A/N: The views expressed by Nathan Beck are his, and his alone. It's his take on the Winchesters, and as usual, he's got it all wrong. There's rough language and rough visuals ahead, so you have been warned. Also chapter title taken from the song God's Gonna Cut You Down. I love the version by Johnny Cash.


Chapter 39 - run on for a long time

Tall orange flames followed Beck up out of the dark. He could smell smoke in the air, but that wasn't the only thing that made him stutter and cough. What splashed against his face felt cold and wet, and for one brief panic-stricken moment he imagined it was gasoline. It stung his skin, burned the inside of his nose and mouth. He jerked backward and grunted as his back thumped heavily into something hard and solid. Felt like he was hugging himself; he couldn't move his arms, something pressed hard against the space between his legs.

"Come on, wake the hell up," a voice rumbled.

Beck breathed in great gulps of air.

water…

Something hard and warm slammed into the side of his head. His head wobbled from side to side as he opened his eyes.

Everything was hazy at first, but after a few frantic eyeblinks Beck could see clearly enough.

" 'bout time," the man in black drawled. "Don't want you to sleep through this, princess."

"Elroy…" Beck said muzzily. That…wasn't…right…

"John Winchester. Like the rifle," Beck mumbled.

Winchester nodded calmly.

Beck looked down at himself. There was a disconnect, at first, a moment in which he couldn't recognize what bound him. He stared dully at the white material, until his mind finally churned out a name to fit what he was looking at.

White canvas.

Blonde leather straps.

Shiny silver duct tape.

He had on a straightjacket. He was sitting in a wooden chair.

He was duct-taped to the chair.

The more Beck stared, the clearer things became. He had a straightjacket like this.

At the house.

At his house….

This sonofabitch was in his house.

Winchester laughed. He looked dark and scruffy underneath the bright overhead lights. "I've heard of people bringing their work home with 'em, but you take the cake."

Beck forced himself to take deep breaths. Something was wrong here, and he couldn't put his finger on it. His chest itched underneath the white canvas. The straightjacket strap between his legs was pulled too tight.

Beck glanced around the room. Bare brick walls, dirty grey concrete floors. Aside from the chair, the only other objects in the room was a large wooden table and a small olive drab canvas duffel bag. The only door was painted a faded green color, and from what he could see it opened out onto a dimly lit hallway. This place had the look of an abandoned warehouse or factory somewhere.

Beck cleared his throat. "So. This the part where you fuck me up?"

Winchester shrugged carelessly. "Nah. I already started that a couple of hours ago." He reached into his jacket pocket and Beck willed himself not to flinch.

The cell phone looked small and puny in that large, calloused hand.

"Let's see now…" Winchester thumbed the buttons, looked at the small screen and smiled. He smelled faintly of gasoline. And smoke. "Here we go."

He held the cell up in front of Beck's nose. Beck stared at it, nearly cross-eyed, until the cell was moved back far enough for him to focus on the captured image.

"Nice house," the bastard rumbled. "Well, at least it was."

Beck squinted as Winchester scrolled through several images. A close-up of flames shooting out of windows. Another shot, further away this time, just far enough back for the house number to be revealed. .

"You…you burned down my house?" Beck rasped hoarsely.

Another casual shrug. "Yep. Just before we left."

"You son of a bitch…"

"And your SUV," the man added mildly. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, then leaned back against the table behind him and folded his arms. Sumbitch looked pretty damn pleased with himself. "You had a lot of chemicals in your basement. Made the fire catch that much quicker. I could've called the cops, let them see that drug lab of yours. Watching it all burn was more fun." Winchester nodded at the straightjacket. "I saved you a party favor, though."

Beck made quick calculations inside his head. His rainy day fund was about one hundred eighty thousand now, thanks mostly to the sales of those devil's sunrise pills. Rainy day, hell; this was the freaking monsoon season right now. As much as he loved money, Beck loved living and breathing more. He could always make more money.

Backwoods hoodoo survivalist. That was what the black fed called this John Winchester. John boy probably financed his operations using his kids. Judging by the way he allowed Beck to grope him at Rae's Pub that day, it was obvious the youngest, that Sam, was a pro. Dean had a face and a body made for fucking. It was very likely Winchester trained his boys himself.

That would explain Dean's Daddy issues, although Beck just couldn't see the resemblance between him and Papa. Winchester was older. They were both dark haired with stubble; Winchester's was heavier and had grey in it. Having Daddy diddle him all the time and living that life might have been the reason Dean cracked up in the first place. Couldn't take it anymore, so he went mental and left, but he couldn't escape.

Daddy tracked him down, finally came to Sweetbriar to get his pretty little money maker back.

Beck considered the possibility then, that he might be able to get out of here in one piece. He hadn't killed the kid. He just fucked him whenever he wanted to. That wasn't worth dying over, right? This was strictly business.

So far whatever damage Beck took was just the cost of doing business. He was still alive, still had all his limbs and fingers and toes, as far as he could tell.

Get your ego out of this. He's fucking with you, that's all. Time to talk, and talk fast.

Beck cleared his throat. "I got a proposition for you."

A curt nod was the only answer.

"You wanna get paid for him, is that it? Get paid for the time I spent with him? All right. I've got money."

More than you'll ever make out on the road, old man.

Something dark flickered in Winchester's eyes, and then was gone just as quickly. There was no other reaction, other than a slight tensing of those broad shoulders.

All right then. Papa had the look of a man who knew the value of a dollar.

Payment was due.

"Dean's a sweet kid. Real fuckable. But I guess you already knew that, right? He's rough trade, huh? I saw all those scars on him. Hell, I tasted every one of 'em."

No reaction. Not even a twitch. That made Beck feel better. Bolder. This was business, after all.

"I'm clean. I used a condom every time. I figure six month's worth wear and tear." Beck shrugged. He felt better about this all of a sudden. "Probably did less damage to him than some of his dates ever did."

"Is that a fact?" Winchester said quietly.

Yeah, Elroy. Beck tried not to smile. That's a fact.

Beck nodded instead. "I can get my hands on sixty thousand. You let me go, you can have it all. You get me to the bank in the morning, let me walk away alive, as far as I'm concerned none of this happened."

"Uh huh. Sixty thousand, huh?"

"That's right. We'll be square after that. No harm, no foul."

"Huh." The man seemed to freeze in place, unblinking, as though he was frankly surprised by the offer. Dean wasn't worth all that, of course. He was disobedient and mouthy, even drugged up, but he was still tight and gorgeous looking besides. Beck had to admit he did enjoy hearing the kid moan (please…more…harder): the sense memory of Dean's tongue moving slowly against his skin sent a small shiver up Beck's spine.

"Okay." Winchester stood up, reached underneath his black jacket and pulled this oversized Bowie knife from his belt sheath.

Beck tried not to smile as the man cut the duct tape wound around his chest with swift strokes.

Winchester slipped the knife back into the sheath. Beck leaned forward and the straps of the straightjacket were unbuckled. Beck shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall to the floor.

His arms and legs felt stiff. His balls ached. Head was a little fuzzy, but it was all right now. Money talked, bullshit walked. Those dead presidents Beck dangled in front of this hick talked louder and clearer than any morals or family ties ever did. It was the way of the world.

"You okay?" Papa rumbled.

Beck nodded.

"Good." Winchester's left arm lashed out like a piston. His fist slammed into the center of Beck's face. The sound of cartilage crunching made Papa smile.

For a brief second Beck realized he'd been hit, and then everything went white.


The imiia curled in on itself. Hunger rippled through its slick pearl grey skin. When that lone hunter came in the night six months ago the creature was caught so very easily, starving and then trapped inside the box it lay in. It was so weak it didn't fight much when the hunter came back and bled it with that silver knife of his. Its blood was thin and clear, like water.

It pushed against the walls, imagined sinking its member into warm, living flesh. The images made the creature mewl and chatter out loud.


Beck stared up in shock.

"N-not fair…w-we we had a d-damn d-deal," he wheezed foggily. Yep, sounded like his nose was broken, all right.

"Fair? Fair? I'll give you the same damn chance you gave my son." Winchester lashed out with his left foot. Steel toed work boots, by the feel of it. The impact lifted Beck up off the floor. Four of his ribs cracked, a bright, quick sound like brittle branches snapping, and the jolt he felt when he hit the ground all sprawled out on his belly was just one more layer of pain on top of another.

Beck gasped as fingers twined in his hair, gripped tight and pulled him upwards. He twisted his head around and sank his teeth into the side of Winchester's leg, nearly gagged as the sharp taste of fear and black cloth filled his mouth.

"g-got m-more…I'll – I'll pay…" He hated the way his voice broke, like some shaky punk bitch trying to talk his way out of a beatdown.

The fingers in Beck's hair tightened and yanked upwards painfully. Beck suddenly found himself nose to nose with the man.

"Yeah. You sure will." Papa John winked at him, his eyes alight with a dark, murderous glint.

Right then and there Beck was pretty damn sure they weren't on the same page.

Fucked...I'm fucked…

Beck stopped thinking then. Adrenaline surged through his body, made him almost light-headed. He threw punches, watched as his fists connected, face, chest and stomach, saw the bruises darken Winchester's face, felt the man's blood on his knuckles.

They stood toe to toe trading punches, and the bastard would not back off.

Everything slowed down as Winchester's right fist slammed into Beck's mouth, followed by a another fist to the ribs. White hot pain flared. Beck howled as he lunged forward, head lowered. They took a few stumble-steps backward and landed on the table.

The back of John-boy's head bounced off the table with a satisfying thunk.

Beck was on top, knees on either side of the man. Winchester's arms were pinned against his body. Beck couldn't remember how or when he got his hands on the Bowie knife from Papa's belt sheath, but there it was, in his hand, light from the overheads reflecting off bright, clean steel.

Winchester looked dazed. Beck fisted the knife hilt and slammed it down.

Papa jerked his head sharply to the side. The tip of the blade dug into the tabletop less than an inch away from the side of his face.

Damn thing was stuck somehow.

"What?" Beck snarled. He worked the knife from side to side as he tried to free the blade and swipe it sideways into Winchester's head. "You didn't like hearing how I fucked your boy? Huh, Daddy?" Beck leaned down. "He used to beg me, all nice and sweet and rough. Harder…please…more…"

John Winchester growled, a low, thunderous rumble that vibrated the air between them.

He lifted his head and shoulders up, snapped his head forward. His forehead smashed directly into Back's already mangled nose, once, then twice.

"Shit!" Beck screamed. "SHIT!" He saw stars, he saw constellations. The knife slid free of the tabletop, and Beck blindly slashed down with it again.

There was a moment when he actually thought he'd gotten the fucker, imagined the blade hit something solid, but judging from the way Winchester was moving, that was false hope. The pain in Beck's nose was quickly joined by the further agony of a knee to the balls.

Beck's grip on the knife loosened. His knife arm was knocked sideways and in the next instant his head filled with a godawful ringing as both ears were cuffed hard enough to rock his head back.

His fingers twitched open, and the knife fell. Everything went blurry; he couldn't see where it went. It skittered across wood and then concrete as it dropped off the edge and slid across the floor.

A large calloused hand slid up, grabbed his left ear, twisted, pulled him down. There were so many blows Beck lost count, hits to his chin, mouth, chest and stomach, hard and fast. He nearly screamed again as Winchester twisted his ear even harder, felt like the bastard was trying to twist it right off, and then Beck stumbled backwards, flailing, wildly off balance. He turned, crashed into the wooden chair and as it fell backwards Beck rode it down to the floor and then face-planted right into dirty concrete.

Winchester was getting up. He could hear the grunt the man made, the rustle of his clothing, and that was more than enough to get Beck moving again. He scrambled forward. He had a good sense of where the door was, even though he still couldn't see worth a damn, so he headed for it.

More adrenaline, a quick jolt of fear that sharpened his sight to crystal clarity. Beck looked back.

Winchester raised up halfway from the table, on his elbows. That steady gaze of his was locked on Beck like a gunsight. Despite the bruises and the blood there was something biblical about him. Old Testament. Wrath of god stuff. Like that avenging angel crap Grandma Beck used to rant about.

You reap what you sow, Nattie. You reap what you sow.

He'd pretended he was sad at her funeral, but he really wasn't.

All I did was fuck that bastard son of his, Beck thought to himself as he scrambled to his feet. I didn't kill him.

"Come on, you sonofabitch! Come on!" Winchester roared.

Beck ran.


No sense in trying any of the other doors on either side of the hall. Beck didn't even try. He slammed into the door at the end of the hallway. The door swung open and he let his momentum carry him forward and down. Beck took the stairs four at a time. He slid down the railing, leaned against the walls, scraped his bare skin but none of that mattered now.

Down was better than up. Down meant street level. Down meant exits.

He could sense Winchester in the hallway above and behind him, a dark shadow, an enormous freak lightning storm on the horizon.

Beck ran, and he regretted the first time he ever saw wide moss green eyes, tasted freckled golden skin. He cursed the day he ever laid eyes on Dean Winchester, or John Doe 317, or whatever the hell the kid's name was.

The stairwell opened out into another dimly lit hallway and Beck kept right on running, stumbling, half crouching underneath the dim overhead lights. He couldn't catch his breath, but he couldn't stop. The skin on his chest itched, a maddening tingle that was just underneath his skin. He scratched at his skin as he stumble-stepped along, and it didn't matter that he dug his nails in so deep he drew blood.

That was the least of his worries now.

Beck nearly laughed out loud when he found that unlocked metal hatch in the floor. Down was better. Yeah, it was. Better than what was behind him.

He stared down into the hatch. It was more of the same. He had to move forward.

The air was stale, dusty at first. He could smell water, see pipes along the walls. Occasionally the concrete above his head rumbled and the pipes rattled.

There was a change in the air; he could feel it and smell it. He couldn't identify it at first, then it hit him.

Fresh air. Fresh air mixed with car exhaust, and even that smelled sweet, clean, and pure.

Traffic. Cars. Trucks.

He wasn't clear, not completely, not yet, but adrenaline surged through him, made him forget the pain in his left hand, the ache in his head and body. Street level, right over his head. That meant access tunnels.

That meant outside.

Beck turned and threw his left hand up. His fingers throbbed, but he managed to give the darkness beyond the lights the finger.

Fuck you, Winchesters! Fuck all of you!

He scrambled forward, towards the door at the opposite end. He unlatched the metal door, and nearly fell flat on his face as his legs bumped hard into the bottom ledge. The door was just an oversized hatch set in the wall.

Beck recovered enough to pull himself up and forward. There was a metal gate that stretched from ceiling to floor just inside the door. No lock, just a simple latch. Another push, and Beck stood inside.

The room was a small one. It was dim inside; he couldn't see much at first. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness Beck could see this large wooden box inside. Looked like a coffin.

He scowled at this faint skritching sound, like claws on wood. Sewer rats, probably.

Damn. The itch in his skin flared up. He scratched absent-mindedly as he crept further into the room and looked around. No ladders, no access hatches that he could see. He'd have to backtrack then, see what those other side tunnels had to offer.

Beck turned around to leave. A man shape moved in the darkness in front of him, and he had just enough time to think, Fuck, not again…

The metal gate slammed into his face and everything went white.


Beck gradually realized he was sitting on the floor with his back against that large wooden box. The overhead lights were on, brighter than they had been before. Looked like somebody put new bulbs in the sockets.

His ass hurt. He was on the floor now, sitting with his right arm outstretched over the box lid. The box shook, as though it was excited that he was touching it. Something inside squeaked and purred. Beck jerked his arm away as though he'd been burnt by the contact.

He didn't like that sound.

He didn't like what he saw when he looked up.

The gate was padlocked, with a thick silver chain and a matching lock. John Winchester stood on the other side, in front of the open hatch.

Winchester was doing something.

For a moment Beck imagined he could smell gasoline; the sharp, pungent smell filled his nostrils, overrode any sense of caution he might have felt. Fear and panic froze his insides as he scrambled to his feet and stumbled towards the gate.

He could see more clearly now. There was another design on the inside part of the hatch, more circles within circles, drawn in red this time. Winchester held a large white sack in his hands, not a gas can. He poured out a thick line of something white and grainy on the floor in front of the gate.

He whistled while he worked. Beck didn't recognize the tune.

The smile Winchester aimed at him was bright and wicked, sharp enough to cut. He nodded, then went back to wordlessly laying down thick white lines.

Beck stared at the white stuff on the ground. Was that…was that salt? He stared at the symbols on the outside walls and the hatch.

Fucking hillbilly freak.

Maybe the deal could still happen. Everybody could use money, right? It was all he had left. "You want more than I offered you. Is that what this is all about?"

Two things happened next, at the same time.

The itch in Beck's skin grew. It deepened, felt like something was burrowing underneath his skin, right down to the bone. Beck looked down and saw marks in his chest, red marks that raised up even as he stared open-mouthed at himself. It was some design, a circle with an upside down triangle in the middle. Symbols raised up out of his skin around the edges of the triangle, and God it hurt so bad he stumbled forwards against the gate.

The box behind him moved.

It jumped up in the air, about two inches off the floor.

Beck turned around, startled. The wooden lid bulged upwards and outwards, splintered, then cracked. The bottom and the sides split open as something pushed its way out.

Looking at it made Beck's eyes hurt.

Pearl grey skin shimmered underneath the lights. The mouth stretched from ear to ear, wide, sharklike. Beck saw large red eyes, lidless, slick pearl grey skin, and limbs that were too long and oddly bent in the wrong direction to be human. When it rose up to its full height it stood a full head taller than Beck.

The thing purred; it cooed to itself as those large red eyes roamed all over Beck's body.

It was happy.

"What the fuck is that?" Beck backed up. "What the fuck is that-"

"That? That's your new room-mate. They call it an imiia." Winchester shrugged, even though he knew Beck couldn't see the gesture.

A slit opened up between the creature's legs. Something red, scaly, and as thick as a man's arm slid out. The tip was streaked with thick white slime, and it wavered in the air in Beck's direction.

"Huh. Love at first sight. Imagine that."

Beck moaned, low and desperate.

"I figure you two got a lot in common." Papa John's tone was casual. He might have been discussing a baseball game, or something he'd seen on television. "You told me you had perks, remember, back at Sweetbriar? Well, in my line of work, this is one of mine."

"Your…your line of work?" Beck pressed backwards into the bars. It looked like he was trying to ooze his way out between them. It didn't work. Nothing did. He locked his knees to stop them from shaking, but that didn't work either. "What did you do to me -"

"I marked you. With its blood."

"You…you what?"

"Oh yeah. Just wanted to make sure the two of you got along, that's all."

Tears ran down Beck's face, trickled down his neck, and splashed onto the marks on his chest as the imiia slid across the floor at him. It clicked and chattered excitedly at him.

He turned around and frantically pulled at the gate with both hands. He didn't want to turn his back, he didn't, but he had to, he couldn't look…

Beck froze. The creature settled against him from behind. One of the limbs twined itself around his waist, then another, and then two more.

"Pl-please…" Beck moaned softly. "Please…" The imiia purred as it nuzzled and nipped at the space between his neck and shoulder.

"Sorry, what was that? Can't hear you," Winchester cocked his head to one side.

Beck jerked forward as a long snakelike tongue flicked across his left cheek, leaving a trail of slime behind. Something fumbled with the fly of his pants. His knuckles went white; he tightened his grip on the bars of the gate as his pants were lowered around his ankles.

"I didn't hurt Dean. I didn't," Beck whimpered.

Winchester's eyes narrowed. He leaned in close. "You were fucked the moment you touched my son," he whispered fiercely.

"I didn't hurt Dean. I didn't I didn't-" He was babbling now, useless words rushing out, and none of that mattered.

The imiia pushed into Beck from behind. His eyes bulged. "Don't leave me like this. Don't -"

Winchester stepped through to the outside and closed the door behind him.

He was filled, nearly bursting, and this was only the beginning. He didn't want this. Didn't want any of this...

Another push from behind, and Beck screamed, loud and long.


Not gonna die, John thought dully. I can't. I gotta see my boys.

He leaned back against the door, closed his eyes and breathed in and out, riding the wave of light-headedness and pain that threatened to send him to his knees. The blood on his black jacket was barely noticeable. His side ached and throbbed, a very solid reminder that he'd nearly fucked up big-time.

The smart play would have been to keep Beck in the straightjacket and drag him down to the tunnels like that. That would have been the smart play, but John wanted to kick Beck's ass.

For Dean.

And if John really wanted to admit it, for himself.

Beck tagged him with the knife upstairs during the fight. One good knife stroke, right in the side. John told himself that didn't matter, but he couldn't let on that he was hurt that badly. If he'd gotten his stupid ass killed, that would have been his own damn fault.

Beck screamed out once more, a low gobbling sound that trailed off.

John breathed, in and out, and he ignored the thumping and the low moans from the other side of the door. Sounded like Beck and the iimaii were getting pretty lively in there. It would keep Beck alive as long as it could. Days, weeks, maybe.

Neither one of them would ever see the outside world again.

He'd trapped the critter months ago, but he didn't kill it then.

And he didn't know why.

So he brought it here, kept it hidden away, for God only knew what. It came in handy. It all fit.

God works in mysterious ways. John laughed tiredly at the thought.

He opened his eyes. He very slowly pulled his jacket open, hiked his shirt up and looked at the field dressing he'd applied. A few spots of bright red blood marked the white gauze, but the tape held steady. He pushed himself up, back flat against the door, and waited. The room stopped swimming around him.

All right then. Time to man up, push though this.

He still had work to do.

John smiled a little as he thought of the cement mixer he'd stolen off that construction lot nearby.

Nothing was set in stone, or rock.

But soon, this entire tunnel would be.


Next: Dean, Sam and Bobby. One more chapter and an epilogue.