Chapter 8

Dean awoke in darkness. He was nearly convulsing with cold. His blood loss, and the icy concrete on which he lay chilled him to the bone. He was so damned thirsty. He focused his hazy thinking, remembering the bucket. He gathered himself and sat up. It was absolutely devoid of light in the room; he had to guess where to turn. He slowly kicked away the broken chair rung that his feet had been tied to, shifting and squirming until he was free of the tangle of rope. He had no luck with his hands. They were now much looser behind him, since the spindles of the broken chair-back had fallen away, but his wrists were still connected by a short length of rope. No matter how hard he twisted his hands, they were not going to be freed from the knots. But at least he could feel his hands again. The pins-and-needles were brutal, but welcome.

He managed to get to his knees, and he stayed there, swaying, until he was sure he could shuffle in search of the water. His face felt hot, despite his shivering. He was pretty sure that at least some of the stitches in his side were torn out when the demon crushed him. He knew he'd been bleeding, and lying on the filthy floor was the worst thing he could do. He wished he had a t-shirt on at least. His open shirt and thin pajama bottoms offered little comfort against the cold. And some socks would have been nice.

But he did find the pail, and he stuck his head into it and drank the cold water until he was forced to stop and take a breath. It was so damned good; better than anything he'd ever tasted. He panted for a bit, and drank some more. The water did him good, he felt a lot clearer. He was hungry; he couldn't remember when had eaten last, but it had been a while. He sat back in the disorienting darkness, drying his face on his shoulder. He had to get out of this prison, they were going to come back soon; any moment for all he knew. She was under the demon's influence for the last few hours; if he'd made any headway with her it was gone now. That thing would coax and cajole and convince until she was fully on board with torturing him to death, and he'd prefer not to be around when they came back to start on him. She was one screwed up chick…

He got back up on his knees and shuffled over to a wall, using it to stand. His side throbbed with any movement, but he tried to ignore it. He followed the room's perimeter until he felt the door, and the switch. He fumbled with his bound hands until he turned the light on.

-shit- He saw what he'd only felt before; his dressings were slipping down, saturated and useless. He'd have pulled them off if he could reach. He looked over his shoulder, turning his wrists to get a look at his watch. –3:30- That meant darkness outside. -good- He felt safer if he could move around unseen; he was a bit of a spectacle at the moment and didn't want anyone calling the real cops.. He looked around for anything he could wrap around himself for warmth, but the only things he saw were some cardboard boxes and a plastic tarp. Not exactly cozy. He wondered if the tarp was meant to be used as his shroud, when it was all over.

He figured he'd better get to it. He searched for a latch for the door; no doubt it was locked from the outside, but there'd be a release from the inside for safety reasons. He found it, and rested momentarily, going over his plan in his mind. -Get as far away as he could, and find a phone— He turned around and gripped the release. The door popped, and he pulled it up as far as he could. It was open by a couple of feet; just enough to squeeze under. He did that; cursing at the pain when he rolled.

And then he was free. He was outside, in a chilly wind, with a thin dusting of snow swirling around his bare feet, but he was free.

Laura washed her face and sipped some water. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, wanting desperately to go back a few hours to when this all made perfect sense, and felt so right. But she couldn't. She decided to go down to her office. -look it up—he'd implored. Well, she was going to.

"Trouble sleeping, dear?"

Her father's voice caused her to jump. Daddy sat in the darkness. She turned on the light, and saw that he hadn't stirred from where he'd sat when she'd turned in earlier. His tea sat cold and untouched on the table beside him. She frowned at that. Dad lived on tea; he used to drink it a dozen times a day. She still felt slightly ill. The room smelled faintly like a piece of bad chicken that had been rolled in baby powder. She'd insisted that he shower when they'd gotten home; his odour had become impossible to ignore, and she'd hoped…well, she really wanted proof that Dean Winchester was wrong. But the shower hadn't solved it; it seemed it had only lessened. And Winchester had said... She couldn't finish the thought, not with her touchy stomach at the moment.

"A bit, Dad. What about you? You should be in bed."

He chuckled. "Yes, dear, I should. But I was thinking too much." He leaned forward and touched her hand. His palm felt like cold rubber against her skin. She resisted her urge to pull away.

"I'm very sad that this thing weighs on you, Laura. I know we wanted justice for our Karin…but I won't have it at the expense my one remaining girl's health.. I think...that you should just go to work tomorrow, and forget about all of this. Things can go back to normal for you. You've built a life and career for yourself; it would be adding insult to injury if we let him ruin that. Let me take care of the rest, love. I think it's best…"

His voice was still so warm, so soothing. She still wanted to believe. She found herself on the verge of agreeing. It would simplify everything, she wouldn't have to have this terrible dilemma anymore. But it wouldn't be right.

"Let me sleep on it, Dad. I know you want what's best for me, but I don't want to have any regrets later."

"Of course." he smiled.

She smiled in return. "Now Dad; you really must go to bed. It's no good to sit here in the dark, thinking alone. You need to rest."

To her relief, he agreed. As he shuffled away, he said- "And don't you stay up too long, or I'll have to come down again and send you to bed."

"I promise, Dad. I'll just get some hot milk; then I'm back in bed."

"Good girl." And he headed up.

When she was sure he was gone, she slipped into the office and began her research. It took some navigating, but dammit, it was there, just as he'd said. Demons, salting the openings at doors and windows; ways to keep them out. The information, along with a hundred other archaic superstitions, was plainly displayed right there on her screen. He wasn't making it up. Her heart beat with a suffocating speed and she shut the computer off, fearful of being seen. She wasn't sure what it meant, or why Dean Winchester knew such strange things; but she knew she had to see,...to test it. If it didn't work, then he was a lying killer just trying to derail her. But if it did…if this really was something other than Dad— She shuddered at the thought. -Demon—he'd said. Something sent from Hell.

She wished she hadn't been so careless with her prayers. She was angry at god, but she'd never meant to call for help from below. It cast everything in a terrible doubt, including Dean Winchester's guilt. After all; wouldn't the devil applaud his sin, if he had done it?

She went to the kitchen and found the tin of salt in the dark cupboard. Luckily it was almost full. She tucked it into her briefcase by the door, and headed back up to her room.

-Ok, Maybe this wasn't such a great idea - Dean thought, as he walked through the frost-stiffened grass at the roadside. He drew a sharp breath every time the damned wind sent a swirl of snow up a pajama leg, and his bare middle was freezing. He finally sat down on a guardrail, exhausted. This was stupid, he really needed to cut his hands free. He looked down, along the road edge, for anything; a can, or a beer bottle, anything that might have an edge.. He found a piece of a pop bottle, but it was frozen into the mud. He pried at it with his toes, cutting himself. At least he knew it was sharp enough. It resisted his attempts to remove it, however, and he had to abandon it and keep looking. His second find was more useful. He picked up the shattered piece of tail light and turned his wrists awkwardly until he could effectively saw at his rope. It seemed to take forever; the red plastic shard, although sharp, wasn't as keen as glass, and the nylon rope proved good and tough. His hand cramped repeatedly, but at last he felt the tether break, and he could finally use his hands. His first order of business was to pull off the wet and freezing bandages, and then to button his thin shirt. His fingers were stiff with the cold and he struggled with the simple task, but after some heartfelt cursing he finally got it. He felt much better once that was done. He pulled his shirt collar over his ears, wrapped his arms around his midriff and continued on in search of a phone.

No cars had passed him. He'd been walking for nearly an hour when a gas station showed in the distance. He nearly cried with relief. He picked up his pace, and made it to a glassed-in phone-booth at the corner of the parking-lot.

One inside, he realized that he didn't have a damned quarter. He nearly gave up right there, he was so tired and cold. -think, Winchester—he growled to himself. He punched zero, and when he got a voice he requested a collect call.

Laura was awakened by her father. She squinted, irritated and tired, at the alarm clock. "Dad, it's 3:30!"

"I know, love. But I have a feeling we should go back to the storage room. I'm worried he may be escaping."

As a matter of fact, the demon was sure he was. He was seething with fury. He knew the moment that pain-in-the-ass had sprung himself, but he could hardly keep revealing his demonic talents to Laura; her faith in him was already shaky enough. He shouldn't have accommodated her, he should have stayed behind and finished his job while she'd gone home. He would have gone and taken care of it himself now, but with this failing body, he needed Laura to get him there.

"Well, why? she asked, sitting up, "How do you know?"

"Just a sixth sense, dear. Hurry, now, go; before he hurts another Karin!"

Laura was confused and fearful. She had intended to see this through at a safer, more methodical rate, in the morning; this early hour panic was the last thing she wanted. She threw on her clothes, grabbed her gun and keys, and her briefcase as they headed out.

They got to the unit, and saw that it was open; light spilling out onto the snow. Laura got out and checked, knowing full well that he was gone. She surveyed the parking lot with a flashlight. It was windy; most evidence of his footfalls would have blown away. But she did see a slight disturbance in the white dusting on the asphalt; a change in the wavy pattern. They weren't footprints but they had a definite direction, one which led up toward the road. She got back in and headed up onto the road in the direction that seemed most likely.

"What does your "sixth sense" say now, Dad? This way?" she growled. She was very unhappy at this development.

"Yes, Laura; this way, dear." The demon was so sick of playing this smarmy, caring role. As soon as he had accomplished his mission, he was going to squash that bitch—

Sam was awakened by his phone. He'd only fallen asleep an hour ago, but once there, he was so deep that it took six rings before he even knew what was disturbing him. "Hi...Hello, Yeah—" he said breathlessly, nearly dropping the cell. Someone, a woman, was asking him something; he agreed to whatever the operator said and then, to his profound relief, he heard Dean's voice. "Dean? Dean?"

"Yeah-"

"Where are you? Are you ok?"

"Uh...I'm up the road from some sort of storage place. Yeah, Store-All. I'm at a gas station...wait—" He squinted through the darkness at the sign. "Looks like a Chevron. I don't...I don't know the road."

"Never mind, I'll look it up! Are you ok? I mean you're not, I know, but...christ we were so worried; we didn't know, well I mean-"

"Quit babbling Sam! Just get out here; I'm freezing!"

"Ok. Stay on the line, Dean, we're coming now-"

"Good…" Once his goal was reached, Dean was utterly spent. He slid down the glass wall of the booth, his nerveless hand letting go of the receiver, and he rested in a shaking heap on the cramped floor.

Sam heard the sounds, followed by a groan. "Dean! Are you still there? Dean!"

Tucking his arms around himself to stay warm, Dean raised his head and acknowledged, directing his voice toward the dangling receiver. "I'm here."

"Hang on!" Sam roused Bobby, who threw on a coat and scurried to the truck to warm it up. Sam went online, got an address for the likely storage place, cross referenced it with Chevron stations, and got a street match, then leapt into the vehicle with the elder hunter. They roared out in search of the station.

All the while, Sam kept his brother talking. "Dean, are you hurt any worse?"

"A little. Jesus Sam, it's a demon! She; the cop, she thinks it's her Dad returned from the dead-"

"Laura Brennen-"

"Yeah, that's right! She thinks I killed her sister, Sam, and her dad came back to help her...to help with her vengeance. But the demon doesn't really give a shit about that, it wants me out of the way...I don't know w-why yet, exactly….but…this is how…he got through…..some freaking demon-technicality." He had trouble speaking, he shivered so hard now.

"Stay with me Dean."

"I'm...tired, Sam…"

"I know, but keep talking!"

"They wanted to …make me pay… for hurting her. They had me tied in a storage unit." Dean stopped, blinded suddenly by headlights. "Is that you, Sam? Shit, turn down your high-beams, I can't see!"

"What? ..No Dean, we're still on the highway-"

"Aw crap-"

"Dean! What's going on? Who is it? Dean!" Frantic, Sam strained to hear his answer, but what he heard instead froze his blood. He heard a thump, and then the unmistakable sound of his brother's howl, followed by an ear-splitting shattering of glass. And then nothing.

"Jesus, Bobby, floor it!"

He didn't have to say it, a grim-faced Bobby, hearing the exchange, had already red-lined it.

Directed by her father, Laura Brennen had pulled in front of the phone booth. She saw immediately that he was right; Winchester sat huddled on the floor of the glass enclosure. For a moment her rage returned, and she drew her gun and yelled at him to get up and walk out. But he never had a chance to obey-

Daddy, too, had left the car. He raised his hand, chanting something in words Laura didn't understand. Then she stood, open mouthed, as her hapless prisoner was drawn up the inside of the booth by a power that was clearly not his own, and pulled so hard against the thick plate glass that it shattered under the pressure and he was flung against the hood of her car. He struggled for a moment, terrified and disoriented, but he stayed there, unnaturally; crucified like some pinned moth. She tore her gaze away from him, staring at her father. She saw a fury in him that she had never witnessed before.

"Dad? Daddy..?" she faltered.

"Shut-up, Love! Daddy will handle this now!" He strode toward Dean, leaned over him, and gripped a hand viciously against his wounded side. "Beg me!" he snarled. "Beg my master to spare you!"

Dean's eyes widened, but he gathered a breath and growled back- "Go back to hell, you stinking sonofabitch!"

The Demon dug his fingers in hard, tearing the cloth and burying his septic yellow nails deep into the gash in Dean's ribs. The hunter arched against the hood and tore out a strangled scream.

"ENOUGH! Stop it! Dad, please—!"

'Daddy' laughed and released him, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence and stepping back as Dean slid off the hood and landed in a heap and curled up, moaning, on the ground at her feet. It was the rabbit of her nightmare all over again. "Fine, my darling Laura. You do it. Kill him. It's what you want; you know it is…you brought us all to this!" He stood back with an exaggerated gesture of offering. His eyes were a solid black.

She was horrified, but she nodded. "Yes, Dad...it's what I wanted, just as you said. But not my gun. ..I want a knife!"

He grinned his approval. She reached into her car, pretending to retrieve one. She swiftly opened her briefcase and gripped the salt tin. She pried the lid off with shaking hands and dumped it in a hasty but solid ring around herself and Dean, finishing the circle in a panic as Daddy came round the car to witness. She threw the empty tin at him and tucked her limbs behind the safety of the unbroken salt line. Tears streamed down her face, and she howled at him-

"YOU- ARE-NOT- MY -FATHER!"

What she saw then, she would never forget. The figure that she had so willingly accepted as her kind and loving Dad now changed. It screamed in unearthly fury; lunging and clawing at them, but stopping each time just short of the salt line. –he was right, he was right- She wept in terror and covered her ears and shut her eyes, as it raged all around them. Dean was writhing in pain. She clung to him, whispering and sobbing; begging him to lie still, to stay within the safety of the circle; for the love of god, don't break the line-

At that moment, she heard the roaring engine of a truck. It screeched to a stop with a spray of ice, and two figures leapt out. When she dared to raise her head, she saw them splatter the demon with water, which steamed and bubbled as the creature screamed. An older man was chanting Latin as the younger one continued to shower it with water. Any resemblance to her Dad was gone. It distorted, twisted; and it plucked and tore at the dead flesh it inhabited, until black, sulphurous filth spewed from it's mouth in a final wail, fleeing like smoke into the pre-dawn sky. What remained, dropped lifeless, with a sodden finality, onto the pavement.