Chapter Five.

Once on the road, Bobby took the opportunity to get a bead on the situation. He knew Sam's answers were always a reliable and accurate barometer of the state of things for the brothers. Sam didn't have the innate caution that his brother had, and as a result, his replies were always complete, and accurate. Dean was inclined to muddy the waters, just to be safe, and he was skilled at subterfuge.

"How are you boys really doing?" the older man questioned. "I mean, before this happened. Were you living ok?"

Sam pursed his lips and sighed. "Well, in terms of hunting, it was good. Like I said; we had five real successes… I mean, they're pretty much always successes in that we walk away the winner, but these last ones put some cash in the kitty and we didn't have to leave behind any blood this time. In those terms it was all good."

He stared out into the darkness, unhappily. "But we are completely aware that we're running. This thing in St. Louis; I mean, Dean's blamed now for the murder that Zack was originally accused of…and they have a shapeshifter body, but they've got to know there's more to it. If they did any autopsy on that thing they'd have seen that it was a freak, but it's still Dean in the official cross-hairs. He can hardly argue that when he's been shot dead by the next cop aiming to boost their career. I just don't know how to squirm out of this, Bobby."

"I hear you, Sam. Running from anything is a crappy way to live, believe me, I know. Any word from your Dad?"

"No."

Sam said that with a bitter tone that made Bobby wince. -Stupid bugger—he thought of his old friend. -Support your kids a little; they're hurting because of you-

"Sam, tell me exactly how it went down at the gas station."

Sam drew a deep breath, not really wanting to relive that. Then he gave a play by play description.

Bobby grunted at the conclusion. "Yeah, I can see why that would be weird. I mean, that cop had no real reason to know you'd be there at that exact time, yet there she was." he mused, puzzled. "No chance that the pump jockey recognized you two?"

Sam shook his head. "Bobby, there just wasn't time. The guy was oblivious, just doing his job. Even if he could have made the connection, there just wasn't time for him to have called the cops, and had them respond, drive out, and verify it was Dean and then react. It was as if she knew beforehand that we were going to be there. I know, I swear, we were not tailed. I'm no expert, but you know Dean; he'd have seen that right off, he's so paranoid. And she was alone; no partner or back-up. She called him out and pulled the trigger twice before he could have even really reacted. Granted, he did yell to me to floor it, and dive toward the car, but she'd already shot him before he was even in. Not exactly standard protocol, as far as I saw."

"Hmm." Bobby mulled that over. "Sounds odd, for sure. Too out-of-the-blue, can't picture it as coincidence. But it doesn't matter anyway, however she knew. It's a very public man-hunt now."

Sam slumped down a little. Bobby saw it, and regretted his un-tempered words. The kid needed some comforting too, not just frank talk.

"Listen, Sam...you just need to let this die down. When it does, and you get to some safer ground, miles away from this corner of the country, it won't seem like everybody's standing on your neck so much, ok? And Dean's a tough bastard, he'll heal up fine. It could have been a lot worse."

Sam didn't answer. He simply dropped his head into his hand and nodded. There was no indication other than the slight movement of his shoulders, but Bobby knew the young man was at the end of his rope and breaking. Bobby squeezed his shoulder, saying nothing.

After a few minutes, Sam discreetly rubbed his eyes and stared ahead. "There it is; just on the right, there-" Sam said, as the grey building loomed in the headlights.

They approached the barn site warily. It was dark by now—the ground had crisped with frost as the temperature dropped. Both men breathed a sigh of relief that the area was undisturbed, and they were alone on the side road. The gate was still open from Beth Macy's departure.

Sam hopped out and ran to the doors, peeking in, then pulling them open with a wave. Bobby eased the ramp truck down into position.

The dash and seat of the Impala were still sticky with blood. Sam sacrificed his shirt, wiping off the most visible smears in case, god-forbid, the truck was pulled over and the car scrutinized. It would be tricky enough without Bobby having to explain away bloodstains. The loading was done in a matter of minutes. Sam dug through the straw, retrieving the things he'd hidden. He remembered the bottle of bourbon and grabbed it too. The two of them tarped the car in thoroughly, leaving nothing visible. After a quick glance, he climbed back into the ramp truck and they headed back toward the safe haven of the motel.

"Thank god we were in time." Sam breathed. The last thing he wanted to have to do was break it to Dean that the Impala was lost to him.

"Amen." Bobby nodded.

Bobby was just as aware of the significance the Impala held for Dean. He and Dean had worked on her on countless occasions. As a matter of fact-he'd gone with John to check it over and buy it when Dean had successfully passed his drivers test at sixteen. He knew and understood the emotional attachment.

They drove the remaining miles in silence.

The ache in his shoulders brought him around. He awoke to find himself seated on a wooden chair, his arms crossed tightly and bound to the back of it. His feet were bound as well. He was alone, in an empty and windowless cinder-block room. A single, inadequate fluorescent light buzzed overhead.

His head ached sharply where she's hit him; the blood from that dried and caked down the side of his face. He shook his head a little, to regain some clarity. At least it distracted him from his other wounds. He didn't understand the situation, but he groaned miserably at the realization that the jig was up, and despite all their efforts, he was now firmly in the hands of the law. That knowledge brought a wave of despair, and he dropped his chin back down to his chest.

But he was never one to wallow. After a moment he raised his head again and took stock. This was no busy room full of cops processing their captives. It looked like a storage unit; there was a garage door, some scattered boxes, and it was cold and damp. He shivered. He couldn't recall anyone questioning him or fingerprinting him. There were no bars, no holding pen. No phone call allowance given. There was nothing about this place that suggested a police station at all. It seemed that his arresting officer had taken a sharp left away from departmental procedure.

It was the more experienced hunter that saw it first. Bobby pulled up to their unit, and put a hand on Sam's arm to stop him. "Door's open, Sam-" he said grimly.

Sam knew they'd left it locked. He'd made sure, as he was already nervous at leaving his injured brother alone. He glanced at Bobby fearfully.

Bobby pulled a pistol out from under his seat. He opened his door; Sam did the same, and they approached the motel door tensely. Sam gestured to Bobby, pointing at the pavement. There were dark spots, leading away from the threshold. Blood.

Bobby peered into the dark interior, then kicked the door open. There was nothing; no one, in the room. He nodded to Sam, who switched on the light. The blankets were half dragged off the bed. Several more dark spots showed on the carpet. And Dean was gone.

Sam was in a frothing panic. "Jesus Christ, he could barely even get up! Oh my god!" He paced uselessly, frantically, as Bobby searched the room for anything that could offer them direction. "Bobby, he was sleeping! And he already lost so much blood, it was only a few hours since he had that bullet dug out! Christ!" He sat down, wild-eyed. "I knew I shouldn't have left him alone! Aw, man..this is my fault; I shouldn't have left, I should have stayed with him-"

Bobby grabbed him by his shoulders and stared at him hard. "Sam! Get a grip! It's not your fault, but we need to figure out where he is, ok? Listen to me!"

Sam spent another moment with his mind in a hopeless spiral, but Bobby's words penetrated his angst. "Ok...ok, yeah," he acknowledged, visibly clamping down on his emotions and calming somewhat. "But what are we gonna do?"

Bobby released him. "I don't know, just give me a minute!" Bobby was just as upset but at least he had the steadiness and wisdom of experience shoring him up.

They were interrupted by the arrival of the motel manager. "You looking for your buddy?"

Sam nodded.

"Well, some bitch cop dragged him outa here like a sack of shit not forty-five minutes ago. He wasn't givin no help; she was pulling him like a sled of rocks. Listen, I don't want any trouble coming around here; people around here don't want that kind of attention, it's bad for business. I don't give a shit what's goin' on, just you get the hell out, you hear? I can call cops too!" He stood defiantly; thin, scabby arms crossed, his greasy comb-over waving in the cold wind.

Bobby answered, casting a warning look at Sam. "Sure, buddy; no problem. The guy had it coming anyway. We'll get outa your hair. You didn't happen to see any car number or anything, now did you?"

The manager shrugged, mollified a little now that they were respecting his demands. "Naw, just a chick, brown hair.. Uniformed, but the car was unmarked. One of those dark-blue numbers with pie-plates for hubcaps, like we can't tell it's cops!" he snorted.

Bobby thanked him. "Well, we don't wanna get anybody in shit, so we'll head out. Seeya." He gestured to Sam, who handed over the key.

The man took it, then tossed it away with a curse. "Lock's f~cked now. Bitch used a crowbar." He drew a last drag from his stump of a cigarette and threw it onto the pavement, then turned and headed back to his office.

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances. Horror, certainly. But it was tempered with some relief; at least they had a lead.

Bobby took charge. "Well, best gather up your things. This ain't gonna be our place tonight." He helped the stricken Sam collect everything and stow it in the truck cab.

When they were packed, he put a steadying hand on Sam's arm. "We'll find him Sam. Wherever he is, we'll sort it out."

Sam looked at him with the eyes of a deer in the headlights. Bobby steered him toward the cab and they climbed into the ramp truck and drove away into the dark.

It seemed like several hours. Dean wasn't quite sure; his sense of time was off, he had no frame of reference; no watch within reach, no view of the outside. He knew his neck and shoulders were screaming from the position he was bound in. He couldn't feel his hands anymore. He was parched; his throat felt like it was sticking to itself. And after being dragged around, his side was a deep and steady beat of agony. He still hadn't been processed. He was no stranger to the routine that came with arrest. But none of what he'd expected had happened, and at this point he wasn't sure if he was relieved or worried. But he knew by now that something wasn't right. He'd have given his left nad just to lie flat on the floor for a few minutes, rats or no rats.

By his estimation, it was about an hour later when she came back. She had some one else with her, an old fart who looked like her. He raised his head despite the stiffness of his neck as the garage door rumbled up and the two stood illuminated harshly by the fluorescent light. They entered the room and hastily shut the door behind them.

She was out of her uniform this time. Instead she wore jeans and a sweat shirt; perfectly comfortable for an evening's entertainment. The other one looked like he'd slept for a week in the clothes he was wearing. She pulled a folding metal chair up in front of Dean, and sat in it. She stared at him for a moment or two, her hands on her thighs, leaning forward tensely. She was pretty tightly wound. He watched a pageant of emotions cross her features…

He grew impatient. "Aren't you supposed to read me my rights or something?"

She stood up so fast that the chair skittered backwards, its legs screeching against the concrete. And she back-handed him viciously. "You have the right to remain silent. Happy now?"

Dean shook it off, spitting away the blood from his split lip. He started his mental inventory of things that he should probably avoid doing in future.

The older man with her sniggered.

She stood back and crossed her arms. "My name is Officer Laura Brennen. I know who you are. "

Dean stayed silent, waiting for the rest.

"So I guess you're wondering by now why your arrest isn't going quite the way you're used to, huh..? Well, Dean Winchester; this is your lucky day.. Got a new system here; arrest, judgment and punishment, all one package." she smirked without humour.

Dean never had learned the lesson regarding when to shut up. "Yeah, I bet your precinct's real proud of you."

She hit him again, this time with a fist. He closed his eyes for a moment and silently told himself to shut his big mouth..

"You will, of course, claim innocence. You never did anything, did you, Dean? It's all a terrible misunderstanding, isn't it? Well here's a little refresher for you." She produced an ugly set of photographs, holding the first in front of him. It was a crime scene photo from St. Louis. It was horrible, and he looked away. She turned her gaze up to the older man. "Daddy; do you mind helping him focus?"

'Daddy' stepped behind Dean and held the sides of his head, forcing him to look at the image. The hands holding him were cold, they felt clammy. Dean became aware that the man had an odour about him. But whatever his age and hygiene issues, there was no denying that he was strong, and Dean soon realized it was useless to waste his own precious little strength in resisting. He sighed and stared dully at the pictures as she showed them one by one.

"You know what I'm showing you, don't you, Dean?"

"Yeah, I know the situation. I also know who killed that girl, and it wasn't me."

She snorted. "Surprise! See Daddy? Dean Winchester really is an innocent. Gee, maybe we should let him go." She sneered as she mocked him. She continued with her picture show. The next shot was of a different girl; it looked like a grad photo. She was smiling, holding yellow roses. She looked remarkably like the woman in front of him now. The following picture was of the same girl. It was another crime scene picture, and the image was brutal. Dean's eyes widened a little.

"Why are you showing me that? I don't know that girl! I never saw her in my life!"

She put the pictures down and leaned towards him. "Yes you do know her." she said with quiet menace. "Her name was Karin Brennen. You tortured her and killed her nearly four years ago, just like that girl in St. Louis, you vicious sonofabitch!"

He saw the bright sparkle of obsession, of madness in her eyes. She thought he... Now he did struggle, but those dead fish hands held tight. "You're crazy! I never saw her before, and I sure as hell never hurt her!"

Laura Brennen grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Her eyes were wild. "Shut your mouth! You killed my sister, and maybe you don't remember this either, but you killed my Dad too. But I prayed for him to come back and help me find you, Dean; and my prayers were answered. You see? My Dad is here with me again, and he knew just where to find you. He came back to me, only now he's stronger, and he can do things. He's an angel, Dean; he's your Angel of Death." She let go of him roughly, and Daddy did to. Dean dropped his head to his chest, then raised it, staring in shock at the two of them. She prayed, and he came back. This wasn't just her own twisted revenge... What the hell was he dealing with here?