Born of Ill Intent.
Please see warnings from chapter one.
Chapter Three.
Bobby Singer paced the hallway continuously, as he had the last eight hours or so. It had started out as a march; a frustrated but vigilant stride, narrowed eyes scanning the nurses' station and the opposite ends of the hallway every time something or someone moved. But that soon slowed to a 'proceeding' pace, which is purposeful but unhurried, with hands clasped behind the back; a swinging-of-the-foot pace that can last all day and well into the night if practiced properly.
Bobby was exhausted. He was getting old.
He was getting pissed as all hell at hunters going after his boys.
All that vampire crap with Gordon Walker had been bad enough, but this?
This was intolerable.
That these were shifters only pissed him off all the more.
As for the boys themselves...
"Idgits," Bobby mumbled, fighting to stay angry with the Winchesters.
Anger helped. It kept him distracted from the all-consuming fear that he nearly did fucking lose them this time, Godammit!
Getting a call from an Emergency Room on the other side of the country at two o'clock in the fucking morning had pushed Bobby to near cardiac arrest proportions, especially since he'd only been asleep an hour. The first hour he'd had in two days after returning from a werewolf hunt in Colorado.
Fearing the worst, Bobby had changed into a cheap suit and jumped on the first flight out. Tired and angry, looking like he'd been dragged through a bush backwards by his old compadres: Economy Travel, Sleep Deprivation and Bone Deep Worry, Bobby kept attracting suspicious glances from airport security. But he wasn't in the mood for one of their holier than thou, bend–over-touch-your-toes, rubber glove treatments today, thank you so very damn much. One flash of his fake FBI badge, and they'd nodded him through like they were frigging royalty granting him special favours or something.
"Assholes," he muttered and checked his watch for the millionth time.
"Bobby Singer?" a deep, gravelly voice called out. "Well, damn! You look like shit. When's the last time you slept?"
Bobby swung round from his musings to face a big, broad, dark skinned doctor around his own age, sporting a large greying afro that practically touched the ceiling. He was wearing a white coat so many sizes too small that it was a wonder the buttons didn't ping off in all directions.
The guy loomed over Bobby, frowning and tapping a pen on his clipboard.
"Round 'bout the last time I ate," Bobby replied with a shake of the head. "Probably last year, if memory serves."
The newcomer's frown deepened. "I sure hope you're just pullin' my chain, boy!"
Bobby appeared to consider that. "Do in-flight peanuts count as food?"
"Depends," came the acerbic reply. "Did you actually eat them this time? Or try to shove them down the flight attendant's throat?"
Bobby looked shifty. "That guy had it coming. I told him to stop touching me like that…"
"Bobby, that flight attendant was a she," replied the doc, now fighting a grin.
"Wouldn't have known it to look at her," Bobby grumbled right back. "What with the Adam's Apple and the huge bear paws for hands."
"That was a double chin! Poor woman was sweet on you, you big lug."
"Still counts as sexual harassment!" Bobby said, indignantly. "One false move and I'd've been clubbed over the head and carried back to her cave over her big, bear like shoulders. Now that's some kinky shit even I ain't in to!"
The doc shook his head and chuckled. "You ain't changed a bit."
"Neither have you, William Barnet," said Bobby, a small smirk curling his mouth. "And as for looking like shit, I always look like this, so what's new?"
His smirk faded as Bobby regarded his old acquaintance for a moment, studying the deep lines on his face and the circles under his eyes.
Guess I'm not the only one in need of a facial. "Long time no see, doc."
"Sure is," replied William, now equally as solemn. "Wish it was under better circumstances."
"Yeah," Bobby decided to cut to the chase. The clock was ticking, the time for pleasantries long gone. "In a nut shell, exactly what happened to my boys?"
He'd tried to find out from the cops but it seemed this bunch were exceptionally smart, which was largely considered to be a rarity as far as the hunting world was concerned. They were evasive and dismissive, muttering something about mob tactics and reprisals.
All bullshit, of course.
When he played the FBI card they called his bluff and threatened to contact the agency direct, rather than through the fake number Bobby had given them.
So Bobby tried another angle. He claimed Sam and Dean as his nephews. That hadn't worked out too well either, with the cops refusing to allow his involvement in the case due to his personal relationship with the victims.
Finally, he was told, quite pointedly, to fuck off and stop asking questions.
Yeah, right.
The doctor studied his old friend with dark, curious eyes, then nodded back at him.
"In a nut shell, your boys took care of that little problem we'd been having up here..."
The little problem consisted of what appeared to be simple theft and murder, not something hunters usually got involved in but with Bobby busy on his own hunt, Sam's instincts had insisted the brothers take on the gig.
When Bobby first spoke with Dean at the beginning, the younger guy had been doubtful that this was even their kind of case, but the thefts had been followed by a string of arrests where the accused had vehemently protested their innocence. During the course of the brothers' investigation, Sam had listened to them, spent hours reading over their statements, studied the evidence over and over, and the inconsistencies had just kept on mounting up.
Alibis, CCTV footage, witness statements all pointed to a shifter, a dangerous kind of lowlife with a nasty sense of humour, a vicious streak a mile wide, and no conscience whatsoever. They usually squatted in dark, dank places like old basements and underground sewers, but Bobby knew the boys had searched every square mile of the city below ground. No, this shifter apparently had a more cunning game plan.
It seemed the thing had been living with their victims' families for quite some time, weeks or months in some cases, socialising with their friends, eventually stealing everything of value from right under their noses and brutally murdering them in their sleep. Once the job was done, the victims were freed to face the music, arrested and charged with multiple counts of first degree murder.
Two such victims had already made it on to death row, and there was little Sam and Dean could do to help those poor schmucks. But there was plenty they could do for the ones that would follow.
The brothers had tangled with shifters before and barely escaped with their lives but, in spite of Dean's better judgment, Sam convinced him they should stay on and try to win this one.
Except, Bobby mused, in this case there'd obviously been more than one shifter at work, since the one Sam and Dean first crossed paths with was already deep fried extra crispy, as Dean so smugly put it.
That made three, which was close to extraordinary.
Two shifters working together was a rare enough phenomenon, but even more unlikely was finding them working the same territory as the deceased shifter.
And once they'd realised who was hunting them, all bets were off.
Bobby huffed out a breath. He'd listened to the frantic voicemail messages from Dean before his flight, the kid having tried to contact him when he was off hunting werewolves. He'd gotten the gist of the situation and the extent of Sam's peril, but no real info. There had been a mention of video messages and the barest details of what had sounded like a sexual assault, but Bobby wasn't certain and hoped like hell he'd heard it all wrong. The voice messages had been crackly with static and Dean… well, the kid was obviously freaking out.
As for the possibility of eliminating the sons of John Winchester? No shifter worth their salt would have passed up a chance like that.
Sam and Dean were caught with their pants down, metaphorically speaking, in a smoky, crowded bar.
By the sounds of things, either Sam had gotten blind drunk, or been Mickey Finned and abducted in a very public place.
And that had to hurt...
"You ok, man? You seem kind of distant," the doc's deep voice rumbled softly.
Bobby shook himself and nodded. "Yep."
William raised a sceptical eyebrow, but continued anyway.
"They sure were lucky, in many respects. Both had to be resuscitated post drowning, though the younger one, Sam, had to be treated for multiple fractures, a broken arm, cigarette burns, and..." he looked uncomfortable. "Well. It looked like the poor kid had the shit beaten out of him. He was bound hand and foot when they pulled him out of the lake."
Bobby's fist clenched tightly at his sides. "Go on," he growled.
The doc bit his lip and winced, probably without realising he'd done so. Which told Bobby this was one of those 'news I don't want to tell the family' moments.
"The older guy, Dean, appeared to be relatively unscathed. I think he jumped into the lake to save his brother. He just needed oxygen therapy and treatment for mild hypothermia; he's up and about as we speak, in fact. But Sam..." the doc was stalling and Bobby knew it.
"What about Sam?" he demanded to know, shoulders squaring up and face hardening.
William hesitated, and briefly glanced down at his toes, as if seeking the strength to get it all out.
"He suffered severe anal bruising and tearing. Lost a lot of blood as a result," the doc told Bobby, quietly. "In my opinion, I'd say that Sam was violently raped several times over, possibly before and after he took a beating."
Bobby stared at him in disbelief. He'd known it was bad...
Jesus.
"Who found them?" he asked, hoarsely, and leaned against the wall to cover his shock.
The doc nodded and began to explain in full.
Local Rescue Dog trainer, Ned Trilsbury, was heading on home after a night walk when he heard two gun shots. He ran through the trees to the lake just in time to see someone fall into the water at the end of the jetty. At the same time, a guy running along the shoreline shucked aside his jacket, and went in after him. When neither of the two guys surfaced, Ned gave a short command, and his two young Newfoundlands raced into the water and swam out to the rescue.
"Ned put in a 911 call before he followed them in," the doc watched Bobby's face, carefully. "It wasn't until after the ambulance showed up, and the two drowning victims were stabilised, that someone noticed the dead bodies at the far end of the jetty."
Bobby's kept all expression from his face, but nodded.
"They'd been shot," said the doc. "That's when the cops were called in."
Bobby drew in a shaky breath. "Did they find the weapon?"
"No, but last I heard a Ballistics squad was being drafted in from out of state. Might take days to get here. And the cops are in the process of dragging the lake," said the doc. Then he smiled mysteriously. "Ned's an old friend of mine, so I doubt they'll find anything. Even if they do, finger prints'll be long gone."
Bobby raised an eyebrow, knowingly.
"Tell Ned, much appreciated. Now," he rolled his shoulders. "Where's my boys?"
Dean coughed himself awake and blinked at his surroundings.
Huh.
So he hadn't been mugged, drugged and wrestled back into bed. He guessed the nurse knew better than to threaten a Winchester with a hypodermic needle. The current count stood at two attempts. Perhaps they had better things to do with their time than chase around after reluctant patients.
Dean glanced over at his little brother and struggled into an upright sitting position. His ass tingled uncomfortably with the movement and he bit back a groan.
Why subject worried, stressed-out relatives to the torture of plastic hospital chairs? He wondered, scowling deeply. Maybe it was in the hope that said worried, stressed-out relatives wouldn't spend so much time at the patient's bedside, getting in the way of treatment and monitoring.
No such luck. Dean wasn't budging from this spot accept to beg, borrow or steal coffee, or to use the bathroom.
Yawning and stretching as much as his aching muscles would allow, Dean's eyes roamed up and down Sammy's bed. The kid was still heavily sedated to allow adequate healing time, but Dean could take comfort in the slow, steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. They'd both been on oxygen therapy at some point, Sam more so than Dean, partly due to his injuries but mostly because he'd been underwater for much longer. Eventually, he would also be free of the oxygen tank and mask.
Dean still couldn't believe their luck. He'd fully expected to never leave that damn lake alive, and not only had he survived it but his little brother was also still here with him.
In-fucking-credible.
Just when he thought the world had given up on them, and society had tossed them head first into the cess pit of despair and torment, along comes a couple of giant-assed rescue dogs to save the day.
The large patches of dried doggy drool on their clothes had been evidence enough, even without the doc's explanation.
He only hoped the gentle fur balls were rewarded with prime steaks for their dinner.
Dean smiled slightly. It seemed they hadn't only struck gold on the rescue front either. As doctors went, theirs was a rare find indeed.
It turned out that William Barnet, as he'd introduced himself on Dean's brief awakening in the ER, knew Bobby Singer from way back.
Their doctor, a cool, middle aged black guy with an afro Dean couldn't help admiring, had kept the police at bay for the time being, so the Winchesters were temporarily free from interrogation.
Given that it was a double murder investigation, along with kidnapping and rape, Dean was kind of surprised at that, but the doc refused to explain.
"What you don't know," the big guy had rumbled at Dean with a half-smile, "can't get anyone arrested... yet."
Whatever he'd told the cops about the two brothers fished, half-dead, out of the lake, he wasn't letting on.
Maybe he told them we were actually dead, or something.
Dean quickly glanced at Sam's face, his smile fading.
God. Rape.
He had no idea how he was going to help Sammy through the aftermath of this. The desolate look on the poor kid's face before he took a nosedive into the lake had become stuck in Dean's head, a reminder of his failure.
It wasn't fair.
Life wasn't fair, he reflected grimly, but in this case it truly sucked ass.
He looked at the solid, white cast housing Sam's broken right arm, then glanced at the bandages criss-crossing the kid's chest and stomach. Sam's face was healing the fastest, the swelling having gone down a fair amount in the last few hours, but his eyes were still bruised, his mouth, under the oxygen mask, still split, battered and rimmed with dry, flaking skin. His wrists were bandaged, the skin broken and bloodied from the plastic ties, and whatever else had been employed to restrain him.
Dean's fists clenched.
Last thing he remembered, before running out of air, was the lake turning red. Red with Sam's blood, lifted off his scruffy jeans by the water. His little brother had been haemorrhaging badly, even as he was drowning.
Dean bit back a sob, eyes filling with tears.
How could he have allowed this to happen? How could the kid ever forgive him?
He sniffed, angry at himself for allowing a self-pity shindig at a time like this, rubbed a hand up his face and into his hair, then checked his watch. Bobby would be here soon, he mused, if he wasn't already.
"Hey Sam? I'm just gonna check outside," he whispered, giving Sam's hand a gentle squeeze. "You hang in there. I'll be back before you know it."
Sam frowned a little and a small huffing noise came through the oxygen mask, as though he could hear but couldn't respond and it was pissing him off.
Dean leaned over and pressed his mouth to Sam's ear.
"Don't fight it, ok? Don't try to wake up just yet," he told his brother, softly. "You ain't ready for that, kiddo, but you will be soon enough. Just chill and let yourself heal."
After another quick hand squeeze, Dean moved away from the bed.
He stuck his head outside the door just as William and Bobby were about to knock, startling all three of them.
"Whoa!" said Dean, recoiling slightly, eyes wide, hands up, palms outwards as though warding off a gunman. "Dude, you scared me."
Bobby glared at him. "We scared you?"
Dean shook his head. "Nah, only you," his grin was weak, but at least it was there. "You'd scare a wendigo off its dinner with that face."
Bobby froze, and Dean's grin dropped when he realised what he'd said.
All video footage emails of Sam's rape and ordeal at the hands of his captors had been deleted, though, unfortunately, Dean could still see it all in his mind's eye whenever it crept up on him, and Bobby could still hear Dean's wrecked voice in his garbled messages.
... raped, Bobby! Sam was kidnapped… shifter… damn wendigo...
William glanced between the two men. He knew about wendigos, had treated Bobby Singer after he'd almost been disembowelled by one some years back, but he'd never actually seen a wendigo. Not even a picture.
Never wanted to, either.
Movement at the other end of the hallway caught his attention before anything more could be said.
Two cops had arrived and both were looking right at Dean. Eyebrows raised, they started moving forward, slowly at first, but gained speed with each step.
William nudged the two hunters until they understood his warning, then grabbed Bobby's arm and pushed him in through the doorway, taking Dean with him.
"Shit," Dean muttered, worriedly, at the same time as Bobby.
William nodded. There was no time to lose.
"If we're gonna get you boys out of here, then I suggest we move now," he said, quietly.
"How?" asked Dean, his gaze anxiously flitting between Sam and the door.
"Watch and learn." William grinned and disconnected Sam's heart monitor.
Outside in the hallway, alarms sounded and lights flashed at the monitoring station, galvanising the medical staff into action.
Immediately, the approaching cops were caught up in the drama of a so-called 'code blue', and were roughly pushed to one side by nurses carrying various medical equipment. The cops stood by helplessly until they were yelled at to "get the hell out of our Goddamn way!"
Realising their target was slipping away, the cops stared in angry surprise as the cacophony disappeared inside Sam Winchester's room, and the door was slammed shut in their faces.
One of them pressed their ear to the door.
"Anything?" his partner inquired, hovering nervously nearby.
"Just a lot of shouting, panicking, and someone being shocked..."
The door opened abruptly, a hand shot out and the first cop felt a pinch in his neck.
In less than a second he was pitching forward into someone's arms, and he knew no more.
As a sheet covered gurney was immediately wheeled out of the room, the second cop didn't even have time to gasp before the same thing happened to him, and his last view was of a stern looking, bearded guy in a ball cap, lowering him to the floor.
It wasn't a nice picture to be left with, so it was just as well that he remembered absolutely nothing about it when he woke up in his police issue squad car several hours' later, still in uniform, and it was pitch dark outside.
His partner grunted as he also slowly came awake, and the two of them stared at each other in shock.
"What the hell?" the first one mumbled.
"Dunno, dude," said the other, blinking heavily. Then he saw something out the corner of his eye and his mouth dropped open. "Uh... Did we get wasted, or something?"
On the seat between them was a three-quarters empty bottle of Jim Beam, and the car, incidentally, smelled like a distillery had set up shop in a tray of kitty litter.
The two cops sat in panicked silence for a minute or two.
What the hell were we thinking? The first cop thought. Damned if I can even remember buying the liquor in the first place!
Out loud he said, decisively "Air freshener".
"Ditch the bottle," said the second, nodding furiously.
The first one looked a little green as he whispered, fearfully: "Can't believe we did this again. Not after we nearly got caught on your birthday last year."
There was another pause, before they both said simultaneously, "This never happened."
Neither were about to risk their careers over a drunken binge they couldn't even remember, especially after what had amounted to a really rough fucking day.
They drove home very carefully that night, and never once talked about it again.
By the time they returned to the hospital to conduct their interviews, the two drowning victims had disappeared into the wide blue yonder, and their doctor, the absolute picture innocence, claimed he had no idea where they'd gone.
After a brief explanation on the phone, the police captain had carefully explained to his subordinates in a low, menacing tone what would happen to them if they didn't find the victims and have their statements on his desk by the end of the day. In his opinion, an unconscious witness was no excuse for flouting standard procedures.
A hurried check of hospital CCTV footage revealed that the cameras had mysteriously malfunctioned the previous day, and were in the process of being fixed.
The cops were left with two dead bodies, no weapon, and one angry mother of a Captain.
The case had reached an abrupt dead end, and absolutely no one was seeking promotion over this fiasco.
TBC.
So, what happens to the boys now?
Let me know,
How much you wanna know,
And I'll let you know…
…in the next chapter!
Oh, and I know bugger all about police, emigration or FBI procedures, so please: no smug bastard guest reviews about it eh?
Don't waste your time 'cos I'll only delete them!
Many thanks for all the wonderful reviews I've received so far. Must admit, I'm pleasantly surprised I've had this many, given the nature of the fic.
Love ST xxx