None Goes His Way Alone
By Coffeemaniac
Not Slash
A/N: Set in Season 1. After Shadow but before Devil's Trap.
A/N: One of the reviews I received asked if Chapter 8 had been the last for this story. For that reason, I'm posting another chapter this morning and letting those that are reading know that we're not done yet. There's still a couple of loose ends to tie up.
A/N: Thank you to all those who are reviewing, following and making this story a favorite. I think I'd still write no matter what, but your reviews make it more fun and interesting and I get to correspond with new people which is a bonus. I'd like to thank Guest Reviewer Queen Bee for her reviews. I appreciate them!
"There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others comes back into our own." (Edwin Markham)
The Revenge
Michael Battle leaned into the shade of his old Alero. Extra dark tint plus the tree overhanging the car hid his presence. At a glance, it would look like another empty vehicle parked in the hotel lot.
Despite the warmth of the day, he only cracked the back windows to let some air in. Heat had gathered around him but he wouldn't risk starting the engine and allowing anyone to notice the hum of the engine or emission from the tail pipe.
He flexed his hands restlessly as he watched the Winchester brothers park and go inside their room. Seeing them reminded him of the Balin brothers and that sent a pang of loss through him.
He could still see Scott mounting the steps, black eyes making him look evil, while he fired round after round. Battle hadn't hesitated to kill him. Aggression purchased aggression. His old C.O. in Afghanistan taught him that. After Scott crumpled, Battle's memory hazed out only to return with a horrible vengeance as he watched his hands release Dean Winchester from his bindings. The words he spoke made no sense and he couldn't understand what was happening. His body moved and his mind thought but none of it belonged to him.
His fingers felt Eric's skin, his ears heard Eric wheeze as his hand squeezed. Battle's eyes watched as Eric slid impossibly fast across the floor only to end with a sickening crack that punctuated his dying breath.
When Sam Winchester started speaking Latin, Battle remembered an intense pain and yet, despite feeling it burn, he was somehow cut off from it. And then there was choking and black smoke and screaming and nothing.
When he started to wake he listened to the conversation around him. An ingrained habit developed from living a life of caution, he concentrated on his surroundings before revealing consciousness. When Sam's father said that Battle was possessed, Battle didn't understand the words. Hours passed before it made sense.
Sam and Dean weren't psychopaths or misguided. Demons existed and one had used Battle to kill the Balin brothers in a siege aimed at freeing the younger Winchester. Battle didn't know why and he didn't care. Somehow that boy had summoned a demon to save him and regardless of Jacob Moore's wishes, Battle couldn't let that go unanswered.
Once he managed to figure out what happened at the house, Battle phoned his client. He couldn't give him a report on the impossible through a telephone line so he met with Moore in his office. It took hours to convince Moore that he wasn't crazy. It took seeing photographs that the police collected at the crime scene. It took finding the autopsy report about Mary Winchester and comparing it to the one about Jessica. It took an internet search into demons and Battle's own tale to finally make a dent in Moore's belief system. And even when Battle refused to take the second half of his fee and Moore decided to drop his vendetta, Battle still didn't think the other man really accepted his story.
He stared at the closed door of Winchester's room, noting that Dean pulled the curtain open a few inches but Sam was the one who looked outside from time to time.
Battle could sit and do nothing for hours and days and wait for the right opportunity if that's what the job called for. Like a cat waiting for a baby bird to fall from its nest, he could be physically idle while anticipation simmered.
Eventually the boys would split up. One would leave to get take out. Sam might take a run. Dean might go to a bar. But, sooner or later they would find their own space.
Battle could be patient until they did.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Sam stretched out on the bed, not bothering to take off his boots or change his clothes. Face down and covering most of the mattress he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Dean scooted his way backward from the edge of his own bed and leaned against the wall with the television remote in his hand. After turning it on, he flipped channels for the next couple of hours, unable to find anything to hold his interest. He kept flashing to the way Sam's body practically collapsed under the weight of Jacob Moore's accusations. Dean had thought that after the last year, with all they'd done and all they'd learned, that Sam stopped blaming himself for Jessica's death. He was surprised by how quickly Moore had cut through Sam's armor to leave him shredded again.
Dean was amazed that despite the fact that Moore sent killers after them, that he sanctioned their torture, Sam still didn't stand up to him.
Irritated he flicked off the television and dropped the remote on the bed. He stood up quickly, grabbed his coat off the end of the bed and shrugged it on. Using the hotel stationary, he jotted a short message to his brother saying he'd gone out. He didn't add that Sam should call him when he woke. Sam would call or he wouldn't.
He left the note on the bedside table and ignored the protest his body made at moving again. His muscles still ached from the drug but he couldn't sit still any longer. He figured there had to be a bar close by and after a couple of shots, he'd loosen up.
As he walked towards the neon sign for the Sea King Tavern, Dean thought about the men who had kidnapped him and Sam. He knew the names of the dead due to some research that Dad did while they were healing. The brothers were Eric and Scott Balin, Army veterans and mercenaries. The police report said that one brother was shot to death and the other suffered a broken neck.
There was no mention of the third man, the one in charge. Dean figured he probably woke up after being possessed and high tailed it out of town.
Dean couldn't help wishing he'd had the opportunity to kill him. He hated making a promise and not keeping it. And if any human needed killing, Michael Battle was definitely the one.
Dean pushed open the glass door leading into the Sea King. Dark and mostly empty, Dean breathed in the smell of liquor and old wood. He glanced around finding a much too amorous couple at one table and a tired-looking businessman sitting at the bar. He took a seat away from the businessman and ordered a whiskey from the bartender who sported a bushy mustache and a neck tattoo that might have been a dolphin. Dean couldn't see it clearly and didn't care enough to try and find out.
He downed the whiskey in a swallow and ordered another one.
The burn across his tongue and down his throat eased away some of the anger. That's what he needed. Some distance to rationalize the last few days and try to understand Sam's position in all of it.
He swallowed down a third whiskey and took a moment to look at the only other person sitting at the bar. Dressed in a business suit with his jacket open and tie askew, he reminded Dean of the cliché version of someone who had been fired but didn't want to tell his wife. Dark haired and pudgy, the man stared into his drink, probably vodka, and twirled the glass making the ice clink against the edges.
Dean turned around to get a better look at the couple. The boy, younger than Sam, maybe not old enough to legally drink, had his hands cupped around the girl's rounded bottom. She straddled his lap and kept threading her fingers through his overgrown hair. Judging from her lacy skirt and cropped blouse, Dean guessed she was about the same age as the boy but her long hair kept her face hidden. She leaned in to kiss him and the two started trading tongues.
Dean turned around and found the bartender standing in front of him. He was leaning against the back counter with his arms folded and watching the kids.
"Maybe they should get a room," Dean said with a sardonic grin.
"Maybe not. That's my daughter," the bartender responded in monotone.
Dean nodded, trying to keep any reaction off his face. He hadn't expected that.
"I think that's it for me. Have a good night," he said, slapping a tip on the bar and sliding off the stool.
As he passed the young lovers, he took a last glance. He couldn't imagine watching that if it was his daughter. Not that he had a daughter, but he had a good idea of what he'd be doing to any boy who touched her like that.
As the cool breeze of evening swept over him, Dean experienced a revelation about Jacob Moore. At its core, Sam and Jessica had been that couple inside the bar. Moore must have seen them kiss and hold hands. Sam would never have mauled her in front of Moore like that, but still. Dean wondered at how difficult it must have been to see her with a man and to see her entirely adult affection for him.
In the most traditional sense, Moore gave his daughter to Sam, entrusted her well-being to him. And while she was under Sam's protection, Jessica was murdered in a mysterious way. Dean knew how he'd react if it had been Sam who was killed. Nothing would stop him from finding out who and why. Nothing would stop him from taking revenge.
Dean walked towards the hotel with a slight whiskey buzz thinking he had a better understanding of Moore's point of view. Maybe Sam had understood all along and that's why he couldn't work up the rage he needed to fight back against Moore's accusations.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Sam heard Dean leave but chose to remain silent about it. He didn't want to argue about how he failed to handle Jess's father. He didn't want to hear Dean's disappointment when he could see it so clearly in Dean's body language. Instead he accepted the reprieve and tried to sleep; hoping rest would put the whole thing into perspective.
His bruises and scrapes still ached when he moved the wrong way. His arms and shoulders still flared when he lifted anything heavy or just too fast. So, he chose the only escape he had from the physical and emotional onslaught of the last few days. Getting a break from the pain and from his brother seemed like a great idea he told himself as he relaxed against the mattress.
Just as he started to drift off, a loud crash sounded sending him straight into fight or flight. He reached for the gun sitting on the night stand and rolled up towards the noise. When he twisted to see what he was facing Sam cried out as the sizzle of a stun gun jammed into his side.
He flopped back down while a tremor knocked the gun from his hand. Feeling like a super-charged werewolf punched him in the side Sam tried to suck air in around lungs that felt too small to take it. His torso shook as if he was being slammed against cement and he had no control over his flailing limbs.
He lay on the bed twitching and staring at the opposite wall unable to make sense of what happened. He didn't have any sense of time but as his senses returned he shifted slowly on to his back. Gradually realizing he'd been attacked, adrenaline started pushing Sam to get up and find the danger. Like being caught up in a drunken stupor he threw all his energy into coordinating his body. He concentrated on bending then lifting then sitting. His head felt enormous and heavy as he tried to look around the room in search of whomever or whatever had stunned him.
Sam blinked water from his eyes as he focused his bleary vision on the stranger, on Battle. His heart wanted to pound faster and his breath wanted to grow harder but he couldn't manage the automatic response. His mind told him to stand, to fight, or run, but he couldn't force his body to obey.
"Five seconds is a long time with a stunner," Battle said.
That's true, Sam thought. Usually one or two seconds is all it takes to put someone down.
"You killed my partners," Battle continued. "I know you were trying to save your life but, still, they were my partners and I have to avenge them."
Sam played his words over in his head but they still didn't make sense.
"I don't know how you summoned that monster but I remember what it felt like to be its slave. I don't know what else to compare it to, but it made me do a terrible thing. It made Scott do a terrible thing too and I had to kill him because of it. And that's all on you."
Sam swallowed and tried to push words out. They sounded garbled and from the look on Battle's face, not understandable.
"I guess you're denying what you did. But, I was there. I heard it say that it was going to save you."
A tingling in his fingertips let Sam know that he was getting normal sensation back. His mind was gradually starting to clear too although that was taking longer than he wanted.
"I'm not going to kill you, Sam. There's a balance sheet here. I kidnapped you, made you desperate. But, you brought in a demon to fight your battle and that's hardly even. And you lived while my partners died. So, this is what I'm going to do," Battle withdrew a syringe from his pocket.
"This is the same thing I gave your brother, so it won't kill you. But, it is modified a little bit. It's a stronger dose and it'll stay with you longer. A good day or so without any relief and I bet you'll wish you were dead."
Energy spiking with fear, Sam drove up fast and threw an awkward punch. When that didn't land he plowed his body into Battle knocking him backward. Battle tripped over a bag and stumbled into the door. Sam staggered then rallied and attacked again using his size to replace his uncoordinated limbs. Battle shoved his arms between them and pushed back sending Sam reeling into the edge of the bed. The momentum propelled him sideways and he fell onto the mattress. He rolled off and landed on his knees. From his peripheral he caught movement coming towards his face and shoved his arms to protect himself. Battle's boot landed sharp against his elbows and Sam tumbled backward. He started crab-walking to put some distance between them when Battle landed on him. The weight drove Sam onto his back and took his breath.
Battle straddled him across the middle and landed a hard punch against his cheek. The pain flared through his face and Battle struck again. Sam tried to buck him off but another blow slammed his head to the floor. Panting and losing consciousness Sam closed his eyes as the fourth blow finished him.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Michael Battle jammed the syringe into Sam's thigh and depressed the plunger. He had never administered the cocktail to an unconscious person so he didn't know if the pain would wake him or send him further into oblivion. He couldn't stay to find out. People in neighboring rooms could be calling the police. Hotel management could show up to investigate the damaged door. Dean Winchester could return.
Battle lifted his sore body off the floor, surprised the kid had managed to fight back so well. He groaned and stretched and headed for the door. He needed to get out of there. He needed to find a new job and put the Winchester brothers and the Balin brothers behind him.
He never resorted to cruelty for the sake of it. He harbored no desire to see Sam suffer. He only needed to know that it was going to happen and that his partners were avenged.
Battle walked out, carefully closing the ruined door to make the damage less obvious. He turned towards his car and spotted Dean walking up the walk.
Even from a distance, the older brother recognized him. Rage twisted Dean's features as he reached behind his back, no doubt intending to pull the Colt .45 that he carried. Battle was faster. He drew his Sig and fired into the asphalt. Dean jerked towards the building as he brought his gun to bear. Battle fired into the ground again as he ran backwards towards the car. Dean rolled into a nearby car taking cover. Battle made it to the Alero and jumped inside. He shot one more round just to keep Dean from returning fire and sped out of the lot.
The last sight he had of Dean Winchester was to see him rise up from behind a dented Toyota as he pulled his gun back towards his body and tucked it away.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Dean watched Battle drive away while he caught his breath and tried to calm his violently pounding heart. Torn between following their tormenter and checking on Sam left Dean with no options. He ran into the hotel room, pushing the broken door aside and calling his brother's name. He stopped for only a moment when he saw Sam lying unconscious.
Sam's face shown dark with bruises. Blood seeped from an open cut above his cheek. Dean pressed fingers against his neck and exhaled with relief at the steady pulse. He ran his hands over Sam's skull looking for damage and found a couple of lumps but no open wounds. Finally he examined limbs and ribs looking for any sign of broken bones but Sam appeared whole.
Dean stood up and went into the bathroom. He turned on the cold water faucet and waited for the temperature to cool down. Just as put the grayish washcloth under the stream he heard Sam gasp.
"It's okay," Dean called out. "Just stay where you are."
Sam made another noise, something verging on a whimper and Dean stuck his head out the bathroom door.
"I told you to hold…" Dean's voice dried up when he saw Sam curling inward, teeth clenched in a grimace of pain.
He ran back across the room thinking it was a seizure. But, when Sam sang out with cry of agony, Dean recoiled unable to think of what to do. A moment later he wrapped Sam up against him, holding him while Sam stiffened and cried out again.
"What is it, Sammy, come on, what is it?"
"Venom," Sam bit out before curling again with a shriek. His hands fisted Dean's shirt with a death grip as he tried to bury his face in Dean's sternum.
"Please," Sam begged. "Make it stop." And then his body seized again. He screamed out and Dean hugged him tighter.
"Come on, come on, up, Sammy, get up. We gotta get up."
Dean slipped his arms under his brother's and tried to lift but it was like pulling dead weight except this weight was fighting him.
Dean grabbed his phone and dialed "911".
"911, what's your emergency," a female voice said.
"My brother was bitten by black widows, a lot of venom is in him. I need EMT's with anti-venom right now."
Sam screamed as his body stiffened. He threw himself backward banging his head against the floor.
"I'm sending an ambulance now, sir. I know where you are but I need the room number."
"Nine thirteen. Room nine one three," Dean said. "He's allergic. I need anti-venom for black widows, right now."
"Help is on the way, sir. Do you have access to a cold compress that you can place over the bite?"
"Yes," Dean said then listened as the operator gave directions for basic first aid. She had finished asking about elevating a limb when Dean cut off the call.
He retrieved the washcloth from the bathroom and proceeded to wipe Sam's face with it but there was nothing he could do as Sam's muscles contracted. Dean knew that Sam was still suffering from the strain of being tied up for so long and guessed the worst of the poison was attacking his injured shoulders and arms. But, like Dean, Sam was a mass of damage inflicted when they were captives and all of it would be victim to the venomous concoction.
Time stopped while Sam writhed helplessly in Dean's arms, screaming out his pain and shuddering through each wave of agony. Dean spoke softly at first trying to comfort him but when he realized that Sam wasn't hearing him, he raised his voice, adopting Dad's commanding tone. The words remained the same as he tried to calm and comfort his brother but the stricter tone seemed to penetrate his fog of pain.
Tears streamed unchecked down Sam's face. He seized up repeatedly, hands clenching into themselves or on to Dean's clothes. His legs curled up then extended, kicking softly at nothing. His head twisted back and forth searching for relief. And all Dean could do was hold him and talk and feel helpless.
When the fire department finally arrived, four men burst through the broken door. Each one carried something, medical equipment, radio equipment, walkie-talkies and they were all confused by the scene in front of them. One man approached with a bland expression and a calm demeanor.
"My name is Gary Brooks," the firefighter said. "What do we have here?"
"My brother was poisoned by black widow venom. He needs the antidote."
Dean thought he sounded reasonable but Brooks cocked his head.
"Where's the bite located?"
The next several minutes found the rest of the paramedics moving in and moving Dean out. Sweat poured out of Sam's body as they took his vitals and examined him. Brooks asked questions; Sam's age, health issues, allergies, recent injuries. Dean answered, aching with every cry of distress that his brother made. It all proceeded methodically and slowly until Dean was ready to pull his gun and order them to give Sam the anti-venom.
"Do you hear him screaming? Enough of this bullshit."
"We have to check him out and get him to the hospital. They'll run blood work. If it was a black widow, they'll treat him," Brooks responded in that calm, authoritative tone that irritated Dean from the start.
"Why don't you believe me? I know what happened and I know what he needs."
"A black widow bite doesn't cause this kind of reaction. We have to know what we're dealing with before…"
"I'm telling you…"
"Where was he bit?" One of the paramedics, his nametag read "Smith", asked. He was kneeling beside Sam and was searching one of his arms.
"I don't know," Dean answered.
"Then how do you…"
"He wasn't bit, he was poisoned. Black widow venom mixed with other crap, okay. He was poisoned, it was deliberate and now he needs the anti-venom."
"Why do you think he was deliberately poisoned?" Brooks asked.
"I know, okay? He told me." Dean heard the hysteria in his voice and stopped. In a calmer tone, he said, "Just, please, do what I ask."
Brooks shook his head, "I'm sorry but we can't. I know it's difficult to see him like this, but we can't give him anything until we know what we're dealing with."
"He's ready for transport," Smith said.
The second set of paramedics left the room only to return a moment later with a stretcher. Brooks maneuvered Dean out of the way as they wheeled in the mobile bed and then all four of them lifted Sam on to it. Sam screamed, his hand wrapping around the closest man's arm then he called for Dean.
"I'm right here, Sam, hang on. Just breathe, just breathe."
A paramedic stepped in with cloths and wiped Sam's face and mouth. Another checked his airway and gave the okay to move him. They tied Sam's limbs down while Brooks explained it was for his safety, to keep him from falling or injuring himself.
"Do you want to ride with him?" Brooks asked as they wheeled Sam out of the hotel.
Dean shook his head. "I'll follow. Which hospital?"
"Good Samaritan."
Dean held his breath while they loaded Sam, still writhing and moaning, into the back of the transport unit. He didn't breathe again until they drove away.
He glanced at the broken hotel door, giving a moment's thought to their belongings. In a neighborhood filled with meth heads and hookers, he knew their stuff wouldn't last long. And some of it was dangerous. He had no choice but to take an extra few minutes to get their things together and throw them in the trunk of the Impala.
By the time he slipped behind the steering wheel, the drain of adrenaline was making him shaky and nauseous. He pulled his phone out, brought up the directions to Good Samaritan hospital and tore out of the parking lot.