A/N: Right my on-line food order's arrived and been stowed away so time for a new chapter. Dean is searching for the runaway on Boris's land. Is he in the loft over the floating ironclad? Got to love that concept...
The Pompatus Box (Chapter 5: An Impossible Vehicle) by frostygossamer
Drawing his pistol, Dean steps from the ladder into the loft room and checks out the scenery. Aside from the table and an old chair, the only things in the room are a mussed up cot and a man-sized cage built of stout metal bars. On the floor of the cage lies a lanky-built figure, unmoving.
"Hey."
There's no reply. Dean finds a broom leaning against the wall and prods the still body. It sprawls flat, lifeless. He was afraid of this. The guy is already gone.
"Damn."
He's too goddamn late. Looks like Milo wouldn't have hacked it as a nursemaid, letting his charge freakin' DIE that way.
"Samuel, you sorry son of a bitch, the hell were you thinking, messing with these people?"
The big payday for Dean has flown out the window. Why the heck would a soft-as-crap scion of old-time Terran royalty want to skedaddle to the far side of nowhere anyways? How could he have wound up dead in a crap-station like this when he's barely old enough to drive an eco-car? Freakin' idjit.
OK, so the poor kid has seen some personal tragedy. Heck, Dean has been in that place, but HE had to learned to suck it up and keep on trucking. That there is Dean's whole philosophy. On good days. On bad days there's always YED. Even though that crap is kind of a little death every time.
As Dean mopes over these dark thoughts, his ears detect a faint groan coming from the ruffled up bed in the corner. There's something in there, down under the pile of rags that pass for covers. Dean walks over and points his weapon at the heap of blankets while he lifts one corner with the broom he's still carrying in his other hand. He half expects it to be nothing more than Milo's dog, but it could be a very sound-sleeping co-worker.
He's a little surprised by the youth of the cot's occupant. Thin and dirty but not much more than twenty, the guy looks like he hasn't eaten in days. He squirms and screws his eyes against the light. Dean drops his stick and thumbs open one of the kid's eyelids. A hazel eye, glazed and blown. This guy is most certainly out of it on something.
Dean holsters his piece and drags out Jo's mugshot. Yeah, well, could be. Dean can't help the smirk that lights up his face. Maybe the job won't be a washout after all. All he has to do is get the kid back to his rocketship.
Well, there IS a floating ironclad downstairs.
=O=
Luckily no one has thought to hide the keys. Dean finds them in the ignition of the hovertank after dumping the kid's limp body through the hatch and joining him.
"OK. Never driven one of these, but there's a first time for everything."
The engine purrs into life with a snarl. Dean forgot to open the double doors, but then who needs to open doors when you are in a hovertank?
Outside, random bad guys are milling about like headless chickens. They're aware something is going down but have no clue what to do about it. The crash of the floating ironclad demolishing its hangar brings them all running.
Ironically, they don't have the firepower to stop a hovertank. They didn't know they would need it. It's THEIR tank, after all. Dean steers triumphantly over the electrified fence and out into open country. The darksiders are soon left behind, turning the air blue with ineffectual cussing.
A few miles farther on, Dean digs the hovertank in under a moon-dune and waits for things to die down.
=O=
Back at his ship, Dean lugs his dopey prize in through the airlock.
"Hi, Baby, I'm home."
The ship's take-off countdown halts when she identifies her pilot's voice.
Although not totally unconscious any longer, the befuddled Samuel is still too far gone to stand on his own two feet. They trail behind him as Dean takes his weight over one shoulder, ignoring the guy's protesting mumbles.
Dean gasps. "Jeez! Who knew you were gonna be such a freakin' monster?"
He drags the barely resisting form into his self-regulating Auto-Decontaminator suite and dumps him on the treatment table. Mechanical restraints snap out and wrap around the guy's limbs holding him in place against weak protest. Machines begin assessing him immediately, lights and dials flickering as data is catalogued and processed.
Dean sighs and leaves his guest to be antisepticized and detoxed by his state-of-the-art unit. Closing the door of the suite behind him, he seals the guy in. The row of indicator lamps along the top of the door will tell him if and when he's safe to let out. All Dean himself needs, this time, is to check out his already healing arm and take a super-long steam-shower. And he's really ready for that shower.
He burps and groans. And maybe a purgative to clear his system of that random substance the cantina guy served him.
=O=
The shower is delicious. Hot jets of oxygenated water bathe Dean's skin, stripping away layers of poisonous grit and massaging his tired muscles, like a hundred skilful hands sensually caressing his body. Who needs sex when water pressure can stimulate the flesh this way?
He lingers under the hot water until he's rosy and glowing. Then, tearing himself away, he returns to the cool of the main cabin, where he selects a black silk turtleneck and slacks and slips them on.
When he lifts a lever on the wall, a section slides open. A window to the Auto-Decontaminator unit is revealed. There his captive remains confined and prostrate under treatment. Dean idly notes that the guy must have been quite a looker before he got himself wasted. Tall, broad-shouldered, strong-boned, man-sized. Not exactly a kid anymore.
The machines have cut away and stripped the guy of all his clothing. As they carefully wash his luxuriant hair and bathe his tanned naked skin, the mask obscuring his face is pushing cleansing gases through his lungs and laving his insides with a cocktail of healing fluids.
Dean makes a mental note. Before he hands the guy over to his loving grandfather, it won't hurt to get him back into some semblance of shape. He's sure grandpa would prefer to get back something that looks more like the grandson he lost. Also, more remuneratively, Dean can charge more hours to the job if he doesn't surrender his guest too early. After all, any other operative would have taken two times as long as Dean to acquire the guy.
He pulls the lever again and the panel slides back in place.
TBC
A/N: Dean has saved Sam from the darksiders. Hurrah! So much for the subplot. Now the adventure part can begin. More soon.