PUPPETMASTER
SUMMARY: As Sam recovers from knee surgery, he's hit with violent visions that will, ultimately, put both Winchester brothers' lives in jeopardy. Set mid to late Season 2. The story follows the events of Bridging Two Solitudes and Grave Consequences.
RATED: T for some cursing, including the occasional f-bomb.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. They belong to the dastardly Eric Kripke. Once again, I am encamped in his most awesome sandbox, playing with the incredible characters he created.
A/N: First, an apology for the later-than-planned posting. Initially, RL got in the way then the site wouldn't allow me to upload. Fingers and toes crossed, there will be no more delays. Again, a huge thanks for all the lovely reviews, guesses and comments – I've had an absolute blast reading them. A great big hug to all of you. To my betas, the Always Amazing A's – Ann and Amy – this story wouldn't be half what it is without your input, encouragement and occasional butt-kicking. Any remaining goofs post-beta can be blamed on my chronic tweaking. A big thanks, too, to Heather for the medical info which launched this story. Enjoy!
CHAPTER 7
Sam froze at Dean's directive.
"Do it now, Hilts."
He stared at the phone in his hand, his chest tightening when Dean's phone clattered as it was dropped, that noise quickly followed by the sounds of a fight. Sam launched himself to his feet, the chair toppling over behind him as he lunged for the door, every instinct telling him to help his brother.
But training and Dean's warning quickly took over and his hand stilled on the doorknob. He leaned forward, forehead resting against the back of the door as his heart pounded against his ribs. It was the FBI. If the feds had his brother, he'd be of more use to Dean working to free him from the outside than stuck in a cell next to him, but it went against every instinct to stand there and do nothing.
Phone still pressed to his ear, he heard his brother's voice but this time it was slurred and distant. "Listen fellas. We got off to a bad start. How about …ow."
Sam listened frantically for any further word from Dean, any coded directive or clue that would tell him where he was being taken. But Dean said nothing, and that scared the crap out of him. When Dean was cornered, his smart mouth kicked in without fail. If he was silent, something was seriously wrong.
Sam's knuckles whitened as he slammed his fist against the door in frustration. He strained to hear the voices on the other end of the phone as they moved away from Dean's dropped cell.
One suddenly came through clearly. "Get him in the car before someone sees us. I'll call in; tell them we've got the first one. And go grab his phone."
First one. Sam's stomach dropped as he jabbed at the button to end the call. "Hilts" was Winchester shorthand for, "Get the hell out – now. Lay low. Meet up later when it's safe." Dean believed that the men who had ambushed him would be after Sam, too. And based on what the stranger had just said, his brother was right.
Sam slid along the wall to the window, keeping himself hidden as he pushed aside the edge of the curtain to survey the motel parking lot. A large dark sedan was pulling in from the road, its occupants hidden behind tinted windows. The car slowly drove toward the brothers' room, rolling to a stop just behind the Impala before backing into a parking space on the far side of the lot. The passenger-side doors both opened and two men, each wearing a dark suit and sunglasses, stepped out.
Sam stared at the sedan and the approaching men as warning bells went off in his head. "Get him in the car before someone sees us." Why the hell would the FBI care about being seen?
Sam's stomach flipped again. Because they weren't real feds. He dropped the curtain and turned back into the room. His eyes darted back and forth as he weighed his limited options; with bad guys outside, escape via the front door and the Impala were off the table. His gaze jumped to the bathroom, and the small window he knew opened into the alley behind the motel.
Sam jammed his feet into his sneakers, shoved his phone and his wallet into the pockets of his jeans and darted into the bathroom. Forcing open the window, he checked quickly to make sure it was clear, then hauled himself through, dropping easily to the alley below. Glancing around warily, he slid the window closed and took off at a run.
Moments later, when the men in suits burst through the door, they were greeted by an empty room.
xxxXXXxxx
Dean peeled open his eyes, only to snap them shut again as intense, bright light sent pain spiking through his head. He twisted his face away from the light, his cheek scraping against cold concrete. He scowled when he realized he was lying on the floor.
His heart was beating too fast, pounding painfully against his chest. His mind was working too slow, responding sluggishly as he tried to figure out where he was. He lifted his head, groaning audibly at the vertigo the movement caused and quickly dropped his forehead back to the floor.
Dean licked his lips. His tongue felt thick and fuzzy, his mouth like it had been packed with sawdust. His scowl returned when he tried to push himself up and his arms didn't respond, then deepened further when it clicked that they were pulled behind his back, tied at the wrists. "What the f..."
His eyes slid open, the harsh light further fuelling his headache and making him feel sick. He swallowed against the bitter taste of bile, breathing out slowly, as he squinted against the light and tried to take in his surroundings, but it was hard to make out anything beyond the light and the concrete floor he lay on. Maybe Sam knew what the hell was going on.
Sam.
Dean's head snapped up, watering eyes frantically searching through the blinding light for any sign of his brother. He rolled over, the movement causing his headache to spike and his stomach to lurch but his focus was solely finding Sam. The memory of the ambush on the street returned suddenly, of being tackled from behind, fighting with the men in suits and a needle being jabbed into his neck. But Sam wasn't with him. His brother had stayed behind while he went out to get breakfast.
Dean rolled forward, pressing his forehead into the cold concrete. He'd been on the phone with his brother when the men in suits showed up. He'd told Sam to rabbit. Sammy, if you didn't listen, I am so gonna kick your ass when I see you. He swallowed. Whatever deep shit he was in, he could handle it a lot better if he knew Sam wasn't in it with him.
But the better option was to get himself out of this mess. Dean pulled angrily at his restraints, wincing as hard plastic bit into skin. Cable ties. Fuck. There was a reason these cheap little bits of plastic were favored by both sides of the law – they were a bitch to get out of.
Dean's feet moved instinctively as he thought about the ankle holster holding his silver knife. He swore softly, first at the memory of his attackers patting him down and taking away the knife, then at the realization his ankles were tied too, bound by another cable tie. And his feet were freezing. Crap. They'd taken his boots, his socks, even his plaid shirt, leaving him with only his jeans and t-shirt.
Who the hell had grabbed him? Dean squeezed his eyes closed, trying to think through the drug-induced fog that filled his head. One of them had flashed a badge – FBI. He snorted. That meant squat; he and Sam had a dozen just like it stashed in the cigar box in the trunk. And given the way he'd been drugged and trussed up, not to mention the light right out of some '50s gangster flick, these guys definitely weren't feds.
Dean groaned as he tried to sit up, the groan turning into a grunt as a booted foot suddenly collided with his chest, shoving him back down on the floor.
Shit. How out of it was he that he hadn't even realized there was someone in the room with him? Grimacing, he tried again to sit up but the foot remained on his chest, the pressure behind it intensifying to force him down, pinning Dean's arms painfully between his back and the floor.
"Get off me," he spat out, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. He peered upward, fighting to see the face of the bastard who had him pinned, but his captor was in silhouette in front of the searing light. Given his bulk, however, Dean guessed he was one of the goons he'd tangled with on the street.
His captor's foot remained pressed against his chest.
"I said, get off," Dean grunted. "Or do I need to use smaller words?"
The pressure on his chest lessened momentarily before, in a blur of movement, the foot swung back and kicked him viciously in the side.
Dean bit back an involuntary cry. "Son of a bitch." He screwed his eyes closed as pain exploded across his ribs, knees curling into his chest reflexively. He spat out bile then glared up at his captor. Still the man didn't speak. "What the f…"
The booted foot was back, this time pressed against Dean's throat, cutting off his protest and his ability to breathe. Dean coughed, choking against the pressure. Consciousness dimmed but he was vaguely aware of his captor flipping open a phone and the electronic beeping of a pre-programmed number cycling through.
The man said only two words, "He's awake," before clicking the phone shut.
xxxXXXxxx
Sam pulled the car up to the curb and slid the gearshift into park, allowing the hot-wired Ford to idle for a moment before pulling the wires. He hunched down in the seat as he stared across the street at their motel.
The dark sedan he had seen earlier was still parked opposite the Impala. Its occupants were either inside the car, hidden by the tinted windows, or lying in wait inside the room.
Sam pulled out his phone, gave it a quick glance as he thumbed through the list of numbers, his attention jumping back to the motel as he hit send and lifted the phone to his ear. "We're in trouble." He blurted out the statement the second the phone stopped ringing. "Dean's gone. They took him."
Bobby was instantly on alert. "Who took him?"
Sam slid down further in the seat while still maintaining eye contact with the motel. "Not sure. I was talking to him on the phone. Sounded like the feds cornered him. Then they came after me."
"Henricksen?"
"No. They were fakes." Sam drove his knuckles into his temple, trying to push back his building headache. "I called the FBI field office from a payphone as soon as I got clear. Henricksen and Reidy are on a case in Maryland, and the bureau has no operations in this part of L.A. today." He slammed his fist into the side of the car door. "I should have gone after him. Then I-"
"…would be in the same mess Dean's in. What good would that do?" There was no accusation in Bobby's tone, just worry. "Where are you now?"
"I boosted a car and doubled back. I'm parked opposite the motel. The guys who came after me are still here, waiting in case I come back, I guess. If they leave, I can follow them."
"Not without a plan you won't."
Sam glared at the car across the street. "The plan is to get Dean back."
Bobby's voice stayed level. "I know you're worried, Sam, but you gotta keep your head straight, think of this as a case. If it wasn't your brother missing, what would you be doing right now?"
Sam's left leg bounced with nervous tension. Bobby was right; he was thinking with his heart, not his head. Again he slammed his fist into the door. "I'd be running the plates to find out who these SOBs really are."
"Good. Gimme the numbers."
Sam craned his neck and squinted across the road. "California plates B9G 7X4."
"Hang on." Sam could hear Bobby crossing the room, then firing up his computer. He heard the faint clacking of keys, the impatient drumming of fingers, then more keystrokes. Bobby's voice softened. "How you holdin' up, son'?"
"How d'you think?" Sam's tone was far sharper than he intended. "Sorry…it's just…I need …"
"…your pain-in-the-ass brother back." Bobby sighed. "Goes without sayin'. What about, Gaston – symbol still workin'?"
Sam ran his fingers absently over his chest where Dean had drawn the protection symbol. "I think. No voices, but my headache's building again. It's like…" Sam pressed his fingers into his temple. "… like he's outside the door, pounding away, just waiting for it to give." He swallowed. "What if I can't…what if he..."
"Screw what if." There was a quiet strength to Bobby's tone that Sam latched onto like a life preserver. "Just keep fightin' ' til we figure this out."
Sam screwed his eyes closed as pain knifed through his head. "Gah..." He dropped the phone, slamming the heel of his hand to his temple.
"Sam?" Bobby's worried voice cut through the pain. "Damn it, boy – answer me."
Before he could, another familiar voice resounded through Sam's head.
"Help me."
Sam pressed his forehead against the car window. "Who…are you?"
"Stop him."
"Tell me…gah." Pain spiked again and then, off in the distance, he heard the low rumble of menacing laughter. It was Gaston.
At the sound of his voice, Sam's eyes snapped open and he yanked down the neck of his sweat-stained t-shirt. Between his sprint from the motel and the building heat inside the car, he was sweating heavily. The bloodmarks on his chest were smudged and broken.
"What the hell's goin' on, Sam?" Bobby's voice came from the dropped phone on the seat beside him.
Sam fumbled in his jeans pocket for the penknife he'd used to strip the wires and boost the car. "Blood marks are wearing off. Gaston's trying to break through."
"Replace 'em, now."
"Already on it." Sam flipped open the knife and dragged the blade across the tip of his finger, creating a shallow cut. Again pulling down the neck of his t-shirt, he used the blood to recreate the marks he'd carefully redrawn after his shower, then held his t-shirt away from his skin as the blood dried. As it did, the pain faded and Gaston's laughter fell away. He exhaled slowly. "M'okay…he's gone."
"Symbol still intact?"
"Yeah." Sam dropped the knife and picked up the phone. "Please tell me you've found a way to shut out this bastard for good."
Sam heard Bobby's chair creak as he sat back. "I got about five different ways… but every one requires destroying the physical link.
Sam stared down at his knee. "And that means cutting out the graft."
Bobby's voice softened. "Hey…I'm just getting started. I-"
"If that's what it takes, Bobby, I'm okay with it." Sam swallowed. "But what about the others, huh? The person who got the corneal transplants, or those with skin grafts..."
"Like I said, Sam: I'm not done by a long shot. If I can't find a ritual to protect you and Gaston's other victims, maybe there's one to neutralize the puppetmaster himself. 'Til then, that symbol will hold." There was a beeping behind Bobby's voice. "Okay, according to the DMV, B9G 7X4 belongs to…I'll be damned."
"What?"
"That car is registered to DGS Shipping."
Sam's voice tightened. "Durrell?"
"I'd say so. Somehow he's tied you two to his former partner's killing spree. I'd put money down that he knows he's high on the hit list and he wants answers."
Sam glanced over at the motel. "Dean's not gonna give him any – not ones he likes, anyway."
"Yeah." Bobby sighed. "But if Dean spins'em a line, it should at least buy us some time to find him."
"Come on, Bobby. You know what Dean's like when he's cornered." Sam's stomach churned when he thought about what Durrell's men might do when his brother's smart mouth kicked into high gear.
"I know. But, right now, he's more useful to them alive."
Sam tapped his fist against his leg. "As long as they think he'll give up information."
"Or draw you in. You said they came after you, too, so they know he's not working alone. If they can't get what they want from him, they'll want you. And the best way to do that is to dangle Dean as bait."
Sam eyes flashed. "So we cut to the chase. I contact them. We-"
"Hold on," Bobby cut in. "No way-"
"They've got Dean. I'm not gonna sit here and do nothing."
"I know. But the only way we get him back and both of you walk away in one piece is with a plan."
Sam glared at the sedan across the street. "So let's come up with one."
xxxXXXxxx
Dean's already blurry vision grayed further as his captor's booted foot pressed heavily on his neck even after he hung up the phone. Dean was struggling to breathe, losing his tenuous hold on consciousness, when a door opened in a dark corner of the room, the light from the hallway beyond framing a second man in silhouette.
The boot came off his neck suddenly and Dean coughed and wheezed as he sucked in air greedily. He squinted to get a better look as the second man moved closer but the only detail he picked up from his vantage point on the floor was the man's shiny, expensive shoes.
"Any news on the other one?" Shiny Shoes' voice carried an arrogance that clearly said he was the boss.
"Motel's under surveillance," Boots replied, "but the kid hasn't shown up. I think this one warned him."
Dean snorted. Good boy, Sammy. Got the hell out of Dodge before these jackasses showed up.
The snort earned him a kick to the lower back. He grunted, biting his lip as the pain radiated down his legs, up his spine and through the fingers of his bound hands which had absorbed part of the blow. But it hurt a hell of a lot less knowing his captors didn't have Sam.
"Where's your partner?"
Dean peeled open his eyes, peering up at the silhouetted figure in front of him. "What partner?"
Shiny Shoes bent down, his cruel mouth and lightly stubbled chin suddenly visible inside the light. "Tall, geeky kid…long dark hair – sound familiar?"
Dean cleared his throat and shook his head. "Nah, not my type. Me? I'm into blue-eyed blondes, about chin height, nice rack. Redheads are awesome, too. So are – gah."
He paid for the wisecrack with another kick to his back. His jaw clenched as glared at his hidden captor.
"Let me rephrase the question: Where's your brother?"
Dean fought to keep his voice even. "Don't have a brother."
This time Shiny Shoes kicked him, the pointed toe of highly polished Italian leather driving hard into his gut. Dean grunted, then wretched, wishing more than anything he'd had a chance to eat the breakfast he'd bought so he had something to puke all over those expensive shoes. He spat out bile, as close to the shoes as he could, before glaring again at his captor.
Shoes chuckled softly, reaching into a manila envelope he carried and pulling out a large piece of paper. As the paper was shoved in his face, Dean forced his eyes to focus, realizing it was a photograph – a photo of him and Sam walking down the L.A. street outside T.J. Renton's office. A red grease pencil circle was drawn around the brothers. "This spark your memory?"
Dean's heart rate sped up but, outwardly, he simply glared upwards, breathing heavily as he shrugged. "Nope. Busy street. I got no control who walks beside me."
The man pulled out a second photo, again shoving it in Dean's face. This one was of the brothers in Scottsdale, walking toward the judge's house. "So it's just a coincidence you were walking beside the same man, in a different city, a day earlier?"
Dean smile hid a growing worry. "They say everyone has a twin somewhere."
Shoes calmly tucked the photos back in the envelope. "You've got a smartass answer for everything, don't you – Dean?"
Dean's heart ratcheted up another notch at the use of his name, but the only noticeable change in his façade was his smile morphing into a smirk. "Pretty much."
Shoes shook his head. "And Elias with such a short fuse. Must make for an interesting working relationship…although him being where he is gives you a certain degree of protection."
Dean's eyes darted from one silhouette to the other at his captor's words. They thought he worked for Gaston.
Realization hit suddenly: Durrell – these men worked for Gaston's former partner. That had to be it. Through the photos they'd linked the brothers to Gaston's killing spree. But there were a lot of players involved; chances were they'd grabbed him to find out just how all the puzzle pieces fit together – and how many more hitmen they had to worry about.
Dean closed his eyes, fighting the drugs in his system to think clearly. Durrell's men wanted Sam, they'd made that clear, but was he just a loose end, or something more? Did they know how his brother was really connected to Gaston?
Shoes seemed to read his thoughts. "Where's your brother, Dean? We'd really hoped both of you could join us."
Dean's stomach flipped again. "Told you, don't have a brother."
Shoes stood up, tucking the tip of his shoe under Dean's cheek to tilt up his head and make him look up at him. The menace in his soft voice was unmistakable. "I wanted to do this amicably but you seem determined to piss me off." He pulled his foot back. "We'll get Sam, one way or another – and it'll be a lot better for your little brother, and you, if I'm not in a bad mood when we do."
Dean glared up at Shoes. "Go screw yourself."
The words had barely left his mouth when Shoes' foot reared back and swung forward, the pointed toe of his expensive shoe connecting viciously with Dean's cheek. Dean's head snapped upwards, sending a spurt of blood into the air. He was unconscious before his face fell forward, slamming into the floor.
xxxXXXxxx
"…so, depending on traffic, the dockyard's about 15-20 minutes away. Smart money says that's where they took him." Bobby paused when there was no response. "Sam?"
"I'm listening." Sam rubbed his temple distractedly. "It's just…just now, when Gaston tried to break through, the second voice was back too."
"Asking for help again."
"Yeah." Sam frowned. "He's been saying the same two things over and over in a loop – 'stop him' and 'help me.' But…what if I picked up the loop halfway through? What if he's saying 'Help me stop him.' I mean…" Sam shuffled in his seat to ease a leg cramp. "I've sensed from the beginning that he wasn't a threat but now…I'm thinking he doesn't want my help, he wants to help us."
Bobby sighed. "Doc said there were 20 other transplant recipients connected to this. It's gonna take time to figure out which one he is, especially when we've got just four words to work with."
"I know. He's part of this puzzle…" Sam cleared his throat, leaned over and began riffling through the glove compartment. "…but Dean's the priority. We get him back, then we worry about Gaston."
He sat back when he found a pen and a piece of scrap paper. "Okay, gimme the directions to the dockyard.
xxxXXXxxx
"Get him up."
Dean groaned as he was grabbed under the arms, hauled up and dropped roughly onto a small wooden chair. Unprepared for the sudden change in elevation, he toppled forward. A hand grabbed the back of his collar, stopping his fall. He grunted involuntarily as his bound arms were jerked roughly upwards and looped over the chair back.
Dean's chest rose and fell rapidly as he hung forward on the chair. His right eye refused to open, swollen shut by the kick to the face, and the vision in his left slid in and out of focus. He swallowed, fighting the nausea churning in his gut, and shot a weak glare at Shoes. "Son of a bitch," he spat out, the right side of his mouth swollen, too, making speaking difficult. "Untie me…let's see how… tough you are."
Shoes laughed softly, pulling up another chair and placing it in front of Dean. He turned the chair backwards, straddled the seat and lowered himself down, resting his forearms on the seatback. His voice was soft but his friendly tone lacked any sincerity. "I have no doubt that, in a fair contest, you'd give either of us a run for our money." He laughed again. "But you're a smart guy. Even in your current state, I think you've figured out we have no interest in playing fair."
Dean stayed silent, still weighing up the situation. He blinked to try to bring his limited vision into focus, concentrating on the man in front of him. Shoes was about Dean's height and of similar build but his voice sounded older. He was wearing dress slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, dark hair on his forearms. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie loosened. What he looked like beyond that though, Dean couldn't tell; his head and shoulders were lost in shadow created by the light still shining directly in his face.
Shoes voice was calm, still falsely pleasant. "So, Dean…you don't mind if I call you Dean? I could be more formal but do I use Winchester, Hagar, Young, Plant? You see my problem."
Dean's heart skipped a beat at that but, again, he said nothing.
Shoes chuckled. "Don't tell me we kicked the smartass right out of you?" He shifted in his chair when there was still no response from his captive, his voice taking on a slightly mocking tone. "Perhaps I'm being unfair. Are you not feeling well?"
Dean was teetering in his chair, would have fallen if the ropes weren't holding him in place, but anger helped him focus. "Bite me."
Shoes laughed softly again. "That's more like the Dean we were expecting." He leaned forward, the lower half of his face moving out of shadow, revealing even, white teeth behind the cruel smile. "Look, I apologize for that kick to the face earlier. You're not the only one with a temper and, I'll admit, sometimes mine gets the better of me. Not one of my best traits."
The legs of the chair scraped on the concrete as Shoes pushed himself to his feet. "I should have remembered that Mickey and his boys shot you full of a pretty powerful sedative when they picked you up. I'm sure your brain is still feeling a bit scrambled, so why don't we blame that for your lack of co-operation, huh?" Shoes was behind Dean now, off to his right, in the shadows. "Let's start fresh."
Dean grunted as a meaty fist punched him in the back of the head, the blow snapping his head forward so his chin collided with his chest. His already blurry vision grayed out before slowly sliding back into focus.
Dean's breathing was rapid and shallow, his chest heaving as he glared straight ahead, but he said nothing. He licked his lips and swallowed, suddenly needing all his concentration simply to hold up his own head.
Shoes came into view again seconds later, this time holding a syringe and a small vial of liquid. He sat down on the chair in front of Dean and proceeded to punch the needle into the vial and slowly draw back the plunger.
"You and Sam, you're pretty good at covering your tracks but, with all due respect to Mickey and his boys, finding you certainly wasn't thanks to any stellar detective work on their part." He chuckled. "That black beauty you drive is a little conspicuous. We tracked that, were on our way to pick you up and there you were, just walking down the street." Shoes pulled the needle from the vial and depressed the plunger on the syringe, forcing out the air and a tiny bead of liquid.
Dean heart was racing. He struggled harder to free his hands, grimacing at the bite of hard plastic into the soft flesh of his wrists. He blinked as Shoes' silhouette blurred, his eyes burning under the glare of the spotlight. It took all his remaining energy just to keep them open.
"You fading on me?"
Dean again heard the squeak of wooden chair legs on the concrete floor and was aware of Shoes moving quickly towards him. With no further warning, his head was pushed roughly sideways and the needle jabbed into his neck.
"Fuck." His breathing quickened with the sharp stab of pain. He screwed his eyes closed but the burning where the needle had been inserted subsided quickly. It was replaced by a strange tickling sensation in his abdomen, like something was growing rapidly in his stomach, its tentacles slowly crawling up his throat, through his arms and down his legs, fighting to break free. His eyes snapped open and he ground his teeth as he glared up at Shoes, wanting nothing more than to free his hands so he could reach over and rip his tormentor's head from his neck.
Shoes just smiled at the fury emanating from his captive. "That should wake you up. We can't sort out our little Gaston problem if you fall asleep on me." He tousled Dean's hair in a false gesture of comfort that turned the elder Winchester's stomach.
Shoes handed off the used syringe to the unseen Mickey and again sat down on the chair in front of Dean.
Dean could feel tears from his watering eyes leak down his face as he glared at Shoes but he refused to turn away. "Bast-" He bit off his curse as the drug's prickling sensation exploded suddenly into an euphoric warmth, dulling pain and neutralizing his anger. His vision cleared, his heart-rate picked up, beating faster and faster until it was thumping a staccato rhythm against his ribs. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breathing keeping time with his heartbeat. The fog that had filled his head since he'd come to on the concrete floor, and thickened with the kick to his face, cleared suddenly.
His senses were suddenly acute. Dean could feel his pupils dilate, could hear water dripping somewhere in the room, each drip echoing off the concrete walls as it hit the ground. He wrinkled his nose at the stale scent of cigarette smoke – menthols – that clung to Boots. No. Not Boots – Mickey. That's what Shoes had called him.
He canted his head toward Shoes, breathing in deeply. Shoes didn't smoke, but he wore aftershave. Expensive stuff, too. Dean tried to gesture at his captor but the pull of the plastic ties reminded him that his hands were still bound behind his back. He knew he should be pissed but all he could muster was mild annoyance.
He stared down at his captor's expensive shoes for a moment, then lifted his head, offering Shoes his most charming smile. "Look, I think there's been a big misunderstanding here. What say you untie me and we start over?"
Shoes chuckled. "You've been less than co-operative since you arrived, Dean. Why should I believe you?"
"'Cause I'm feeling much better now." Dean shrugged, his smile widening. "And I'm smart enough to know things are gonna go a lot better for me if you and I can be friends."
Shoes again rested his forearms on the back of the chair, absently tapping his fists together. "There's nothing I'd like more. But friends have to trust each other."
Dean nodded amicably. "Yup. Gotta know they've got your back in a sticky situation." He leaned toward Shoes as far as his bonds allowed, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And what we've got here is about as sticky as a fucking glue factory."
"True." Shoes leaned forward, the lower half of his face dropping into the light. "So, wouldn't you feel better if Sam was here, where you could watch out for him, keep him safe?"
Dean started to nod, then stopped, smiling as he shook his head. "You tricky son of a bitch."
Shoes' thin lips twisted into a bemused smile. "Come on, Dean. Like you, we're worried about Sam. If he's out there, following Gaston's orders without his wingman, who knows what might happen to him. It's pretty clear your employer doesn't care about collateral damage as long as the target's taken out. Is that what's Sam's doing? Going after his next target?"
Dean groaned as his stomach dropped suddenly, like an elevator with its cable cut, as his abdominal muscles cramped viciously. The pleasant warmth that had enveloped vanished, leaving him shivering. He swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea, then glared at Shoes, anger building rapidly over the drug-induced head games his captor was playing. "What the fuck did you give me?"
"Just a little pick-me-up." Shoes sat back and folded his arms. "Your metabolism's impressive. I was hoping we might get a little more information before you crashed but, oh well."
Dean leaned forward again, breathing heavily as the pounding in his head built to a crescendo. He swallowed, then directed his attempt at a glare toward Shoes. "Before we're done here, I'm gonna rip those shoes off your feet and feed them to you."
Shoes laughed as he pushed himself to his feet. "That's more like it. I was beginning to think the man paled next to the reputation." He held out his hand and Mickey placed a file folder in it. Shoes opened the file and began flipping through the papers. "I'm gonna save us both some time and effort here, tell you what we already know so you don't waste your energy manufacturing that bullshit you're renowned for."
He read from a page in the file. "Your name is Dean Winchester, although, as we established earlier, you have a host of aliases – as does your younger brother Sam, despite his brief stab at respectability as a Stanford law student."
Any residual effects of Dean's high dissipated with that statement.
Shoes turned a few more pages in the file, whistling softly. "I have to say, you two are definitely creative. I think faking your death after the St. Louis murder is my favorite, although Mickey here is kind of partial to you and your brother breaking out of Green River Detention Center." He chuckled. "He'd love to know how you did that; file it away in case he needs to bust out some time."
Dean's heart rate edged up another notch.
Shoes flipped another page, shaking his head. "It's too bad you chose to work for Gaston, Dean. We could have made good use of your skills. I mean – murder, robbery, insurance fraud, grave desecration…love that last one." He closed the file suddenly. "Tell me – does Gaston pay extra to dig up bones and God knows what else for that black magic bullshit he's into these days? I mean, come on – there's gotta be better ways to make a living than digging up stiffs."
Dean snorted, not missing the irony that he'd often thought the same thing. "A man's gotta do, what a man's gotta do," he muttered, as he processed the information Shoes had laid out. Dean had played this game plenty of times, and from both sides of the table. His captor knew way more about the brothers than he should, but he was still fishing.
On the flip side, Dean now knew that the man didn't believe in black magic. His words and the inflection of his voice when he'd asked about their grave-digging had both been genuinely condescending. And if he was a non-believer, odds were that he didn't know how Gaston was really connected to Sam.
Shoes stepped forward, his Italian leather loafers once again visible in the light. "We know Elias is behind the hits on the judge, the prosecutor and the jury foreman. We know that all the hits were undertaken by amateurs – all Joe Averages facing huge medical bills after lengthy hospital stays. If I had to guess, I'd say Elias promised to pay off those bills, all the little things the damned insurance companies won't cover, if they did him one small favor. Am I right?"
Dean glared in the direction of Shoes' voice, but said nothing. As he hoped, Shoes took his silence as confirmation.
"Of course, he never had to pay because each of his hitmen conveniently got themselves killed taking out their assigned targets." He chuckled. "Elias always was a cheap bastard. Part of me wonders whether he ever planned to pay up, or whether he would have taken them out himself if they somehow survived."
Dean pulled against his bonds, using the bite of plastic on skin to help him focus. In Sam's vision, one of Durrell's men had taken out the jury foreman's killer. They had likely tried to grab that killer to get the same answers Shoes was seeking now, but had lost the chance when Gaston forced his puppet to attack, getting him shot in the process. It also explained why they'd come prepared with a sedative when they'd grabbed him off the street. They weren't about to make the same mistake twice.
Shoes again sat down on the chair in front of Dean. "And that brings us to you and your brother. See, we're a little puzzled over how Elias managed to recruit you and these men. We, how shall I put this, monitor all his usual channels of communication in and out of that prison and there was no mention of this latest little campaign. I'm embarrassed to say it took us by surprise." He leaned forward, angry, dark eyes briefly visible before disappearing back into shadow. "Made us look bad in front of our boss, Dean. You can see why that would make me unhappy."
Dean gritted his teeth. Durrell obviously had paid informants among the inmates and staff at Pelican Bay. No doubt, he was the bankroll behind the inmate who had stabbed Gaston and put him in the hospital in need of a liver transplant – an attack that had subsequently set his latest plan in motion. But if they believed black magic was just a bunch of bull, from their perspective the attacks would have come out of left field.
Shoes was still pacing. "Then we got the photos of you and Sam in Arizona and in L.A. We do a little digging, discover your colorful past and, what do you know: Sam was recently hospitalized, too…reconstructive knee surgery at –" Shoes again flipped open the file he held, "Stanford Medical Center." He whistled softly. "Nothing but the best for your little bro, huh? But tell me something." He snapped shut the file. "How do two itinerant petty criminals with insurance fraud already on their record, swing surgery and a month's worth of rehab at one of the country's top hospitals?"
Dean shook his head, frantically trying to clear the fog rapidly shrouding his thinking. They'd hidden their connection to Doc; he was sure they had. God knows he didn't want her dragged into this mess.
Again misreading Dean's silence as insolence, Shoes now sounded pissed. "So, did Elias offer you the same deal, huh? To pay off Sam's medical bills if you orchestrated this little vengeance campaign? Acted as his go-between? Do the clean-up afterwards to make sure nothing ties back to him?" Dean again heard a rustle of papers as Shoes paced behind him. "All Sam's bills were paid through some mystery foundation. Looks to me like a front for Gaston's money, 'cause, let me tell you, Fort Knox could learn a thing or two from the security protocols protecting it."
Dean groaned as his stomach cramped viciously. The foundation was one Doc had helped Pastor Jim set up years earlier to help hunters in financial need get the medical care they needed with as few questions as possible. It was funded by money obtained through often questionable means in the course of a hunt, and the occasional grateful, wealthy client. Given most of the injuries hunters suffered were of a violent nature sustained in mysterious circumstances, the foundation remained low-key and carefully protected the identities of both benefactors and grant recipients. If Shoes' people had been poking around and were repeatedly stonewalled, he could see how it might seem like a cover for Gaston.
Outwardly, he just shrugged as he turned his head toward the sound of Shoes' voice, frowning as his vision slid out of focus.
"Whatever." Shoes moved again in front of Dean, pacing back and forth through the pool of light on the floor. "But it does bring us to the point of this meeting. What I need to know, what you're going to tell me, is what else Elias is planning – and how."
Dean shuddered, a chill gripping him like a spirit had suddenly entered the room and was standing right next to him. He looked around, blinking against the light and breathing out to see if his breath frosted. He frowned when it didn't, the frown deepening when he realized his legs were shaking noticeably, bouncing enough to make the chair legs scrape against the concrete floor.
"Dean?"
He opened his eyes to find himself staring again at Shoes' expensive loafers. He was hanging forward in the chair, only his bound wrists stopping him from ending up on the floor. With a groan, he lifted his head, glaring into the darkness. He was shivering violently, his shallow breathing audible.
"Oh dear. Now comes the rough part."
Dean bit his bottom lip to stop it trembling but that just emphasized the harshness of his breathing as he inhaled and exhaled rapidly through his nose.
Shoes patted Dean on the shoulder in mock sympathy as he walked by him. "I'm sorry to say, the trip down can be…rocky. Things are gonna get a whole lot worse before they get better."
Dean yanked his shoulder away from Shoes' hand, almost tipping his chair in the process. He was shaking noticeably now, his chair rattling against the concrete floor. He blinked rapidly, his bound hands clenching and unclenching.
Shoes placed his foot on the seat of the chair in front of Dean, and rested his elbow on his bent knee. His face stayed hidden in shadow. "Now, you cooperate, and I might be able to give you something to make you a little more comfortable.
"I'll keep it nice and simple. We need three pieces of information: one, how are you communicating with Elias? Two, who's been given the hit on Mr. Durrell? And three, when's it supposed to go down?"
Dean said nothing, his harsh breathing and the rattling of his chair the only sounds in the room.
Shoes sighed. "One more chance, Dean."
Vertigo caused Dean to almost pass out as he lifted his head to look up at Shoes. He shook his head, a vain attempt to clear it, then smirked weakly. "Don't suppose you'd buy Gaston's using black magic to astral project himself out of prison and psychically take control of innocent schmucks, forcing them to kill for him?"
Dean's head snapped to right as Shoes punched him in the face, the man's gold signet ring carving a gouge in his left cheek. Dazed by the blow, Dean wavered on the edge of consciousness. His head rolled forward, his chin dropping to his chest. So much for telling the truth. He grimaced at the taste of blood, spitting to get rid of it. "Guess not."
Without warning, Mickey grabbed his hair and yanked his head backwards. Dean found himself staring into Shoes angry face, for the first time getting a clear view of the hard, dark eyes and hawk-like nose that topped the cruel mouth. Shoes was in his fifties, his dark, wiry hair close-cropped and receding at the temples. If Dean had ever doubted this man was a killer, one look into his eyes erased it.
"I wanted to do this civilly, Dean," Shoes said quietly, "but no. You had to push me. You're really not gonna like what I do next." He motioned with his hand to Mickey, who passed him a cellphone. He played with buttons for a moment before the phone disappeared into the shadows as he lifted it to his ear.
He chuckled when someone answered. "Hey, Sam."
xxxXXXxxx
The sound of computer keys clacking came over the phone. Bobby exhaled as he studied the plans he'd called up. "There's a main warehouse/office building and two subsidiary warehouses that all belong to DGS. It's a lot of ground to cover, but-."
"Don't care. It's better than just sitting here." Sam tapped his fist impatiently against the steering wheel. "Where's the best place to-" He frowned as the call waiting beep sounded, then paled when he saw the name displayed. "I've got a call coming through. It's Dean."
"Careful, Sam. May be his phone but no tellin' who's usin' it."
"I know." Sam ended one call and answered the other. "Yeah?"
"Hey Sam."
Sam's stomach lurched, his heart beating faster. "Who is this?"
A low chuckle came over the phone. "Who I am is irrelevant. What's important is I'm with your brother."
Sam felt like a hand had reached inside his chest and was slowly squeezing his heart, but he fought to keep his voice level. "And I'm just supposed to take your word for that?"
"Not at all."
There was a pause, the sound of someone being hit and then a very familiar, very pissed-off voice. "You son of bitch…"
The man laughed again. "I don't think Dean cares much for our company."
Bile burned in Sam's throat. "You leave him the hell alone."
The stranger sounded amused. "Look, all I wanted was a nice little chat but your brother's been…difficult."
Sam frowned. The more the man spoke, the more he was sure he'd heard his voice before. "What the hell do you want?"
The stranger sighed. "Information…that's it. We know you're working for Gaston, we know what his grand plan is, but we're missing a few details. So, I propose a straight-up trade – those details for your brother."
"Sam, don't you fucking dare. You pull a Scully on me, I'll-" Dean's shouted warning was cut off by the sound of another punch.
Now Sam's voice was low and dangerous. "You want any cooperation from me, Dean's off-limits. Let me talk to him."
The man laughed. "You're really in no position to give orders, Sam." His voice hardened quickly. "Thirty minutes. DGS dockyards, main gate. You don't show, we pull our offer – and cut our losses. Clock's ticking."
With that, he hung up.
Sam stared at the phone, breathing heavily, then redialed Bobby's number. "They wanna trade info for Dean. They think we're working for Gaston."
Bobby's voice was tense. "That was Durrell?"
"No." Sam dragged his hand over his eyes. "One of his goons."
"They let you talk to your brother?"
"Not directly, but I heard him. His voice sounded…it wasn't good." Sam jammed the phone between his left ear and shoulder and reached forward to hotwire the engine. "I've got thirty minutes to get over there."
"Now, hold on. You-"
"I don't have a choice." As the engine sparked to life, Sam yanked the car into gear and pulled into traffic, brakes squealing. "Durrell's goon made it pretty damn clear what would happen if I don't show."
"And how is that different from if you do show?" Sam could hear Bobby pacing. "Look, I know some hunters in L.A. Good men. Let me call-"
"Call who you want but I'm not waiting. You said yourself, the dockyard's 15 minutes away and that's if traffic's good."
Bobby's voice was clipped. "Okay, think about what this guy said. Is there anything we can use?"
Sam mentally replayed the conversation. "He said he'd trade details on Gaston's vendetta for Dean. Then Dean shouted don't pull a Scully..."
"Code word?"
"Yeah. Means we're dealing with non-believers, skeptics. They know Gaston's behind this killing spree, know Durrell's in his sights but they're thinking Sopranos, not Exorcist."
"Anything else?"
Sam frowned. "The man's voice. I recognized it."
"From where?"
"Not sure." Sam jammed on the brakes as a light turned red. "It'll come to me but, right now, I need to focus on Dean. How I'm gonna get him outta there."
"Well if they're skeptics like Dean says, they ain't gonna buy what you're sellin' when it comes to Gaston."
Sam glanced down at his chest where his t-shirt covered the protection symbol. "They'd believe me if they saw him with their own eyes."
"What?"
The light turned green and Sam slammed down the accelerator. "What if we could force Gaston to appear in the same room as Durrell?"
"You mean willingly let him take over?"
"No." Sam yanked the car around a corner. "We modify this protection symbol somehow so it lets him make the connection without taking over – forces him to use astral projection, appear in his own form. If he shows up, if Durrell sees him, that might be enough of a distraction for me to grab Dean and get him out of there."
Bobby's voice was incredulous. "You got any idea how many kinds of crazy that is?"
"I know." Sam gripped the wheel tighter to stop his hand from shaking. "But I'm grasping at straws here, Bobby. I do nothing, they kill Dean then come after me. I walk in there tell'em what I know, they kill both of us. And none of that stops Gaston. Unless you got a better idea…" he glanced at his watch, "we've got twenty-six minutes to make this work."
Bobby's chair creaked as he pushed it away from his desk. "You two make it through this, I'm a dead man, 'cause you're brother's gonna kill me for letting you walk in there alone."
Sam frowned as realization struck. "I won't be alone."
"What?"
Sam swallowed. "The second voice. I know who it is. He can help. He can end this."
xxxXXXxxx
The effects of the drugs paled next to the gut-twisting nausea that racked Dean when he realized Shoes was talking to Sam.
He knew his brother too well; there was no way that Sam would stay away so Dean had done the best thing his battered brain could come up with – shout out the Scully code to let Sam know he couldn't bargain with the truth. The warning had earned him a second punch and a gun to the head for the rest of Shoes' brief conversation.
Mickey lowered the gun as Shoes hung up the phone.
"You bastard."
Shoes tossed the phone to Mickey. "I'm used to getting what I want, Dean. You wouldn't give it to me, so…let's see what Sam comes up with." He stepped closer, standing right in front of his captive. "Tell me, how do you think your brother will react to that chemical pick-me-up, huh? He's a big boy; I might just have to double the dose to be sure."
Dean threw himself at Shoes, would have toppled the chair had Mickey not grabbed him and fastened a beefy arm around his throat to yank him back. Dean choked in the hold, Mickey's arm pressed hard against his windpipe.
Shoes leaned forward, his mouth twisting into a cruel sneer. "Me and Sam...we'll go a few rounds, see what happens. Then, if he proves as stubborn as you, we'll cut our losses and dump his headless body in the bay." He leaned closer to Dean, his cold eyes visible. "After we drop his head in your lap just to let you know we're done."
Dean's stomach heaved.
Shoes stepped back and Mickey released his hold.
Dean coughed and gasped as he sucked in air, his body suddenly racked by violent tremors. He gritted his teeth, fighting to regain control of his body and his emotions. He glared at Shoes. "You hurt Sam...you lose your best chance to stop Gaston." His voice was hoarse, barely audible, but it got Shoes' attention.
He turned back to face Dean. "And why should I believe that's anything more than a desperate plea to save your brother?"
Dean was fighting to keep his vision and his thoughts in focus. "Because Sam's point man on this gig; all dealings with Gaston go through him. You want access to Gaston, you need Sam."
xxxXXXxxx
Sam pulled the car up to the curb near the entrance to the dockyards, slid the transmission into park and pulled the wires, the engine stuttering before dying out. He swapped the phone to his right hand and glanced at his watch. "I'm here – with four minutes to spare."
The sound of a book closing came across the phone. "Did I mention this was a really bad idea?"
"A few times." Sam glanced over at the dockyard gate. "So, I've recited the first two parts of the incantation – all I have to do now is remove the bloodmarks, and finish the spell, right?"
"Yeah, but…damn it, Sam. We cobbled this together on the fly. There's so much that could go wrong."
"No, it'll work." Sam nodded, convincing himself as much as Bobby.
"You sure you got the last part memorized?"
"Yeah. And the second incantation. They're short – it's not a problem." Sam exhaled slowly. "Okay, give me Durrell's direct line."
"555-6651." Bobby's voice was quiet. "Get in and get out kid, as fast as you can."
"That's the plan. Thanks, Bobby." Sam hung up the dialed Durrell's number.
"Who is this?" The voice on the other end was tense, suspicious."
Sam swallowed. "Put me through to Michael Durrell. Tell him it's Sam Winchester. I have a message from Elias Gaston."
To Be Continued…
A/N: Next up: the big showdown. To those who waited patiently for Dean whumpage, I hope you enjoyed – and I'm not done yet. *evil grin* And as for Sam… nope, he's not in the clear either! Thanks so much for reading. I'd love to hear from you. More Monday. Cheers.