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. Oh, and a fair bit of violence in this chapter, too. *ducks behind couch*
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: There's more trouble ahead for our dashing Winchester boys – which is just as well because, otherwise, it wouldn't be much of a story. ;) I really can't say thank you enough to everyone for reading, and to those who sent along comments and guesses – you've made posting this story a real pleasure. 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.
CHAPTER 8
"You hurt Sam, you lose your best chance to stop Gaston." Dean's voice was hoarse, barely audible. He hated painting a target on his brother's back but, if Sam was going to show up, the best way to stop Shoes and his goons from doing too much damage was to make them think he had the answers they wanted.
Shoes seemed to read his mind. "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 the point man on this gig; all dealings with Gaston go through him."
"Okay...how's he contacting him?"
"It's…complicated."
"I'm a smart guy."
Dean ground his teeth as the drugs in his system caused his vision to blur and his muscles to spasm. As the pain ebbed, he sucked in a breath, exhaled slowly, still unable to control the tremors racking through him. He fixed Shoes with a hard stare. "Trust me. Einstein would have a hard time wrapping his head around this."
"Whatever. We'll let Sam answer the 'how' when we gets here." Shoes walked behind Dean, then leaned in close, his mouth inches from Dean's ear. "When we question your brother, I haven't decided yet whether to let you watch – or just listen."
"You sick son of a bitch…" Dean twisted around but his tormentor quickly disappeared into the shadows.
Shoes reappeared in front of Dean. "So let's talk about your role in Gaston's grand plan?"
Dean's eyes narrowed as he forced a slow smile. "I told you: untie me and I'll show you what it is."
Shoes laughed as he again straddled the chair in front of his prisoner. "Let me guess." His forearms rested on the chair back, his fingers threaded together. "Recruitment. You pick the killers."
Dean turned his head away. "No way. This is Gaston's show, front to back."
"Clean-up, then."
"That's part of it." Dean kept his gaze averted, playing the game. This kind of bull was easy, just the truth wrapped in a lie. "Just tying up loose ends. Nothing more."
"So who's been given the hit on Mr. Durrell?"
A particularly harsh tremor ripped through Dean, again almost tipping the chair he sat in. As he regained control, he shook his head slowly. "Dunno. Gaston keeps that information on a need-to-know basis. And we don't need to know 'til the vic's a stiff and the cops are playing whodunit."
"So you have no idea when the hit's going down or who's doing it?"
Dean again shook his head. "Not a clue. Our job starts when it's done."
There was a lengthy pause before Shoes spoke again. "And why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?"
Dean's head snapped around, his eyes flashing angrily. "Because you threatened to cut off my brother's head. And for what? Gaston? We owe that bastard shit." He crumpled forward, letting out an involuntary groan as his stomach cramped viciously. He kept his eyes closed until the cramp eased, then lifted his head, breathing heavily. "Gaston's a paycheck. End of story. That ain't worth dying for."
"Speaking of paychecks," Shoes sat back in his chair, "how's Gaston funneling the money to you?"
Dean looked away. "Screw you. I'm done talking."
His captor stood up and moved toward him, paused for a moment and then walked around the chair. Dean tensed, knowing he'd likely poked the lion one time too many.
He was right. The blow to the back of his skull was hard. Dean's head snapped forward, his chin smashing into his chest, his vision graying at the edges. Between the drugs and the blows to the head, it was a fight to hang on to consciousness, at least until Shoes grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back. His captor leaned in close, for only the second time giving Dean a clear view of his face. "I warned you about pissing me off."
Dean glared at his tormentor, his vision barely in focus. But Shoes wasn't the only one pissed off. Dean used his remaining strength to wrench his head free of Shoes' grasp and slam his forehead into the man's nose.
Shoes' grunt was a mix of surprise and pain as he stumbled backwards but Dean's satisfaction was short-lived. He took another punch, this time to the jaw, the blow from Mickey snapping his head to the side and sending blood and saliva flying.
The punch was followed immediately by a kick that toppled Dean's chair. Hands bound behind him, he landed heavily on his left side, the chair shattering beneath him. The accompanying jolt of pain shot from his arm through his shoulder and further stoked his already churning stomach. He vomited, then screwed his eyes closed waiting for sharp pain to fade to a dull ache.
Dean was sorely tempted just to let unconsciousness pull him under, but his eyes snapped open when he was grabbed by the front of his t-shirt and dragged free of the splintered remains of the chair. Shoes was crouched in front of him, blood spattered across the front of his crisp white shirt and silk tie. The man's left hand stayed fisted in Dean's shirt while he used the handkerchief in his right to dab at his nose and wipe away the blood from his face.
"I'm tired of this, Dean. You are-" His phone ringing cut off his threat. Maintaining his hold on Dean's t-shirt, Shoes threw down the handkerchief, yanked the phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. "What?"
Dean forced his eyes to focus on Shoes but the man's face was inscrutable, his voice fuzzy and distant.
"I'll be right there." Shoes released his hold as he stood up and Dean dropped to the floor. Shoving his phone in his pocked, Shoes paced in front of his prisoner. "You fading on me, Dean? Can't have that." He turned toward Mickey. "I need to take care of this but don't let him pass out. Crank him up again. Have some fun. See what you can get."
Heart racing, wracked again by violent cramps, Dean groaned audibly. He curled in on himself, knees drawn tightly to his stomach.
"Fuck." He swore as a needle was once more jabbed into his neck, launching him again on the brief, dizzying ride to a chemical high before the inevitable, and spectacular, crash. He shook his head, then stared at the shiny Italian leather shoes in front of his face. His vision sharpened suddenly, just in time to see the shoes turn, walk through the pool of light toward the door and out of the room.
xxxXXXxxx
Shoved from behind, Sam stumbled through the office doorway. He shot a glare at his escort as he regained his balance, grimacing as he pulled at the cable tie that bound his hands behind his back.
The man – Danny someone had called him – smiled, obviously reveling in Sam's discomfort.
Danny and the two other men now following behind had met Sam at the gate. After searching him, and taking away his phone, they escorted him to the main warehouse complex. There, they'd been met by a fourth man, his dark eyes, steely gray hair and hawk-like nose strangely familiar. But it was the blood spattered across the front of the man's white shirt that sent a chill through Sam. Was it Dean's blood?
That man had disappeared after muttering instructions to Danny. They'd then stripped Sam of his outer shirt, his shoes and socks, emptied his pockets and bound his hands before leading him to the third floor and Durrell's office.
Danny stashed his gun in the holster under his left arm, then grabbed Sam by the biceps and hauled him into the center of the room to stand in front of a large, ornate desk.
Sam snatched his arm away, but Danny held on, yanking him closer and stepping on Sam's bare foot to hold him in place. His smile widened at Sam's grunt of pain. As Sam tried to pull away, Danny shifted his weight, the heel of his shoe pressing down hard on the bridge of Sam's foot.
Sam met his tormentor's smile with a glare, but didn't flinch.
Danny was about the same age as Sam and of similar height to Dean. His expensive clothes covered a muscular frame and, given the way the two other men had answered to him, he obviously held some position of authority within Durrell's company. His cold eyes glinted as he increased the pressure on Sam's foot, determined to get a reaction.
And he got one – a sharp head-butt that sent him reeling backwards.
The shocked look on Danny's face was worth the stars Sam saw as he too stumbled back. But Danny's surprise morphed quickly into fury and he lunged at his captive, first slamming his fist into Sam's stomach doubling him over, then driving his fist into Sam's jaw, snapping his head to the right and knocking him off his feet. Hands bound behind him, Sam went down heavily, his knee twisting as he fell and his head smacking hard against the wood floor of the office.
"You should have seen that coming, Danny. That fight strategy seems to run in the family."
Sam looked up dazedly, the double blow to the head amplifying the headache that had been building since he'd wiped off the bloodmarks just before walking through the dockyard gates. Wincing at the pull on his knee as he sat up, he twisted to see Michael Durrell walk into the office and stand next to a glowering Danny.
Durrell shook his head as he looked down at Sam. "As for you, Sam: you shouldn't push Danny's buttons. He enjoys his job far too much." He shot a glance at Danny before walking behind his desk. "Get him up."
Glaring at Sam, Danny in turn jerked his head toward the doorway of the office and the two men who stood there. They moved in quickly, each hooking an arm under Sam's and hauling him to his feet.
Sam wavered unsteadily in their hold, shifting his weight to his left leg as he fought to regain his balance.
Durrell now stood with his back to Sam, staring out the large window that overlooked the docks and the harbor beyond. He was almost as tall as Sam and still in good shape, although age had softened him, leaving him slightly stooped. Still, it was easy to tell he'd once been a brawler, a man used to backing up threats with his fists.
Sam swallowed, steadying himself. "Where's my brother?"
Durrell remained facing the window. "He's alive – for now." There was a lengthy moment of silence before he turned slowly toward Sam. Each man studied the other intently.
Durrell's eyes were an intense blue, framed by thick, graying eyebrows, deep creases and heavy shadows, and he had a full head of hair, in the midst of turning from gray to white. "You have a message from Elias?"
Sam held his gaze. "You're at the top of his hit list."
"That's not exactly news. Elias has been carrying a grudge since he went to jail." Durrell sighed. "Where and when is this hit supposed to go down?"
"You get details when I see my brother." Sam's voice was hard.
With only a slight glance from Durrell, the man on Sam's left drove an elbow into his gut while the man on the right slammed his foot into the side of Sam's right knee. His leg buckled instantly and Sam went down, landing on his knees. Fighting to control the building nausea as familiar pain shot from his knee through his leg, he glared up at Durrell as the old man walked around his desk to stand in front of him.
Durrell shook his head. "I thought we'd established who's calling the shots here."
Sam gritted his teeth until the pain dulled. "I'll give you what you want – as soon as I know Dean's okay."
Durrell smiled slowly. "If people who worked for me were this demanding, Sam, a pink slip would be the least of their worries." He shrugged. "But, in a show of good faith..."
He nodded at Sam's guards, who again hauled their prisoner to his feet. Durrell walked behind his desk and twisted around his computer screen so it faced Sam. Following a few key strokes, a window opened showing security camera images from across the dockyard and throughout its buildings. He hit another series of keys and the multiple images became one – showing a man, bound hand and foot, lying on the floor in a pool of light.
Sam's eyes were locked on the computer image. "Dean."
Durrell hit another key and the camera zoomed in. Sam's stomach churned at the sight of his brother. "No." Dean appeared semi-conscious, tremors visibly racking his body. The right side of his face was bruised and caked in dried blood, his right eye swollen shut.
Sam struggled to free himself, to get closer to the computer screen. "What the hell did you do to him?"
Durrell appeared completely disinterested. "Your brother was…uncooperative."
Sam's eyes flashed furiously. "I want to see him in person – now!"
Durrell clicked another key and the screen went blank. "As soon as I get what I want."
"No." Sam's jaw set stubbornly. "Until I see Dean, you get squat."
Durrell stared at him coldly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Sam."
Sam straightened up slowly, using his height to full advantage, and never breaking eye contact with Durrell. "If you weren't worried about Gaston, you wouldn't have grabbed Dean and I wouldn't be here, right now. If you wanna know how it's gonna go down, if you want help stopping him, bring Dean here. Now."
Durrell glared at Sam but slowly, deliberately, picked up the phone on the desk and barked a single order into the receiver. "Bring him here."
He carefully replaced the receiver and then moved around the desk to stand in front of Sam. He held Sam's gaze for a long moment, saying nothing, then walked around behind him. Without warning, he drove his foot into the back of Sam's right knee.
"Gah…" Sam legs gave out and he would have hit the floor had his guards not each had an arm hooked through his. He hung in their hold, eyes screwed shut waiting for the fiery pain to dull.
When he opened his eyes, Durrell was again in front of him, leaning against his desk, smiling coldly. "Still a little tender after surgery, huh?"
His smile only widened at Sam's glare. "I don't like ultimatums, Sam. Remember that." He leaned forward. "Next time you feel like issuing one, it'll be Dean who pays the price. We clear?"
Sam nodded brusquely as his guards dragged him to his feet. He winced as he found his balance, again letting his left leg take his weight.
"Good." Durrell folded his arms. "So, Elias is gunning for me – again." He shrugged. "It was only a matter of time. He's tried before – and failed, every single time. Why should this be any different?"
Sam wrenched his arm free of the guard on his right, scowling at Durrell. "He has a few new tricks up his sleeve. Ones you're not ready for."
"Such as..."
Sam's eyes narrowed. "You know what he's into these days?"
Durrell exhaled impatiently. "You mean that voodoo bullshit?"
Sam nodded, biting his lip against the crescendo of whispers in his head. "Technically, it's black magic."
Durrell canted his head toward Sam, his frown deepening the creases in his forehead. "Don't tell me you believe that crap?"
Sam shrugged. "I'm open to it."
Durrell's smile returned. "That surprises me. I'd think someone who once considered a career in law would prefer to deal in fact."
Sam's chest tightened over the revelation that Durrell knew about Stanford as well as his surgery, but he fought hard to maintain his neutral façade. "The fact is, what I've seen would do a lot more than surprise you."
Durrell shook his head, moving behind his desk. "What I know is that Elias is a user. He'll use anything and anyone to get what he wants. Fifteen years behind bars hasn't changed that – just his methods. This chicken bones mumbo jumbo is just grade school scare tactics to keep his half-wit cellmates in line. I would have thought you had more brains than to fall for such an obvious con."
"It's not-" Noise outside the doorway drew Sam's attention and he twisted around in time to see two men drag Dean into the office. His brother was facing forward, his head hanging down. His arms were bound behind him and his bare feet lashed at the ankles. One of the men pulling him into the office was the hawk-nosed man with the blood-spattered shirt Sam had seen earlier.
Dean offered no resistance. When his two guards released their hold, he dropped, face down, onto the office floor. He landed hard but made no sound and didn't move.
"Dean?" Sam tried to wrench himself free of his guards, slamming his shoulder into one, shoving aside the other before the click of a gun pressed to his temple stilled him instantly.
Chest heaving, he turned slowly toward the gun. Danny was smirking coldly behind it. Stumbling back, wincing as his abused knee again threatened to give out, Sam cast another worried glance at Dean, then twisted toward Durrell. "Untie me and let me check on my brother."
"You've seen that he's still breathing." Durrell's expression was stony. "Let's get on with this or that may change."
To emphasize his boss's threat, Danny moved his gun so it pointed at Dean's head.
"Shoot him and you lose your leverage with me," Sam spat. "Shoot me too, for all I care. But without my help, Gaston will get to you. There's a lot more than the two of us involved in this. A lot more."
Durrell's eyes widened briefly at that revelation. He recovered quickly but Sam knew the threat had hit home. Durrell walked up to his prisoner, shaking his head. "All I've got right now is bluff and bullshit. Why shouldn't I just shoot the two of you?"
Sam snapped his gaze from Durrell to the man with the blood-stained shirt, suddenly remembering where he'd seen him before. He was the trench-coated shooter from his vision of the construction foreman's murder.
Sam glanced at Durrell, then jerked his head toward Dean's guard. "The guy with blood on his shirt: his name is Connor and he's one of your hired guns."
"So." Durrell sounded decidedly unimpressed. "Considering he just dragged your brother in here, that's not exactly a stretch to put together."
Sam shifted his stance to take the weight off his throbbing knee. "How about the fact you assigned Connor to shadow the jury foreman from Gaston's murder trial, knowing he'd also be on your partner's hit list? You wanted to grab the killer and grill him about Gaston's plan, just like you're doing with us now. But the killer recognized Connor."
Durrell shrugged as he crossed his arms. "You've done your homework…so?"
Sam turned back to Connor. "You found the killer kneeling over the body, reaching for his victim's cigarette. It was still smoking. Then he came at you with a piece of rebar, the same one he'd beaten the foreman to death with, and you took him out – shot him in the head to save your own sorry ass."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "There were three people at that construction site that night – and two were dead when I left. I took the security tapes, went over them with a fine-toothed comb. There was no one else." He smiled coldly. "Let me guess: you were in the high-rise next to the site, keeping an eye on Gaston's boy with an infrared scope? Making sure he did what Elias paid him to do?"
As soon as he spoke, Sam recognized the voice. It was Connor who'd used Dean's cell, offering to trade his brother for information.
Sam matched Connor's smile. "I was a little closer than that. Remember this." He repeated the final words Gaston had spoken through his puppet killer. "That's why he keeps you around, isn't it? That, and he's too feeble to do his own dirty work these days. I'll give you three guesses who's next."
Connor paled, his smile fading. "Now way were you that close...You had some kind of mic, some kind-"
"No." Sam's smile faded. "Gaston was there…watching."
"OK. You've got my attention." Durrell moved between the two men, his expression hard as his eyes jumped from Connor to Sam. "It still sounds like a con to me, but go on."
"No." Sam's jaw clenched, eyes turning back to Dean who had yet to move. "Nothing more 'til I check on my brother."
Anger flashed in Durrell's eyes but when Sam turned back to him, his stare unflinching, the old man nodded curtly. "Make it quick."
Sam's eyes locked back on Dean. "Untie me."
Durrell jerked his head at Danny, who stashed his gun in his holster and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Danny's voice was icy as he flicked open the knife.
"Hold still."
Sam felt the cold blade slide between his wrists and jerk roughly upwards, cutting through the cable tie and slashing his arm in the process. He winced as steel sliced through flesh, and glared at Danny knowing the three-inch gash that now ran from the base of his left thumb up his arm was no accident.
Danny offered another icy smile in return.
Sam turned quickly to Dean, blood trickling down his arm as he limped to his brother's side, and lowered himself stiffly to the floor.
Dean lay face down, head turned away from Sam, bound hands resting on the small of his back. The skin beneath the plastic restraint was bloody and raw, telling him his brother had been fighting to free himself for some time.
"Cut him loose." Sam turned to Durrell, eyes flashing furiously when he saw their captor start to shake his head. "Look at him. What the hell kind of threat is he?"
Durrell exhaled impatiently but he nodded at Danny. His lieutenant walked casually to Dean's side, bent down and sliced through the restraints, adding a new gash to Dean's wrists in the process. Freed from their bonds, Dean's arms fell limply to his sides.
Sam shut out the building whispers in his head, shut out Durrell's men surrounding him and focused solely on his brother. "Dean?"
There was no response.
Sam slid his fingers to Dean's neck, frowning at the erratic pulse he found there. His hands ghosted over his brother's body, mentally cataloguing the injuries before gently rolling him over. He inhaled audibly when he got his first close-up look at the damage to Dean's face.
The right side looked like raw hamburger, blood and dirt mingling with sweat to coat his battered skin from hairline to neck. His right eye was completely swollen shut, the natural depression of the socket lost beneath the angry bruising and distended skin. There was a deep gouge across his left cheek and blood and vomit stained his chin and the front of his t-shirt. He was also running a fever, his breathing was too fast and too shallow, and his body was racked by occasional tremors.
Sam placed a shaky hand on Dean's chest, his brother's heart pounding like a jackhammer beneath it. "Dean?"
His brother groaned softly in response to his name, his head flopping to the side, eyes restlessly darting back and forth beneath the closed lids. Sam slid his hand under Dean's cheek, turning his face toward him. "Come on, man. Gimme something – let me know you're still in there."
Dean's eyes remained closed but he turned slightly into his brother's touch. Sam's chest tightened. It wasn't much, but it was enough to tell him that, on some level, Dean was aware of his presence. And it was a reassurance that, like it had so often before in his life, gave Sam the strength to do what had to be done.
He screwed his eyes closed as the whispers inside his head increased in volume. He needed to push through, make the plan happen. He grasped Dean's wrist and began reciting the final part of the first incantation.
"What are you doing?" Durrell sounded half curious, half pissed.
Sam opened his eyes but kept them on Dean. "It's just a prayer." He turned Dean's arm over, drawing his fingers through the blood from the switchblade wound, as he wrapped up the first incantation.
"Well, pray later. I wanna know what Gaston's planning."
Sam ignored him, fingers ghosting up Dean's arm as he moved seamlessly to the second spell.
The old man was all-pissed now. "Enough bullshit. If you don't give me something useful in 30 seconds, I'm gonna put a bullet in your brother's kneecap – and that's just the warm-up."
The threat made Sam sick but he kept going, concentrating to remember the unfamiliar words of the ancient dark language. He finished just as Danny and Connor moved in, grabbed him by the arms and dragged him to his feet, pulling him away from Dean and forcing him to break physical contact.
Familiar, blinding pain ripped through his head, stealing his breath. Again, his knees buckled and he sagged in his captors' hold.
"Oh for fuck's sake…What now? What…" Durrell's voice faded out, replaced by that of his former partner.
"Sam." Gaston laughed softly. "What's going on in this devious little mind of yours, huh? You shut me out, force me to bust my ass to find a way to take back control, and then, just when I'm almost there, you go and open the door for me."
Pain was pushing Sam to the brink of unconsciousness but he fought to hang on, shut out Gaston's voice, block out Durrell's enraged curses and ignore the fact he was being physically dragged across the room. "You're not using me, or anyone else, any more."
Gaston sighed. "Slow learners are such a bore, but even you should have figured out by now that you can't stop me."
Sam screwed his eyes closed. "Not by myself."
Caught up in speaking his own spell, Gaston didn't question Sam's retort. His words tumbled out quickly and smoothly with practised ease. Sam cried out as pain again spiked in his head, building until it wiped out Gaston's voice and the whispers that accompanied it. It stopped as quickly as it hit, leaving complete silence in its wake. All the voices were gone but one – and it wasn't Gaston's.
"Thank you."
Peeling open his eyes, Sam realized he was being totally supported by Connor and Danny, his head lolling against his chest. Breathing heavily, he lifted his head and found himself staring up at Durrell's incensed face.
The old man took a swing, the blow connecting with Sam's cheek, snapping his head to the right. His vision was still fuzzy when Durrell grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back.
Durrell's face had reddened with anger. "Gaston always was a crazy son of bitch; figures he'd have two more crazies on his payroll." He let go of Sam's head and stepped back. "This is a waste of time." He stepped behind his desk, pulling his gun from a drawer. "I'm done with the both of you. You can watch while I kill your brother; then I'll take care of you."
"Doing your own dirty work, Mike? I'm impressed. Surprised, but impressed."
Durrell's head snapped toward the caustic voice. His eyes widened and the color drained from his face at the sight of Elias Gaston in the center of the room.
His former partner stood dressed as he did before he went to prison: dark shirt and pants under a long, dark duster coat. His lank, dark hair hung below his shoulders, the distinctive white streak almost like a lightning bolt.
Connor and Danny dropped Sam, spun around and drew their guns, but their eyes were as wide as their boss's as they moved protectively in front of him.
Gaston smiled as he studied the three men standing in front of him. "My, my, my – the gang's all here."
Sam rolled onto his back and stared up at the figure who had haunted him since his surgery. The incantation had worked, forced Gaston to appear in his own form. His gaze darted from Gaston to Durrell then to his men. Each had their eyes, and their guns, locked on the spectral figure standing in front of them. Given that Dean had not been able to see Gaston in the desert, Sam had feared he might be the only one able to see the astral projection. But whether his incantation or Gaston's had made the difference, the con was now definitely visible to everyone in the room.
Durrell shot a glare at Sam before quickly returning his focus to Gaston. "What the hell kind of trick is this?"
"No trick." Sam coughed as he dragged himself across the floor toward Dean. "Looks like your partner here has mastered the art of astral projection."
Gaston clapped slowly. "Bravo, Sam. You've done your homework."
Sam reached Dean's side and slumped against the wall. He felt tired, drained, but, on some level, strangely relieved that Gaston was in the room and not in his head. "It's what you've been working on all this time, right?"
Gaston walked over to Sam, stretching languidly, as if waking muscles that hadn't been used in a while. "Projecting over great distances requires a lot of…fuel, for want of a better word. The others were too weak. Oh, I could hitchhike, control them, but using their energy to appear in my own form would have put too great a strain on them. It was more important to get the job done."
Sam's voice hardened. "Kill those who sent you prison, you mean."
"Exactly." There was no guilt in Gaston's tone, only satisfaction.
Anger sparked a flood of adrenaline, briefly restoring Sam's strength. He sat up and glared at Gaston, his hand resting protectively on his unconscious brother. "And the three innocent men you used to kill them."
"Road kill. Couldn't be helped." Gaston crouched down in front of Sam, studying him intently. "What is it about you…Why are you so different from the others?" Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward and grabbed Sam's arm.
Sam inhaled sharply, looking down in shock. He could feel Gaston's fingers tightening painfully around his biceps. Unlike back at the motel room when he'd been little more than a flickering image, Gaston now had a physical presence.
"Surprise." Gaston's smile was icy. "I've been working on this, but didn't quite have all the pieces in place…until now." He let go of Sam, stood up and slowly turned in a circle, surveying the room and sizing up its occupants. He frowned at the two guards by the door, who also stood with their guns raised awaiting Durrell's orders.
Gaston shook his head, slowly rubbing his hands together. "I wonder..." He shoved his hands forward; the two guards were lifted off their feet and thrown through the doorway, slamming into the wall on the far side of the corridor before crumpling to the floor in a shower of plaster dust. Gaston flicked his wrist and the heavy oak door slammed shut, blocking them from sight.
Gaston turned back into the room, his expression smug. "Oh, this is going to be fun."
Sam slumped back against the wall, a wave of dizziness washing over him. He blinked to clear his vision and stared at Gaston in surprise.
Gaston walked back to Sam, crouching down in front of him. "Oh, did I forget to mention...I'm drawing the energy I need from you. Think of yourself as my fuel tank."
Sam's eyes widened in shock, Bobby's warning replaying through his head. "You let him lose, no telling what he might do." He swallowed. No, this had to be done; it was the only way to stop Gaston for good.
Gaston laughed, pushing himself up. "Let me guess; you opened the door, thinking I'd be some flickering hologram with no power?" He snorted derisively as he turned to face Durrell. "All my life people have underestimated me – isn't that right, Mike?"
Durrell's expression hardened. "I never underestimated you, Elias. Distrusted? Absolutely. It's always wise to distrust a snake."
Sam pushed himself up, eyes glued on the showdown playing out in front of him. Biting back a groan, he reached forward and pulled Dean to him, carefully sitting up his brother beside him, then wrapping his arm protectively around him so Dean leaned against him, his head resting on Sam's chest. Dean mumbled softly but didn't wake. "It's just me," Sam said quietly. "Hang in there. You'll be okay...Help's on the way – at least I hope it is."
Durrell stepped forward, pushing apart his two guards so he could get a clear view of Gaston. His expression was a mix of fear and loathing. "How the hell is this possible?"
"Let's just say it's beyond your scope of understanding." Gaston's smile widened. "But know this: this little meeting would not be possible if you hadn't hired that idiot to stab me in the prison yard." He laughed. "Gotta love how irony can bite you in the ass."
Durrell's fear quickly turned to rage. "Take him out."
Sam threw himself over Dean as Connor and Danny each fired three shots into Gaston. The bullets passed straight through him, three burying themselves in the plaster wall, one in the ceiling, one in the office door and one in a steel filing cabinet in the corner of the room.
As the retort from the gunshots faded, it was replaced by Gaston's laugh. He shook his head, raising his arms wide, his image flickering twice. "Put the damn guns away, Mike. They can't hurt me."
"What the hell's goin' on?"
Sam, still curled over Dean, jumped at the sound of his brother's muffled voice. He slowly lifted his head and glanced down at Dean, who was squirming in his hold, trying to pull free as awareness returned. "You wanna cuddle, Sam, get a date."
But Sam just tightened his hold, eyes darting up to Gaston who had taken a step toward Durrell. "Keep still," Sam hissed. "We're in the middle of a freakin' firefight."
He felt Dean tense, instinct more than conscious thought fuelling his brother's actions. Dean frowned up at Sam, blinking heavily as his mind cleared slowly. "Sammy? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I'll explain later." Sam quickly checked over Dean. His brother's right eye remained swollen shut and his left eye was bloodshot and watering. He still shook violently and slumped against him, Sam could feel his heart racing and the heat from a building fever. "For now, just stay down."
Sam looked up again, his gaze jumping between Gaston and Durrell, who were staring each other down, flanked by Danny and Connor.
Dean weakly turned his head away from Sam's chest, for the first time taking in the standoff between Gaston and Durrell. Given his brother's injuries, Sam wasn't sure how much he could actually see.
"Is that-"
Enough, apparently. "Gaston, yeah."
"How-"
"Psychic projection."
"Oh." Dean weakly gripped the arm Sam had wrapped around him. "Can he –"
"– control me? No. I've shut him out. But he can see and hear what's going on…" Sam's jaw clenched at the memory of Durrell's men being thrown through the door. "Interact physically, too."
Dean rolled his head to scowl up at his brother. "Quit finishing my sentences."
Sam kept his voice low although no one in the room was currently paying attention to the two of them. "If I can find something to cut your ankles free, think you can drag yourself over toward the door, be ready to make a break when we get the chance?"
Dean nodded, trying – and failing – to push himself away from Sam. "As long as you're dragging your ass right behind me."
Sam again tightened his hold. "Just wait. They're still waving guns around right now. Let your batteries recharge for a minute. But be ready. When I say go, go."
Dean mumbled something but the only word Sam could make out was 'bossy.' Sam's attention returned to Gaston and Durrell. "Look, we get out of here in one piece, we go right back to you bossing me around, deal?"
Dean reached up and grabbed Sam's shirt, then weakly patted his chest. "Deal."
Dean then followed Sam's gaze and frowned at the four men at the center of the room. Durrell's eyes were fixed on Gaston and, flanking their boss, Danny and Connor kept their weapons trained on his former partner.
Gaston sighed. "This standoff is getting tiresome." He glanced from Connor to Danny, then closed his eyes, muttered something under his breath, then twisted his right hand, then his left. The guns flew from the two bodyguards' hands, through the air toward Gaston, landing at his feet.
Sam's vision slid in and out of focus as the earlier dizziness returned. He frowned, shaking his head to clear it.
Gaston closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and clenching and unclenching his fists. When his eyes slid open, he turned his attention to Danny. Walking toward him, he looked him over and smiled. "Ah, the young pup. Full of piss and vinegar, always spoiling for a fight to prove himself to the old man."
Danny glared at Gaston, but stayed silent.
Gaston shook his head slowly. "And you know he resents you, right? Always did despise anyone younger, stronger, better than he was in any way." He shot a glance at Durrell, eyes burning with hatred. "He resented me and look what happened." He turned back to Danny. "It's only a matter of time before he turns on you."
Danny snapped. In one fluid move he reached into his pocket, pulled out his blade and slashed it through Gaston. Had Gaston been real, the strike would have been deadly but the knife only caused his psychic energy to flicker.
Gaston's eyes flashed as he muttered something under his breath and slammed his hand into Danny's chest. Danny flew up in the air, his knife flying from his grasp as he smashed into the ceiling and then dropped to the floor, his neck at a strange angle.
Dean tensed in Sam's hold. "That's not good. Takes some heavy-assed dark magic to do that."
"I know." Sam's head was spinning again but, as the dizziness passed, his gaze fell on Danny's knife which had come to rest in front of a filing cabinet about eight feet away from the brothers. His eyes jumped from Gaston to Durrell to Connor. Again, none was paying attention to the two Winchesters. Sam gently sat his brother up and leaned him against the wall. "Stay there," he muttered. "I'm gonna get that knife."
Dean weakly grabbed Sam's arm. "You get yourself shot, I'm gonna be pissed."
As Dean released his hold, Sam slowly dragged himself along the floor toward the knife, closely watching the three men at the center of the room as he moved.
Gaston's attention was now on Durrell's right-hand man. "Connor – it's been a while." He chuckled. "I'm not gonna count the other night at the construction site. I wasn't…myself."
Connor stood his ground, chest heaving as he held Gaston's gaze. "Still the son of a bitch you always were."
Gaston traced a ghostly finger down the blood spatters on Connor's shirt. "Pots and kettles, Connor." He shook his head. "But that's how you've lasted all these years isn't it. You never did mind getting your hands dirty. Liked it, even. How many have there been since Sonny, huh?"
"Sonny's murder was your idea." Connor snapped. "Your kill."
"True." Gaston smiled, waving his finger between Durrell and Connor. "But you two were onboard from Day One. Enjoyed questioning him about how much money he'd taken from the business every bit as much as I did. Couldn't wait to get your hands on his cash, on his shares of the company." His smile faded. "But when the cops came sniffing around, all that loyalty vanished. You threw me to the wolves."
Now it was Connor's turn to smile. "You got caught because you were sloppy. You've got no one to blame but yourself."
"Wrong." Gaston's eyes flashed angrily. "I blame you." He slammed his hand into Connor's chest, lifting him off his feet and hurling him effortlessly through the air and into the third-story window that overlooked the harbor. The window exploded in a shower of glass as Connor smashed through it, falling lifelessly out of sight.
Sam's fingers had just curled around Danny's knife as the window blew out. He raised his arm to protect his face but twisted around to check on Dean. His brother had thrown himself to the floor, his arm wrapped around his head, instinct guiding him even when conscious thought couldn't.
As the last of the glass fell, Sam pushed himself up – only to topple over, again felled by dizziness. He lay on the floor, blinking in surprise at how quickly Gaston was stealing his energy.
With a groan, he pushed himself up again, falling back against the wall. Two Gastons and two Durrells now faced off in the center of the room and the light in the ceiling had developed a halo around it. Sam screwed his eyes closed then forced them open. Both Gastons turned toward him.
"What's the matter, Sammy?" Gaston's voice had developed a strange echo. "Running out of gas?"
Durrell glanced from Gaston to Sam, his eyes narrowing. He swung his gun around suddenly, pointing it at Sam. Gaston caught the movement and yanked the gun from Durrell's hand just as he pulled the trigger, sending the shot high. The bullet slammed into the wall above Sam's head, sending crumbling plaster raining down on him.
The adrenaline rush of the near miss helped clear Sam's head and briefly roused Dean, his protective instincts immediately seeking out his brother the second the bullet fired. He made it as far as sitting up before collapsing back against the wall.
Sam turned back to the center of the room where Gaston turned his attention from the gun in his hand to Durrell. "Very good, Mike. Take out the gas tank, get rid of me. Didn't take you long to put that together." He laughed as he tossed the gun to the far side of the room. "But, as usual, I'm one step ahead of you." He shook his head as he turned to Sam. "As for you, we'll have to work on your endurance. I'm having too much fun to cut this party short."
"No." Now it was Sam's turn to glare. "No more. You're done hurting innocent people." His chest tightened when he saw a translucent figure begin to form behind Gaston.
"Innocent?" Gaston glanced down at Danny's body, then up at Durrell. "They were never innocent. They–"
"I'm talking about Donald Chapman. Harley Newton. Jack Monroe. Innocent men you turned into puppet killers," Sam snapped, trying to keep the killer's attention on him. "I'm talking about Judge Matthews. T.J. Renton. Thomas Gibson – men you killed just for doing their job. You put them all through hell before they died. Put their families through hell." He held Gaston's gaze. "You're done."
"I don't think so." Gaston strode toward the younger Winchester, hovering threateningly over him. "We're done when I say we are, not before."
Sam smiled coldly at Gaston's building anger. "Careful. You can't hurt me or you lose your link."
Gaston's eyes glittered with fury. "I may need you, but I don't need your brother." He turned toward Dean, raising his hand and squeezing his fingers into a fist.
Dean stayed slumped against the wall, his only reaction a frown as he looked from his brother to Gaston and his raised hand. When nothing happened, Dean weakly lifted his own hand in response, raising the middle finger.
Gaston wheeled on Sam, surprise evident through his rage.
Sam shook his head. "Threatening Dean to try to control me? Like I didn't see that one coming." He motioned with his head toward Dean, then drew a finger down his forearm. "I jury-rigged a little protection before you even showed up at this shindig."
Dean rolled his arm over, blinking in surprise at the blood marks Sam had drawn there. In combination with the incantation Sam had read, they shut out Gaston, protecting Dean from the killer's anger. Dean snorted as looked blearily over at this brother. "Go Sammy."
Sam's smile faded as his energy levels dipped again. Gaston's failed attack on Dean had siphoned off even more strength. He dropped his head back against the wall, swiping a hand over his eyes. If he passed out, he was sure the link with Gaston would be severed, but it would also cut off the apparition. He needed to hang on long enough for him to break through. It was the only way to end this for good.
Gaston seemed to know his time was running out. He glared at Sam, frustration mixing with rage as he flickered, growing more translucent, before wheeling on Durrell. Stalking toward his one-time friend, he stopped right in front of him, eyes burning with years of bitterness and resentment. Durrell didn't flinch. As if sensing the inevitable, he squared his shoulders and offered Gaston a deadly smile. "Go to hell."
"You first." Gaston returned the smile in kind, then slammed his hand into Durrell's chest. It passed through skin and bone until his fingers closed around his former partner's heart.
Durrell's smile vanished, his eyes widening in shock. His mouth opened, fighting to draw in air as his heart was crushed in Gaston's hand. It beat slower, and slower, before stopping for good. Gaston stared at the vacant eyes, savoring the victory, before yanking out his hand. Durrell dropped lifelessly at his feet.
Gaston stepped back, his smile turning smug. "This time, I win."
Dragging himself toward Dean, the last of Sam's energy disappeared with Gaston's attack on Durrell. His arms gave way and he collapsed, face first, to the floor. He blinked heavily, staring over at the forming apparition, willing it to hurry up. "Come on, come on, come on…"
With one final smile at Durrell's corpse, Gaston turned threateningly to Sam. "You shouldn't have crossed me." He glared at Dean. "As payback, your brother just moved to the top of my list."
He frowned as he caught Sam's glance to the back of the room and whirled around, for the first time catching sight of the apparition. "What's this…?"
He moved toward the apparition, now definitely human in form but still unrecognizable, circled it and then glared back at Sam. "More tricks?"
Sam swallowed, barely able to keep his head up let alone form a retort.
Gaston snorted derisively. "Whatever. This party's over." He smiled at Dean, who now sat slumped forward, chin on chest, barely conscious. "Watch out for your brother, Sammy. I'll take him from you when you least expect it."
He laughed, muttered a brief incantation and then faded from sight.
As he vanished, the apparition suddenly broke through as if with Gaston no longer draining Sam's energy, the way was clear. He flickered, disappeared, then reappeared in front of Sam, staring down at the younger Winchester.
Sam's eyes slid closed. "He's…gone."
The apparition shook his head. "It was enough. Now, I can finish this."
Sam had a thousand questions but they all disappeared with the apparition as unconsciousness reached out and pulled him under.
xxxXXXxxx
Elias Gaston's eyes snapped open and he inhaled sharply. He was staring up at the sterile, white ceiling of his solitary confinement cell.
He smiled as he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the edge of his bunk.
After 20 years behind bars, he'd finally gotten his revenge – killed Durrell with his own hands as payback for stealing his business, his freedom, his life.
His smile faded quickly. But what had changed for him? Nothing.
His eyes darted around the small, windowless cell, bitterness and fury burning like acid in his gut. He was still trapped like a rat in this shithole, cut off from his money and the life it could support, the life that should have been his all along.
He stared in disgust as the bright orange jumpsuit he wore. One of the first things Littlejohn had taught him as he mastered the art of astral projection was that he could manipulate his image at will, dress himself in whatever manner he wished. It was the first time in 15 years he'd seen himself in anything but prison orange, but that was about to change.
He pushed himself up, striding over to the cell door and slamming his fist against it. "Guard!"
It was time the good-for-nothing lawyers he'd been keeping in Armani suits and BMWs for the past two decades earned their goddamned money and got him out of this place. Failed appeal after failed appeal, they'd blamed Durrell – he was working against them, paying off judges, bribing prison officials. It was just one excuse after another. Now those excuses were gone.
Again, he slammed his fist into the door. "Guard!"
And if they let him down? Well, he'd take care of them the way he took care of Durrell.
Sam Winchester was a true find. Even he'd been amazed by what he'd been able to accomplish while connected to Sam. Using the others as puppet killers had been convenient, got the job done, but there had been little satisfaction in it. But this, to be able to siphon off his puppet's strength and enjoy the thrill of the kill himself…to know his victims saw his face, rather than some milquetoast stranger he was forced to cloak himself inside of…
His mouth twisted into a deadly smile. He'd have free rein to mete out vengeance with no fear of being caught.
This Sam kid still had too much control though, seemed able to block him out when he put his mind to it. Gaston shook his head. He'd have to talk to Littlejohn, dig into his mentor's bag of dark magic tricks to find out how wrest away that control, make the kid answer to him. And then he'd get rid of Sam's brother.
"No."
Gaston spun around in surprise at the sound of the voice behind him, eyes darting wildly around his empty cell. He shuddered as the temperature dropped suddenly, his breath clouding in front of him as he exhaled.
Gaston stepped away from the door, canting his head suspiciously as fog began coalescing on the far side of the cell, taking on human form as it solidified. It was a man, a shade under six feet tall, with sandy brown hair, blue eyes and of an average build. In fact, everything about him was average. Gaston had never seen him before.
The translucent figure stared at him, sadness clear in his haunted expression.
Gaston scowled at the specter, too incensed to be scared. "You were at Durrell's office. What the hell do you want?"
The spirit disappeared, then reappeared right in front of Gaston, sorrow morphing seamlessly into fury. "What's mine."
Gaston had no chance to react. The spirit drove his arm into the killer's abdomen, then yanked it out, his hand clutching a bloody mass. Gaston's agonized scream echoed off the walls of the cell as he fell back against the door and slid to the ground, eyes wide with shock and fixed on the spirit standing over him.
The spirit stared down at him, blood dripping from the organ in his hand. He shook his head sadly as he faded from sight. "You lose."
Prison guards responding to Gaston's scream arrived moments later. They yanked open the door as the electronic bolts slid back and Gaston fell backwards into the corridor, eyes wide open, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood still running from the gaping hole in his torso.
An autopsy would later confirm his liver was missing.
Organ donor Nick Haskell had reclaimed what was rightfully his.
To Be Continued…
A/N: I think some of you had guessed where this was going; hopefully it still lived up to the build-up. I'd love to hear what you think. The boys are battered but back together, so there's plenty of h/c in the final chapter, up Wednesday. And then the new season begins Thursday *happy dance* Thanks so much for reading. Cheers.