Chap 8

The forty minutes John had spent waiting for the grey sedan to return had been some of the longest of his life. He had been fairly certain Derrick Williams would have no reason to recognize him, but that wasn't enough to risk Sam's life. So it had been Jim Murphy that had gone to meet Derrick and collect Sam, while John sat in the impala, hands literally quivering while waiting to hold his youngest son.

Pastor Jim parked behind the impala, instantly out of the car John had appropriated. John meanwhile left the impala and sank to the ground, reaching for the bound bundle the pastor was extracting from the sedan.

"You put my baby in the trunk...." John's comment barely reached his old friend's ears.

"I didn't think getting pulled over with him like this was the best idea, John." The pastor settled Sam into his father's arms, aware the other man no longer heard him.

"I gotcha Sammy, I gotcha. Shhh. It's okay. Shhh. I gotcha." John desperately fumbled with the blindfold over Sam's eyes, finally tugging it and the duct tape over his mouth free.

"Dad???"

"Awwwh, Sammy. Thank God. Shhh. I gotcha." John rocked his son in the circle of his arms, sitting in the dirt beside a forsaken back road, planting a silent kiss on top of his head. He reluctantly let go of him with one hand just long enough to slip a knife from the sheath at his wrist, quickly slicing through the tape at wrist and ankles before gathering his child even further into his lap. How could we possibly have come to this?

Jim waited several minutes, watched as Sam snuck his arms around his father's neck and began to sob into his shoulder. After the first word to his dad, the boy hadn't spoken again. While this route was remote, there was no guarantee another car wouldn't come by. Time to get them moving.

"John?"

"John? Come on. Let's get him to the motel, get a real look at him. John?" The pastor extended a hand that went unseen. He finally tapped the elder Winchester on the shoulder, startling him into motion. Jim found himself holding the keys to the impala for the first time he could recall as John settled Sam in the backseat, prying the child's fingers loose from his neck to get him there.

Thirty minutes later John was kneeling beside the bed in the most recent of the endless string of cheap motels in his life. His youngest child occupied the bed in question, curled on his side and staring at his father. The tears had stopped somewhere in route, but not before John had shed a few of his own. Taking a deep breath, he lifted the edge of Sammy's shirt, grinding his teeth at the bootprint bruise still evident there. He shifted him enough to strip him out of soiled garments, looking for any other signs of injury. Aside from a few scattered marks across his shoulder blades, the kick John already knew about seemed to be it. He suddenly realized he was still holding that breath and let it out it. It didn't take much imagination to guess what could have happened in three days with Derrick Weaver. Blessedly Sam had no idea.

"Sammy, come on son. Sit up a little more, you need to get some water in. Sammy?" John held the cup for the first few sips, relieved when his son took it himself. Now for the hard part. "Sammy? I wish we could take this at your pace son, but I need to ask..."

Sam licked his cracked lips and interrupted his father. "Dean..."

"Yeah, Sammy, I need to know about Dean. Do you .... please kid......do you know where your brother is?"

"I.. I d-don't know where. A basement, in a big house I think. He's hurt, Dad. He.. He tried to fight with them so I could run away. I shouldn't have left him there, he wouldn't leave me..."

John closed his eyes at the word hurt, then schooled his features into what he hoped was reassuring. Dean was far more adult than a typical eleven year old, but no one was adult enough to be kidnapped, hurt, and alone. "None of this is your fault Sammy. You can help me, though, can help your brother. This house, is it Derrick's house?"

"No. I was asleep at first, but Dean said the witch was in charge. The other men work for her, I guess. Abigail Williams."

Hunting instincts were beginning to function again and John hadn't missed his son's hesitation on the word asleep, nor the subconscious reach of fingers for the side of the slim neck. He pushed Sam's shaggy hair aside and spotted the pin pricks he had overlooked initially. His son had been drugged. Shit. There was going to be hell to pay.

"A witch? Did you see her, Sammy?"

"Y-ye-yes sir. She's not like I thought. Kinda pretty, and rich maybe? She said... Dad she said she'd killed Winchesters before, and that it was Dean's turn. She can't g-get Dean, can she? What'd she mean before?"

John had no idea what the witch meant about before, but a pretty, upper class witch was sadly familiar. Betty Parris didn't fit the green warty nosed hag profile either. "No one is killing your brother, Sammy. You just gave me a lead." John scooped his keys off the nightstand, unnecessarily raising his voice to speak across the small room. "Jim, stay with Sam. I'm going after Dean."

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Dean lifted his throbbing head from the stone floor, trying to shake his memories into order. He was talking to Abigail, then fighting with Derrick, then…. Oh no. No. No, no, no, no, no. Sammy…..

He let his forehead drop back to the cold floor. No real point in getting up.

He had no idea how long he'd been there when he became aware of the footsteps. The sharp click against the floor echoed throughout the hallways. Abigail, then. Unless Derrick and Bill had a thing for high heels at least.

"Dean. Get up, boy. Clean yourself up for dinner." Abigail sat a pan of water down on the floor next to his unmoving form. "Dean?" She turned him onto his side with her foot, pleased to see his purpled eyelids flicker. "Good, you are still in there. Afraid for a moment that Derrick had screwed up again and killed you. Shame about little Samuel, don't you think? He was never supposed to be here; that didn't leave me much choice. You, on the other hand I need upstairs for dinner tonight, so you can stop laying there like a lump and make yourself presentable."

She waited a few more minutes, regarding the bloodied child at her feet. Third day here and he looked awful. Maybe she should have had Derrick bring him some food and water, but it had seemed like such a waste. "I can tell you're awake, Dean. Now get up."

He answered without opening his eyes, voice hoarse. "Don't care for beef stew."

"So you are listening to me." She crooked a finger at him, lips curling into a smile when he lurched to his knees. "I can make you, Dean. Shall I take care of the rest or will you?"

Dean grunted as his body moved on its own, responding to her bidding. Guess smothering someone wasn't her only talent. "Leave me alone! I'll take care of myself."

The smile widened. "See that you do."

Dean sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. Sammy was gone. Nothing mattered now. Nothing at all. The witch, whatever she had planned, none of it was important without Sammy to watch over. He still thought his dad would come, but that didn't matter either. Dean couldn't face him. Not when he'd failed the only thing John ever asked of him.

Which brought him back to cleaning up for dinner. What had Abigail said to him yesterday? Or maybe it was the day before that now. Carrots for the beef stew, just another check box on the ingredients list? Maybe if he just gave in and cleaned up, put on the neatly folded clothes at the end of the pallet, this would all come to an end. He shrugged out of his blood stiffened shirt and pulled the pan of water closer, grunting when icy cold met his fingertips. Figured. Unwanted survival instincts kicked in, a third of the water disappearing down his throat before he considered the layer of grime.

His teeth were chattering by the time he was reasonably clean, but he didn't particularly notice. Sammy. Sammy's gone. Only a few more hours living without Sammy. Sorry Dad. I'm so sorry. He pulled the black trousers on, mechanically fumbling his way into the starched white shirt and jacket. Under other circumstances, it would have struck him as ridiculous that he was putting on a tuxedo sized for an eleven year old boy in a witch's dungeon. As it was, it was just another thing on the doesn't matter list. She's gonna kill me....Over soon, Dean. Over soon.

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Abigail yanked the silver handled brush through her tresses, venting frustration as she swatted a few errant strands from the peach silk of her robe. She spotted William reflected in an ornately carved mahogany mirror, but elected to ignore him as she continued her assault on her appearance.

"Abby." A throaty undertone conveyed far more than a mere name. "I doubt your hair is the source of all that much trouble, love. Besides, you're as beautiful as the first time I saw you, centuries ago. What are you worrying about?" He swept the locks in question aside, trailing intimate kisses down her neck.

She slipped away from him with an impatient sigh. "Mary Winchester."

"Hmm. Not the answer I expected." He resumed his kisses, shifting the robe to bare a shoulder. "Thought she was dead."

"That's the problem. She's dead and John's still head over heels in love with her. Derrick is such a fool!" She slammed the brush down on the dressing table hard enough to mar the polished wood.

"Love life I'm willing to discuss, but why theirs?" He slipped her robe the rest of the way to the floor, eyes raking over the cream flesh beneath as his kisses travelled lower.

"William! Do you not see the problem here? I'm assuming you'd rather not be dead in the next few months. Besides, to keep the coven powerful, I need to restore our number to thirteen. I can't complete either spell without killing Dean Winchester. And thanks to Derrick's blunder in bringing Sam here, the other Winchester heir is already dead."

"You wanted revenge on John for killing Betty, what better revenge than killing both boys?" He tried to no avail to lead her toward the elegantly curtained bed they shared.

"Idiot. I think playing 'stupid Bill' for the hired help is starting to affect your brain. I wouldn't have set you to spying on the others if I'd known your mind would go to mush. Of course the revenge is perfect, but three generations from now, I need to kill the next Winchester in the line. And there isn't going to be one."

William stopped his not so subtle flirting. "No cousins or what not? Not on their mother's side either?"

"None that hunt. Only hope now is for John to have another child and drag that child into the hunt. He still wears his wedding ring, William. It's not going to happen." Abigail pulled her robe back on and opened the mirrored closet to stare at her evening gowns.

"So what do we do?"

"We don't do anything. I finish this evening as originally intended, then get a little fun out of giving Dean's bones to John. Betty was always my favorite cousin, ever since that girlhood prank in Salem. I owe John for killing her. After that, I'm not sure."

"Abigail, three generations from now is a long time. We'll think of something. Now pick a dress and I'll go fetch the boy. I doubt he's seen a bowtie, much less tied one, likely to need some help."

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Dean had allowed the one named Bill to tie the white silk around his neck. Felt like a noose. The cufflinks had been a foreign object as well, but at least they hadn't brought any unbidden imagery to mind. For the first time since his arrival, Dean was led back up the stone stairs and out of the flickering torch light.

Nearly days without water had taken their toll and he found himself being helped up the stairs and into the marbled hallways above by Bill and Derrick. Every instinct told him to pull away from the older men, but those instincts weren't going to help anything now. Doesn't matter. Sammy…

The swirled grey and white tiles between his shuffling feet gave way to glossy polished black as the hall opened into a massive ballroom, the near end filled with polite laughter, cocktail bearing waiters in short waist coats, and guests in elegant gowns or white tails like his own. Dean lifted his head a bit as he was pulled along to a gleaming table at the far end, gold linen tablecloths off setting fine ivory china and cut crystal stemware. Ordinarily, he might have been embarrassed at being paraded in front of the crowd as they briefly interrupted their dancing to stare. Of course, ordinarily, he hadn't let someone kill Sammy. He let his eyes trail back to the floor.

The forest green lettering of the place cards mockingly labeled the third chair from the end Dean Winchester's in charming calligraphy. Not that that wasn't relatively obvious as this was the only chair with a shackle at each ankle and the left wrist. Chair was fastened to the floor as well. Doesn't matter, Dean, over soon. Over soon.

An hour passed as the party continued around him, guests slowly filtering to the banquet table. The dresses were of a number of formal styles, but unlike the previous evening, all but two were black. Abigail wore a strapless gown of deepest plum, signature amethyst again around her throat. The youngest woman of the group was also distinctively dressed in a high necked, long sleeved dress of pure white. Some posterior segment of Dean's brain supposed there was significance to that, but the majority of him couldn't come to care.

Abigail finally came to the head of the table, inclining her head for silence at the string quartet to her left.

"Ladies, welcome again. I hope you enjoyed last night and this evening thus far. We have a lovely dinner prepared, and then as you know we have business to attend to. I believe most of you have met our guests, but allow me to make introductions. Muriel, would you stand please?" She nodded as the white clad young woman stood briefly. "Muriel Carson will be initiated later tonight as the thirteenth member of our group, restoring us to a whole missing since Betty's death." Everyone was silent for a moment. "You may sit, dear. I find the other part of our evening especially fitting as a memorial to Betty. It is time to renew the life of our circle with the life of a hunter's child. For Muriel's benefit, each circle is tied to a specific family of hunters, in our case, the Winchesters. Since John Winchester took Betty from us, I will particularly enjoy taking Dean from him. Forgive Dean if he doesn't stand; I'm afraid I thought he might try to leave before dessert." Polite laughter twittered among the other witches. "Dean, we'll be having dinner before we get to your part of the evening, please feel free to join us. Derrick," she looked over her shoulder to where her lackey stood waiting, "perhaps you could select some items suitable to a young man's palette?"

Dean hadn't intended to pay any attention to being displayed for the amusement of the gathering, hadn't intended to listen to a single word. Didn't mean to formulate an escape plan, or a way to fight Abigail. Somewhere between the lobster and tomato salad and the bananas foster, however, a trickle of anger started to seep into the overwhelming doom of being without Sam. Sure the loud voice in the front of his mind still hammered let it be over, over soon, over soon, you've got nothing without Sammy, again and again. But the smaller voice in the back was starting to gain ground. "Nothing without Sammy, as in nothing to lose."

A/N -- Well , the last chapter was buy one, so I guess the next one will have to bring us around to get one.... Anyhow, you don't think that little voice in Dean's head is going to let him just give up , do you? Brownie points for anyone with anything to say about the witches names. Hope you enjoyed it, I'd love to hear from you. A.