and expertise that was a bit frightening, the younger man had Dean's wrist cleaned and bandaged as best as the situation allowed in only moments.
Flexing his hand, he smiled slightly at his brother. "Thanks, kid, feels better already."
"So, can we go now?"
With a forced grin Dean turned toward the brunette and winked. "I know I'm ready."
Gear at the ready, the trio left the room.
Dean took the lead, with Christine in the middle and Sammy bringing up the rear. The young woman kept tight against his back, periodically bumping into him. He had to admit after she rammed into him the second time, he found himself wishing he'd given her something a little less pokey than his second favorite knife to protect herself with.
He kept them moving, their formation tight, as he led them toward the front door. As the smell of fresh air wafted through the opening he found himself picking up the pace. No matter what waited for them outside at least he would be able to leave the tangy scent of cinnamon and apples behind. The fact that the odor was a mask for the underlying smell of death and decay only made it more cloying.
Once at the entrance, he lifted his good hand in a signal to stop and gritted his teeth as Christine rammed into him. Using his body to press the girl backward a bit, he then leaned forward and ran a practiced eye over driveway and outlying buildings. "All clear," he said as he moved into the fresh night air.
He knew there were any number of places that Smith could be hiding if the man still lived. However, staying inside the house wasn't an option.
"Do you see him?" Christine asked as she gripped the tail of his blue flannel shirt.
Gently, but firmly, he placed a hand against the young woman's shoulder and pushed her backward. "No, but that doesn't mean he's not out here."
"What're you thinking?" Sam asked in a hushed voice.
One glance at his younger sibling was all it took to guess that the youth was terrified. Even in the dark his hazel eyes shone bright, as if tears threatened to over flow at any moment. With a need that never failed to amaze and slightly scare him, Dean sought to reassure him. "It's okay, Sam, we're armed, and we know what it takes to hurt him."
Sam met his gaze for one long moment before he clenched his jaw and nodded. "Right."
Putting on his most cocky grin, Dean waggled his eyebrows. "Right."
Signaling them to move forward once more, he made his way down the steep steps and onto the macadam driveway. Ignoring Julie's car, he continued to the left until he stood directly beneath the open window through which Smith had fallen. A quick search of the area made it clear that the bastard had hit the ground hard, but had managed to get away.
Far as Dean was concerned that left them with two options. He could convince Sam and Christine to head for safety, and by doing so he could inadvertently put them in Smith's line of sight. Or they could stick together and search out the psycho, in which case they would still be in danger. Both choices sucked, but at least if they stuck together, Dean could maintain an illusion of control.
Decision made, he turned toward the other two and indicated the spot where Smith had landed. "Seems our freak-of-the-week got up and walked away. I'm thinking he hasn't gone far though."
His words leached what little color was left in Christine's face as she tried unsuccessfully to keep watch in every direction. "How do you know he didn't take off?"
"Not enough blood," Sam answered, his voice only slightly less panicked. "That knife was in up to the hilt. If he'd pulled it free here there'd be more blood."
Proud of the teen's sound reasoning, Dean agreed, "Yup, and I'm thinking he's nearby. There's no way he'd be content to just let us walk away. Not after the ass kicking he took."
"So he's watching us?" Christine asked as she tightened her grip around the knife hilt.
With a nod, Dean moved toward the middle of the driveway. There sat Julie's Focus, looking inanely normal given the circumstances. As he began to move around the vehicle, his shadows close behind him, he noted his brother's sudden intake of breath.
"What?" he questioned.
Sam frowned for a moment, his gaze moving toward the long drive, and then answered, "Thought I heard something."
Trusting the younger man's instincts, Dean looked toward the driveway and stilled his body. He slowed his respiration and movements, putting all his efforts into searching for the noise Sammy had heard. After a moment of listening he shrugged. "Don't hear anything."
The young man shook his head and shrugged embarrassedly. "Whatever it was I don't hear it now either."
"Was it Smith?" Christine asked.
Sam met Dean's gaze steadily and shook his head. "Thought it was an engine."
Hoping like hell it was their Dad ready to ride to the rescue, Dean joked, "Probably some poor lost shmuck."
Christine didn't seem convinced as she kept her eyes focused steadily on the driveway. "No it was him. It's probably a trap, he's trying to herd us in the direction he wants."
Before Dean realized what was going on, the brunette had backed into the shadows by the dilapidated barn. One moment she stood alone, her pale face a beacon in the darkness and the next there was a blur of movement behind her. "Christine," he yelled in warning though his every instinct screamed out that he was too late.
Moving faster than he'd thought possible, Sammy lunged toward the girl, screaming his own warning. Desperate to keep his brother from the killer's clutches, Dean simultaneously grabbed for the youth and fired one shot, high above where Smith now held Christine clutched to his chest. "Let her go!" he ordered as he jerked his brother back to his side.
Whether he recognized that he was outnumbered and he just didn't give a damn. Or if he really believed he was invincible, Dean had no clue, but the killer moved forward into the light, shoving the girl before him. "Stay back or I'll snap her neck like a twig."
Certain it was no bluff, Dean kept his distance, his left hand still entwined in Sam's shirt. "Just give it up Smith. You're a dead man walking."
The killer's ice cold smile never faltered at the hunter's threat. Instead, it seemed to grow wider. "Really, a dead man walking? Well now, Dean, the same could be said for you three."
Unable to take a shot while the killer used the girl as a human shield, Dean waited for his opening. "Us, naw, no way. I mean you've already had two girls and a teenager get the jump on you."
"Whose gotten the jump this time?" Smith sneered as he wrapped his long slim fingers about Christine's throat.
"Dean, do you hear it?" Sam breathed his voice carrying no farther than Dean's ear.
At his brother's words, he became more aware of a low throaty growl that was fast approaching up the drive. The calvary had arrived, and given the speed with which it was headed their way, it was pissed. Dean allowed himself one small grin as he contemplated Smith meeting his father. "We shall see, Smith, we shall see."
TBC