A/N: Here's the next piece, folks! As always, thanks to my amazing beta, Pickwick 12, grammar goddess and queen of commas!
Somewhere, Sam was screaming. The sound tore into his chest like an iron hook, pulling him up from the blood-tinged blackness where it felt like he'd been sleeping forever. Sam . . . don't worry, Sammy. I'm coming. Dean fought to open his eyes but his lids felt soldered shut. His mouth tasted like blood. Where was he? Why did his head weigh a million pounds? Still, the screams echoed in his dark confusion. He had to get to Sam.
No. Sam was dead. He had let him fall into the Cage. Why could he still hear him screaming?
"Look, kid, I'll give you one more fucking chance . . ."
"I TOLD you . . . already . . . you . . . can't – AAAAAAHHH . . ."
It all came rushing back into Dean's aching head. Seth. He had to help Seth. His eyes shot open. With vision that kept switching from double to triple and back, he saw Walt standing over the teenage librarian, one boot putting cruel pressure on the boy's shattered shoulder. By the time Dean's awareness came into true focus, Seth's screams had turned into soft, desperate sobs.
"Please, mister . . . please just . . . just stop. . . Stop . . ."
The boot stomped down on the kid's side, and Dean almost screamed himself at the sound of the ribs giving way.
Rage boiled in his gut as he tried to figure out how to move his limbs. He imagined shooting Walt in the groin and watching him bleed out, then getting Cas to bring him back just so he could do it again. He let the anger wrestle with his physical helplessness, knowing it was capable of powering him past injury and pain. His right hand, flopping and twitching under the drawer-unit of the desk, suddenly brushed up against cold metal.
Gun. The kid had said something about a gun hidden in the desk. Dean closed his eyes, forgetting the rest of his body as he willed his right hand to work for him.
"Roy, goddammit, Nine-Lives over here's waking up. If you're not gonna shoot him at least tie him to the desk so he's not in the way."
It was now or never. The gun unhooked from the bottom of the desk and Dean wrenched himself up into the best shooting stance he could manage considering he was still seeing double.
He saw Walt bring his rifle up and around, and Dean pulled the trigger. Unfortunately his eyes had picked the wrong Walt to aim at and the bullet flew past the hunter's head and pierced the Codex's glass case.
An unearthly, ear-shattering shriek filled the room. Walt and Roy stumbled backwards, covering their ears. The room shook as a blinding sphere of hot red light began to grow in the air above the book. Dean had just enough time to grab Seth and pull him behind the desk before the room exploded.
"Sir, you really do need to sit down and let us look at you."
"Lady, don't touch me." Dean held a warning finger up to the EMS tech and coughed harshly into the sleeve of his jacket. "I am just dandy, and now that I've given my statement I'll be on my way."
"Sir," said the pretty paramedic, "pardon me, but that's bullshit. I can tell just looking at you, you're suffering from smoke inhalation, a 3rd-stage concussion and at-least-second-degree burns. There's no way you're walking out of here."
The cute ones were always the sharpest, Dean griped to himself. "Watch me," he grumbled as he headed on unsteady feet back to his truck, past the flashing lights of what he was sure was every emergency vehicle in the county. He'd stumbled out of the burning bar 15 minutes earlier with Seth in his arms, to find Brighamton's Best waiting for him. A neighbour had called when he'd heard the explosion, and as it was Dean was happy to send them back into the quickly disintegrating building to drag out Seth's dad. EMS had pounced on the unconscious father and son and carried them off in wailing ambulances before Dean had caught his breath enough to explain to the local sheriff about the petty robbery attempt, the exchange of gunfire (this was a concealed-carry state after all and a man had the right to feel safe in his own bar), the stray bullet that must have sparked a gas main, and the subsequent escape of the suspects. For there was no sign of Roy & Walt, and the lack of their tell-tale red van in the parking lot meant that, as much as Dean wished it were true, they were not currently being turned into Kentucky-Fried-Idiot within the ill-fated building.
But this time, he swore to himself as started the engine and pulled out onto the road, he wasn't letting them go. Dean pulled out his phone and dialled a familiar number.
Two rings, then, "This is Singer."
"Bobby – I need everything you've got on Roy Myers and Walt Collins."
"What do those two sons-a-bitches have to do with the Utnapishtim Codex?"
"Everything, now that the Codex is a pile of ashes."
"Are you alright, boy? You sound like you just smoked the state of North Carolina."
"I'm fine." Dean paused for several awkward moments as his lungs tried to hack out the ash clogging them. "Do you have anything on those maniacs or what? I need any place they might go or hide within driving distance of Brighamton."
"Are we talking 'really fine'-fine or Dean-fine?"
"Bobby, did you not hear me asking you for information?"
"Hold your horses and watch your tone, boy – the computer's still booting. What's this about the Codex being a pile of ash?"
"Just call me back when you have a clue where I can find these bastards, alright?!"
Dean hung up and dialled 411. In 60 seconds he'd been connected to the head of the ER at Brighamton General.
"This is Dr. Curry – to whom am I speaking?"
"Dr. Curry, this is Dr. Cooper at Fairbanks Memorial. I have a patient here who just received word that her father and brother are being treated in your ER, and she was desperate for me to try and get some news on their condition. Doctor to doctor, you understand."
"What were the names?"
"Um, last name's Holden . . . she has really bad handwriting. The boy's name is Seth."
"Oh, them. Well, the dad's open-and-shut – just a bad concussion and some smoke inhalation. He's coming round as we speak. The brother's condition is less . . . stable."
"What's the prognosis?"
"Well, between losing 4 pints of blood and the pneumothorax of the right lung, it's touch and go - they had to start his heart twice in the ambulance. He's in surgery right now. We won't really be able to say until he pulls through that."
"Right, thanks. I appreciate it – I'll pass that info along."
Dean hung up, threw the cell phone down and punched the accelerator to 95.
Dean had stopped for gas when his phone rang again. "Talk to me, Bobby."
"What's all this chatter I hear about Holden's place exploding?"
"It's evidently the chain reaction which occurs when you mix Roy & Walt with anything old, valuable, and remotely dangerous. Do you have my info or not?"
"You're not walking around with a door-jamb through your stomach like that one time, are you?"
"Bobby. For. The Last. Time. I'm fine, but I just watched those two worthless shitpissers shoot and torture a kid near-to-death in front of me, and I am not gonna rest until I've ended them! So – names! Addresses! Leads! Now."
Bobby sighed. "Walt's cousin owns a brewery not far from there. Last time it brewed anything was 1974, but the family still has the property. It's pretty remote – Dean, I don't think you should go into this on your own. Can't you wait for me or Rufus or Jake to get there?"
"I waited once before, Bobby, and this is where it got me."
"Look – they were in the explosion too. Maybe they're hurt and will have to hole up for a few days. Maybe they have a few ex-friends who owe me a favour. Be smart about this, Dean!"
"Just tell me where the brewery is, Bobby, so help me . . ."
"If you're heading west on 70, go north on 92. It'll be 10 miles past the right turn at mile-marker 30."
"Thanks. I'll call you when it's done."
"You'd better. Dean, promise me you'll be –" Dean closed his phone and sped towards the exit for Hwy 92.
The afternoon sun sat heavy in the sky by the time Dean saw the brewery on the horizon. Bobby had been right – he'd passed the last human-built structure miles before, and the long, squat buildings sat surrounded by nothing but fallow fields. There was no way he could approach from cover. He eased off the accelerator, hoping he could at least avoid announcing his arrival with the growl of the Chevy's engine.
Dean sighed. His adrenaline level had dropped over the past hour of driving, and without it he was starting to feel just how beat up he was. The back of his hands and head stung like the worst possible sunburn. He was pretty sure he was carrying wood splinters around in his back and legs. His head and jaw ached like he was coming off a week-long bender. And he still couldn't manage to catch a good breath without coughing.
"Dean, you are one fucked idiot," he said, smiling to himself as he watched the brewery's smokestacks grow taller with proximity..
The phone buzzed on the seat next to him. He glanced at the display – it was Ben. His hand hovered over the phone for a few seconds, then he picked up.
"What's up, sport?"
"Hey Dean – Mom wants to know if you're still at Costco."
"Uhhh, yeah. Yeah, I was, um, just in line to check out. What's up?"
"She forgot to tell you to get the catfish for the Little League Fish Fry on Saturday."
"Oh, okay, yeah, uh, I'll go get that right now."
"Thanks. Um . . . you okay, Dean? You sound like you're coming down with something."
A cough stopped Dean's concocted answer. He heard Lisa's voice in the background.
"Mom says if you're sick you should come straight home and skip the bar."
"Nah, no, I'm not sick," said Dean, trying to clear his throat. "This, um, this lady . . . handed me this sample of habanero salsa … and damn if it didn't go down the wrong pipe . . ."
"Right. Well . . . see you tonight, Dean!"
"Wait! Ben!"
"Yeah, Dean?"
Dean ran a hand down his face and sighed. "Um, nothing. Sorry – there was something I meant to tell your mom but I . . . uh . . . I forgot. This Costco place is turning my head. Too big."
"You're weird, Dean."
For moment Dean countenanced turning around, returning to the land of the living – the land of Lisa and Ben and Fish-Fries and Little League. Leaving the monster in the closet. Keeping his promise to Sam. Taking care of his new-found family.
But the first rule of being a Winchester was that monsters never stayed in closets. And the moment you no longer watched the darkness was the day the darkness took everything you loved. Hell, most of the time you managed to keep evil in your sights and it still got the better of you. When life gave you the opportunity to rid the world of scum once and for all, you took it.
"Right back at you, squirt."
"Bye!"
"Goodbye, Ben."
Dean silenced his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and pulled through the entrance gate of the brewery.
As always, reviews are highly appreciated! Two more chapters and it should be all done!