Stubborn Survival: Gleason's Revenge
By: Coffeemaniac
Set between 2006-2007. John Winchester has been dead a few months. It's been eight weeks since Sam was kidnapped by Mark Foster and Richard Gleason
Rated M for violence, torture, mentions of child abuse, and mentions of child sexual abuse. The violence and torture are fairly graphic, the other things are not.
Reviews are welcome and encouraged.
Part 2
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Sam failed to get his hands free. He failed to loosen any of the chains holding him in the back of the van. He managed to keep good track of the timing of the turns and directions. He was always good at that kind of thing. A useful skill if one anticipated getting free.
When the van shook and rattled to a stop, Sam let go of any hope that he had been legitimately arrested. Unless the nearest town kept their police on a muddy, dirt road, he was definitely not at a station house.
Several minutes passed while Sam continued twisting and struggling with the handcuffs. If he were free when the door opened he could defend himself.
Calm remained for the ride, for the realization of danger, and even now, for the stop, wherever they were. He didn't feel afraid, just curious. He didn't feel unprepared, just alert.
He heard the twist and clank of metal before the van doors swung open. Both sides simultaneously swept a cold forest into view that was marred a moment later by Georgia and Orange Pack. Then the third fake officer and then a fourth appeared.
Orange Pack pulled himself into the van. His face, like the others, remained covered. They still wore the uniforms of a police task force. A second one followed Orange Pack then stood back with a Glock police pistol aimed at Sam. Orange Pack released Sam's legs but not his hands. He pulled Sam to his feet and told him not to make trouble.
Sam shoved into him hard with his left shoulder knocking Orange Pack into the other man and both fell into the bench. Sam made a fast run towards the back of the van where Georgia and the fourth man were just starting to react. Sam dove into Georgia, hitting him in the chest with his body and driving them both into the mud. Sam rolled away from him and on to his feet in a move that Chuck Norris would have been proud of. He started running, wet-socked feet pummeled against stones and roots and debris. He couldn't see much in the dark but managed to avoid running into trees. Thin low hanging branches slapped at him as he passed though and then something much harder slammed into his abdomen.
Sam let out a cry of pain as he crumpled into the leaves and twigs. The ground was cold and heavy with rain as he curled into himself trying to get his breath back after the devastating blow. A moment later, boots appeared at his head and then more joined in.
"That worked," one of the faceless said and lifted his mask. Sam squinted, not believing that George Bentley was standing there.
"You haven't lost your touch," another of the faceless said and Sam rolled over to look at him. His mind denied what he heard. The toneless volume with its touch of smugness swept through him like a nightmare. Bentley lost importance. Richard Gleason's ex-security chief was just another face compared to the new one.
When Mark Foster pulled the mask down to reveal himself, Sam's stomach turned. He wanted to run just as much as he wanted to stab Foster in the face. Scrambling backward, Sam shoved up on to his feet trying to keep Foster in view. His heart pounded in his ears. Emotion overplayed common sense and Sam took a running start, prepared to murder his tormenter. A moment later he yelled out in frustration when multiple people grabbed him and pulled him back. A jolt to the back of his knee and Sam knelt on the ground. Strong hands pushed on his shoulders and neck.
"You're on the losing end. Again. Just stay down and listen to me," Mar said.
"I will kill you," Sam said. The promise was unmistaken in his tone.
"Today, you won't. And all the posturing is a waste of time for both of us."
Sam forced a breath into his lungs. "What do you want? Where's Dean?"
"I want you to bring back Richard Gleason."
Sam replayed the words because they didn't make any sense to him. He looked closer at Mark Foster to see if he was hearing him. Sam attempted a shrug but the grip on him remained painfully tight. That didn't change his sentiment.
"Richard Gleason is dead," Sam said. "Heart attack. Remember?"
"Yes, I remember. And I remember that it didn't matter," Mark said.
"His body is burned. His magic necklace is destroyed. He's not coming back ever again. If we're lucky, he's in hell right now."
A blow to the head sent a cascade of pain through Sam's skull and for a moment there was nothing but black tinged noise. He closed his eyes to let the noise fade and get control of the pain. He couldn't pass out, not when he needed to escape.
"Don't be disrespectful," Mark said.
"There's no way to bring him back," Sam said, ignoring the roll of nausea through his stomach.
"You know how to do these things. I didn't understand what a 'hunter' was before but I do now. And I know that you're capable of spells and potions and concoctions. I know that you're not held by the laws of life and death the way the rest of us are."
"You're wrong. When we destroy the earthly remains that hold a spirit then that spirit goes away. It doesn't come back."
"I don't believe you."
"I don't care," Sam said.
Mark turned his back. He walked a few steps towards the trees. Sam watched him, fighting to keep his head up but the weight on his neck and the pounding headache made it difficult.
Several moments passed in silence before Mark returned to Sam.
With a sigh, Mark said, "Then I don't need you."
The cock of a weapon broke into the silence.
"Wait, wait," Sam said, panic and fear filling him as he expected a bullet.
"Take him to the estate," Mark said.
"No," Sam said. He spent plenty of time getting beaten and tortured at the Gleason compound. He wasn't going back.
Mark stared at him. Sam felt like he was being examined with x-ray vision. He surged up, hoping to dislodge the hands on him but they just pushed harder and he winced at the pressure.
"There's someone who wants to meet you," Mark said to Sam then turned to the fake police entourage. "Take him."
A boot to the back and Sam sprawled onto his stomach. With his hands still bound he fell flat. Before he could scramble his legs underneath him, he was dragged up by his arms and hauled back towards the van. Without the pretense of being police, Orange Pack and the other men gave up following any protocol. Two of them lifted him bodily and tossed him on to the metal floor. When Orange Pack tried to grab his legs to secure them again, Sam kicked viciously which also served to propel him further from the door making him harder to reach.
"Leave him," Orange Pack said.
Sam stayed curled up long enough to see the doors close and hear the turn of the lock. Then he put his head down. Staring towards the metal ceiling he wondered where Dean was and he remembered the Gleason estate. Sam hadn't seen much of the interior. He had been held in the barn and in the cellar and he'd been in a mud room once. But, he remembered the look of the imposing house sitting like an evil specter holding the rest of them in its gaze.
He only stayed still for a moment. He allowed the fear to hit and then he worked on gaining control of it. Mark Foster had tortured him for days. The memory of hanging in the barn, in agony and starving haunted him. The constant anxiety while he waited helplessly for Mark to return and resume hurting him remained in the weeks since. Winchesters didn't suffer from PTSD, knew that his father would have told him to "button it up" but Sam struggled. So, he worked hard at keeping the fear and the flashbacks to himself.
But, as he lay in the bottom of a fake police van, hurtling towards another stint at the Gleason estate, Sam was galvanized by his need to escape. He wouldn't allow it to happen again. He twisted his body to the side, curling and contorting until he was sitting up. He reached around behind him, using his fingers to scrabble at the ankle buckles that were bolted into a bar at the base of the benches. He twisted his wrists and ran cold digits over the cheap leather until he found the metal pin that held the buckle in place. He held his breath while he carefully used it to fit into the handcuff lock.
Just as he got everything lined up, the truck engine fired with a grumble and the vehicle lurched forward. Sam lost his grip. He cursed then started scrabbling again until he could repeat the process. The bumps and turns of the dirt road made it nearly impossible as he tried to keep the pin in the handcuff lock. His wrists and fingers ached while the muscles in his arms protested but he kept working.
He was not going back to the Gleason compound.
When he felt the click of the lock releasing, Sam grunted with the freedom. He didn't take the time to pick the second lock, just left the handcuff dangling while he staggered to the metal door of the truck. The vehicle continued rumbling under his feet at a steady pace but they were not on dirt any longer. Sam knelt in front of the mechanism that would open the door. It was a simple lock with a sliding hasp and for the first time Sam could see clearly that it wasn't a police van. They hadn't stolen anything. They had merely put together a reasonable facsimile.
Sam grabbed one of the ankle cuffs and yanked but it wasn't going to come loose. He moved to the end of the rod that held all of the restraints. He was surprised when the bar was merely a tension rod. All he had to do was give it a couple of turns and the rod fell free which allowed him to drag it up to the padlock holding the door.
Feeling the pressure of time, Sam twisted the rod around until he could use another buckle and took a breath. His hands were shaking. He was cold and coming down from the adrenaline rush. He needed to calm down or he'd never get the lock open.
"Okay," he said and started working.
A few moments later the lock fell open and he unlaced it from the hasp.
He stopped to assess the van. He heard the asphalt against the whining tires. He guessed they were traveling at least 45mph. If he leaped on to pavement, he'd likely break his neck. If he leaped into oncoming traffic, he'd break more than that. There was no good "tuck and roll" for hurtling out of a moving vehicle.
Taking another precious moment, Sam screwed the rod back into place. He gave it several good, hard turns before wrapping his fist around the bar. Stretching with his other hand, he pushed the locking bar over, releasing the door lock. Like magic, the heavy metal doors flopped open letting in a gust of rain and cold wind that made Sam's breath catch. He kept his grip on the floor bar to keep from falling out and made his decision.
There was no traffic. The road was asphalt surrounded by trees on both sides.
He let go of his tether and fought his way to standing. The van rocked and threatened to tumble him out the door. He steadied as much as possible then took another breath.
"This is going to hurt," he said just before he leaped at an angle hoping to land on the side of the road and not in the middle of it.
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Dean Winchester jolted awake. One moment he hung in the cocoon of painless dark and the next he was sitting up and groaning at the pulsing ache in his head. He touched the left side above his ear and found drying blood.
"Hey, man, there's an ambulance coming. Just relax."
Dean squinted in the direction of the voice expecting to see the masked cops who knocked him out. Instead a young, blond man huddled close by while another stood over him. The second one was Hispanic looking.
"What? Who are you? Where's my brother?" Dean said.
The blond shrugged. "I'm Ricky Jay Lewis and that's Frankie Panduro. We're actors. We're doing a play downtown. A couple guys offered five hundred bucks…"
"Each," Frankie said.
"Each," Ricky said. "If we pretended to be cops and come in here.
Dean twisted his body and planted his hands on the bed. With a push, he lifted himself off the floor wishing his head would stop pounding for a moment.
"Why?"
"They said it was a prank, a joke or something," Ricky said."After they got the other guy out of here, they told us to leave. They paid us outside the door."
"But, it didn't seem right anymore," Frankie said. "So, we hung out, kind of waited. They loaded the other guy into the back of that fake police van. When they left we came back to check on you."
As Dean reached his feet, a streak of dizziness swept through him, almost taking him down again. The two men reached for him, helping as he planted his legs and took a couple long, slow breaths until the moment passed.
"Where were they taking him?" Fear wrapped a firm hold on Dean.
"We don't know know," Ricky said.
"They pulled out of the parking lot and went east but that was ten minutes ago," Frankie said."Hey, uh, you want some clothes?" At the question, Dean realized that he was barely wearing a motel room towel and nothing else.
"Yeah, my bag is at the end of the bed there."
Frankie picked up the right duffle and tossed it on the bed.
Adrenaline made a grand entrance as Dean started piecing together information. A bunch of fake cops had kidnapped his brother. The pain in his head took a vacation while he dug clothes out. Ricky and Frankie started for the door.
"Wait, stay," Dean said. "So, how many actors were there?"
"Four," Ricky said.
"No, five," Frankie said. "That one guy."
"Oh yeah," Ricky said. "I forgot about him."
"I counted four on me and four on Sam, right? So eight minus five actors, right?"
"There was a couple more that didn't come in," Frankie said. "You probably got five real guys who set this up."
"Did you get any names?"
"The guy who hired us was a dude named Bentley, um, George, right?"
"Yeah, right," Ricky said.
Dean stopped for a second as he slipped his shirt on. His body tightened. "George Bentley? Was there a Mark? A Mark Foster?"
"I didn't hear that name," Ricky said.
"Me either," Frankie said.
Dean pulled on his boots and stood up. "Thanks for your help." He walked past the two men. "East, right?"
"Right," Frankie answered.
Dean ran out to the Impala forgetting about them now. He needed to get on the road and find the fake police van. Just knowing that it was heading east wasn't much but he was familiar with the area and there was only one main road out of town. He also knew that if George Bentley was involved then he had a likely destination to head towards.
As he pulled on to the road he dug out his cell phone and dialed.
"Yeah, what?" a gruff voice said when the ringing cut off.
"Bobby, Sam's gone. It's Mark Foster again. Son of a bitch," Dean said, yelling out in frustration.
"Foster's in jail. What are you talking about?"
"I don't know. Call that sheriff and find out. I got a couple guys here telling me that George Bentley hired them. If Bentley is involved then it has to be…"
"Foster. Right. Okay. What are you doing?"
"Heading to Cayuga. It's got to be where they're taking him."
"I'll call the Sheriff. You be careful and keep me informed."
Dean disconnected the call. He couldn't understand what Mark Foster would want with Sam. The Gleason's were all dead. If he wanted revenge then he just had to kill both of them at the motel. And why wasn't he in jail?
The narrow two-lane highway curved through the woods on either side. Still wet and puddled, Dean forced himself to keep his speed down. Wrecking the Impala wouldn't find Sam any faster. Driving past him wouldn't help either. Clouds kept the moon and stars hidden and the road dark. Only a few lights stuck out and those were dull yellow creating a murky view. Dean's head and neck throbbed from where one of Foster's people clobbered him and he wondered if some of the cloudiness of his vision was related to the injury.
He stayed on the same road. Every instinct he had told him the fake cops would take Sam to Cayuga. He drove for a long time. At least it felt like a long time before tail lights caught his attention. Flaring on the side of the road, he counted two vehicles on the shoulder. Dean cursed, his insides tensing as he pulled in behind them.
He climbed out and jogged passed the other two vehicles. He counted three people standing and a woman looked up from where she knelt on the ground.
"Are you with emergency services?" The woman said.
Dean shook his head. "No."
"There's an injured man here. Do you have any training?"
Dean approached. A jolt of cold fear stabbed him when he saw Sam lying on his back, eyes closed, not moving.
Dean circled the woman. She was pretty in a plain way and looked about ten years older than him. He knelt by Sam's side. He gave him a cursory exam, seeing blood on his face and tears in his clothes.
"Sam," Dean said. He patted his cheek.
"You know him," the woman said.
"He's my brother…is he?"
"He's alive. I'm a nurse and I can tell you that he's breathing very well, his pulse is strong. There are no open fractures."
Dean blew air out of his lungs. "Sam," he said. "Sammy, come on, wake up for me."
Dean looked at the woman and then at two men still standing there. "Did anyone see what happened?"
One of the men, maybe late fifties scratched his bald head. "I was driving behind this big truck-looking-thing and the back door just flung open. It startled me so I slowed right down. Didn't know what was going on, you know? Anyway, that boy there, your brother, he just threw himself right out that door."
"He what?"
"I didn't have my lights on and it took me a second, but then I went up the road apiece and did a u-turn and came back."
"We weren't far behind him," the woman said. "My husband saw movement and he thought it was a deer…"
"Yeah, I just figured it was a deer or an elk," the second man said."But then I realized what it was so we pulled right over to help."
"Can I move him?" Dean stared hard at the woman to gauge her answer.
"I wouldn't recommend it. If he has any sort of injury, you could make it worse."
"Do you see any injury that means I shouldn't move him?"
She shook her head, looking helpless and worried. "No, but that doesn't mean anything."
"I have to get him out of here. He jumped out of that truck for a reason."
"Police and rescue should be here any time," the woman said.
Dean didn't want to make a decision. He looked at Sam who still lay silently unmoving except for the air filling his lungs.
"We're going," he said. Dean looked at the two men. "I need help getting him up."
"You could do some damage," the nurse's husband said.
"So could the people he's running from."
The bald man shrugged. "Just don't sue me later, all right?"
Dean would have lifted Sam alone if he needed to. He'd done it before. But, having help made the process faster and smoother. Sam hadn't gotten any lighter over the years and it took some effort to lift him up.
The nurse and her husband didn't help but they didn't interfere. Within a few minutes, the bald man and Dean had half-dragged, half-carried Sam to the Impala and managed to shove him inside. It wasn't graceful but Dean pulled him from the driver's side and got him all the way in. The bald man situated Sam's legs. Through it all, Sam stayed unconscious.
The nurse appeared at Dean's side. He was sweating, breathing hardand scared that Foster and his cohorts would return at any moment.
"Let me just check him one more time before you go," the nurse said.
Dean stood back while the woman took Sam's pulse and did some other medical things. When she stood up, she gave him a weak smile. "He seems about the same. I'm not a doctor but he's been unconscious a long time. I would take him to a hospital."
Dean nodded at her then took one last glance at Sam before getting back behind the wheel of the Impala and doing a fast U-turn on the highway so he could head back to their motel. He didn't like the idea of returning there but all of their stuff was still in the room. He had to grab it all before he could take Sam someplace safe.