Arms Wide Open. Part Seven.
Part 7/13
Northern Perils Seeping South: The South. [January 13th, 1999]
Dean.
Bobby, Dean, and Cas are hunched behind a few bushes right at the edge of a small forest. They have the perfect view of an old factory that houses at least one of the containers from Canada. All day, they have scoped the place and they seem to have gotten lucky. For hours, two men in matching grey suits have walked the perimeter of an abandoned warehouse every 15 minutes. Most probably demons, and angered ones at that. They weren't able to make out what they were talking about, but their body language was clear enough: they're pissed. A woman of slender built and with hair so light it looks almost white has come in and out of the warehouse twice. The graceful, floating way she moves indicates that she might not be human, but still the odds are better than they expected. There is no one else here and with Cas on their side, it’s three against three. Also, angel trumps demon so they should be good.
A load of empty crates is scattered between piles of trash and they still have ten more minutes before the men in grey are patrolling again. Bobby grabs Dean’s arm and whispers, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before he gives the signal. The three of them leave the shelter of the trees and run for a pile of discarded wood. Dean would like nothing better than to get in there already, but Bobby is right. He can’t screw this up. They’ll make their way slowly up to the warehouse and see what’s what first.
They crouch in the shadow of their cover and nine and a half minutes later angry voices can be heard. Just like clockwork, Dean thinks and strains his ears to finally hear what the two men are talking about. The door of the warehouse bangs open and the argument echoes loud and clear over to their new hide-out.
“-didn’t even screw that sheet on right. I mean, how hard can that be?”
“Well excuse me for trying to save your stupid ass. I sure had more important things on my mind than an artfully executed job of interior design.”
“But-”
“No, you know what, you’re always like that! I’m so sick of this. Next time you can go in and disarm all those damned sigils! Even better yet, when he’s with the fox you can go in and restore them. I’m done.”
“Elaine, come on!”
“No, shut up! I don’t want to hear it. It’s your turn anyway.” Dean elbows Bobby in the ribs. ‘Elaine’ he mouths and raises his eyebrows. Bobby shrugs and looks just as confused. The voices veer away from them, but they are still close enough to be understood.
“But he might have seen things.”
“Yeah.” There’s a laugh. “So what’s he going to do with that? It’s not as if he could walk out of here and tell people about his wondrous journey through Canada.” They must be talking about Dad. Hold on, we’re getting you out of there. Dean trembles with anticipation and Bobby’s face is set into grim determination. Castiel’s face looks blank.
“Yeah yeah, you’re right as always, love.” The voices are a little farther away now, they must be walking towards the back.
“Damn right I am. And stop sucking up to me. I hate it when you do that.” During a moment of silence all that Dean hears is the sound of their own tense breaths. “Honestly. Just stop worrying, for once! It’s such a waste of my time. The Canadians are dead; no one knows where we are. The kid is as docile as ever. And you know, even if he’d try to get away now, what is he going to do? It’s been years since he was out in public. He wouldn’t know where to go.” Years, Dean wonders, that can’t be true. Dad had left him months ago, not years. Maybe they’d grabbed more than one hunter.
“I’m sorry, love. It’s just that I sometimes wish you hadn’t volunteered us for this. There’s nothing but trouble with these Winchesters. Who knows whether the pay off will be worth it.” Winchesters. Dean feels ice run along his spine. At least they have confirmation that Dad’s inside now.
“Bobby,” Dean whispers when muffled voices indicate that the men have turned around the far corner. But Bobby shakes his head slightly and tilts his head to the side, trying to understand more of the mumbled conversation. Dean sighs and settles again.
“I hear you.” Dean can make out, barely. “Even hurting the freak isn’t as fun as it used to be.”
“At least we didn’t get the big brother, he’s supposed to be a real pain in the ass.” Screw this. Dean is done waiting and listening to this cryptic shit. He rises from behind their shelter and looks around. I’ll show you pain in the ass, you bastards.
The moment Dean steps out into the meager light, the angel is an explosion of movement next to him. A blink later, he has reached the warehouse and goes for the nearest man in grey that is just running around the corner. Way too fast to be human. Demons, then. The other one is only a step behind and as soon as he sees Dean, he starts running towards him full tilt. Bobby cocks the shotgun and shoots the thing straight in the chest. It goes down and Dean grins. In the background, the angel flings himself at the other demon, crashes into him, and both tumble through the splintering door of the warehouse. Part of a nearby wall implodes with the force. The hunters nod at each other in grim satisfaction. Two down, one to go. But before they can look for the last one, the blonde, the thing on the ground groans and grabs its bloody chest and slowly raises its head.
“Ouch,” it says, with a frown and a crazy smile, “that hurt.” Bobby doesn’t waste time and goes straight for the head this time. The demon goes down in a cloud of red.
Dean tucks his gun into his pants and pulls out the machete, just in case. He carefully closes in on the body but before he has taken three steps, he’s suddenly going sideways instead of forwards. He flies through the air, flails his arms to no effect, and goes down hard a second later. He doesn’t slow down, though.
He gets dragged through garbage, mud, and wooden crates. He can’t figure out how to protect his head from clearing a way for the rest of his body. His side is torn open where he is scraping over the floor. Debris and what feels like liquid fire are settling in the gashes. When his back hits a small barrel with enough force to knock the wind out of him, he sees his chance. He reaches for a nearby pipe that’s sticking out of the ground. His arm snaps right through when he hits it.
“Dean!” he hears Bobby shout, but he couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He still can’t get any air into his lungs. Fucking barrel. His movement finally stops when he slams into something hard and unyielding. His head snaps back and blood fills his mouth. He hopes that he just bit his tongue upon impact. Dean closes his eyes and fights back his body's first reflex which is to panic. Same as the second and the third. But he knows it'll be alright. He just has to take a second to make sense of things.
Dean lies on his back and has a good view of the first, pale stars of the evening. He’s not breathing yet but there’s nothing he can do about that. A few clouds are sailing the wrong direction. They make him dizzy so he turns his gaze to the steady ground. That should help. Ground is good. It's dirty, he sees, but it indeed is right there, under his cheek now, and he can see the hand that tried to grab the pipe. Probably. It's a white and red, oddly angled thing but it has fingers and vanishes into his jacket sleeve so it should be his hand. Even if he can't really feel it. At all. Still, no reason to worry. He’s had worse. Once. Dean finally sucks in an excruciating gasp and tastes blood on his tongue. That’s it. As long as he’s breathing, he’s in the game. Right now, he’s making it back to his feet as fast as he can. Which means that a few throbbing heartbeats later he's still on the floor. Don’t you worry, Dad, he thinks. Any minute now, he’s gonna get up. He takes another shuddering breath and groans at the pain radiating from his back to his chest and further into his everywhere. He might have cracked a rib or two.
Good thing he’s a Winchester and knows the theory of breathing through pain. Which becomes increasingly difficult. Not because of the pain part, but because of the other one. The. The breathing. Dean would like to shake his head to clear away the cobwebs, but he seems to have forgotten how. A strangled sound comes from somewhere to his right and he opens eyes he can’t remember closing. This is a weird dream. Vivid and wrong. Painful. The sound repeats itself and it’s one of these really urgent ones so - pain be damned - he rolls over to his side to see what’s going on.
Moving is a really bad idea, though. Because, first of all, scratch dream, there in the back stands the fucking warehouse that's holding Dad. They're in the middle of something, some- getting Dad, yes, that's it, but Dean is down. Not good. Second, nope, he didn't crack any ribs; these are definitely broken. He might also have dislocated a shoulder or two and he’s not sure what’s wrong with his side in general. Both of them, actually. Second, no, third, before he tries to puke without puncturing a lung he glimpses the dead thing in the suit, with blood leaking from several wounds. It has Bobby by the throat and tries to shake him into submission. That can’t be right. Maybe he is dreaming after all.
The pain takes over for a bit and through his dimming field of vision he sees Bobby’s cap fly away in an artfully executed arch. The older hunter’s arms and legs are flailing and glimpses of flying paper and the Impalas cracked windows flash before Dean’s eyes. He honestly would like to help the man but the lack of air turns into a real problem right now. There is a change to the shake-growl-flail fight Bobby is in and Dean squints his eyes to bring the scene back into focus. Cas stands over a grey pile and Bobby is on his knees next to him. If Cas is there, it might be ok to shut his eyes for a second so he does.
“Dean. Dean. Dean?” The steady sound disturbs his painless floating just when it worked so well for him. His rush back to awareness isn’t pleasant. It hurts like hell. Holy. Shit. Painpain…ugh. Ow! Shit. Well, that clearly doesn’t help things. Bobby, he thinks.
“Mhbee.” Well, close enough.
“Don’t talk, Dean. Cas will take care of you. I think you might have broken a couple of ribs there.” No kidding. “Shoulder looks pretty bad too. Don’t move too much, son. You’ll be alright. Cas?”
“Dean.” He would have flinched at the sudden earnest tone of the angel that close to his ear. But he is busy staying alive, thank you so much for asking, so he thinks it’s ok not to react at all.
“Dean.” Damnit, Cas.
“Do not talk, I will heal you. This will be unpleasant. Please continue to breathe.” No shit. Dean tries to roll his eyes but pain explodes in the back of his head. His eyes snap open. He sees a blob with Bobby’s shirt and another one, closer, in beige. Trenchcoat. Two fingers blur into focus as they are nearing his temple. Oh crap, is all he can think, crap crap crap. Every fiber of him is glad that he wasn’t awake for this in Wyoming, after all. When the fingers touch him, the agony is instant and whites out everything.
The next time Dean opens his eyes he is still lying on the ground, but he is blissfully pain free. Cas and Bobby are kneeling next to him, one on each side. The angel smiles and Bobby looks like death warmed over. Bobby's shirt and jacket are torn and reddish, but the bleeding seems to have stopped already. Dean carefully tries to move fingers and toes, arms and legs, and finally his head.
“Wow!” He stares at the angel. “You’re good!” Dean gets to his knees, then to his feet, and still he doesn’t feel a pinch. He grins at Bobby and is surprised by the bear hug the older hunter pulls him into. Dean’s smile falters. Bobby had just started to scale down the mother henning; now he’ll never hear the end of it. On their way to the warehouse they pass one of the men in grey and Dean takes a closer look. “Demon?”
“Yes.” Castiel doesn’t look impressed. Behind the frayed remains of the door and the crumbling front wall, the second demon is lying in a heap. A few feet to the right something big and furry lies on the ground. The only light inside filters through the open wall. It’s fucking twilight zone in here. Both hunters close in on the thing carefully, and Dean is surprised to discover that it’s a fox. It’s as big as a pony. He doesn’t have much experience with this, but Dean is sure that foxes aren’t supposed to be this huge. Or this white. He taps the things front paw with his boot and Bobby smacks his shoulder.
“Haven’t I taught you not to play with dead things?” Dean rubs his neck sheepishly and takes a step back.
“What the hell is this?” Dean asks. Bobby shrugs. Both of them turn to Castiel.
“This is one of the Kitsune Hengeyokai.” Dean immediately shakes his head.
“No way is this a kitsune! Dad and I, we hunted a couple of them a few years back. They were nothing like this.” Castiel nods and almost looks sad.
“I am not surprised that you know not of them. These creatures are very old and gentle. They avoid human contact. I believe you will never see another one.” Dean looks at the angel, then at Bobby, and finally gestures towards the mound of white fur.
“But- it’s dead, Cas. If it’s supposed to be so freaking gentle, then why is it all bloody?” Castiel’s expression is oddly stricken.
“She attacked me,” he simply says and turns away.
Dean stares at the angel’s back and once more at Bobby. The older hunter shrugs and mouths ‘Angels’. They follow Cas to the containers that are standing in the middle of the warehouse. There are three of them, not just one. They stand in a neat row, one next to the other, and all of their doors are shut. They approach the closest one, far on the right, when something steps out of the shadows in front of them. It’s another man in another fucking suit.
“You can stop right there,” the new demon says.
“I don’t think so.” Bobby says and squares his shoulders.
Dean gestures towards Cas. “We have brought an angel, asshat. So if I were you, I’d get my sorry demon hide out of here before he deals with you like he did with them.” He points his thumb back over his shoulder. The demon follows the direction with a piercing stare.
“Is that so,” it says and looks Castiel square in the eyes.
“It is.” Castiel says. Dean looks from one to the other and feels like he is missing something. The thing in the suit shrugs and doesn’t seem impressed. Demons can be so stupid.
“I am here to tell you that your journey ends here. You cannot pass.”
“You’ve watched a little too much TV if you ask me, douchebag.” Dean lowers his voice into a pained whisper. “Fly, you fools!”
The demon’s grin widens into something cold and menacing. “Exactly,” it says and looks at Bobby. The hunter freezes on the spot and raises his hands to his throat. Dean is at his side in a blink, grabs the man’s shoulders and turns him around. Bobby’s eyes are wide. He isn’t breathing.
“Cas! Do something!” Bobby doesn’t make a sound and starts clawing at his skin. “Nonono. No, Bobby! Stay calm.” He knows exactly what the other hunter is going through right now. “Castiel! Help him!”
“Stop this.” Dean thinks he must have misheard. This demon sonovabitch is killing Bobby and Castiel opts for a polite request?
“Oh, I think I will not.”
“You will.”
“Will I?” Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me! The demon stares at the angel and something in the air shifts.
“And what if I continue?” Dean is sure he could cut onions with that question. Bobby falls to his knees.
“Dammit! Cas, he’s dying!” Castiel looks over at them and his face betrays no emotion. He catches Dean’s eyes for a long second and steps back until his heels hit the dead fox. Dean steadies Bobby’s head in his lap. The man’s lips are turning fucking blue. Dean tries not to think that their time is running out. Castiel has come through for them before, he knows what he’s doing. Right?
Dean takes Bobby’s hand and squeezes it tight before he zeroes back in on the angel. Cas has bent down and grabbed the dead kitsune. He rolls it over and everybody’s eyes follow him now, even Bobby’s. Cas kneels on the ground over the bloody mess and looks at his hand. It is red from where he touched the fox. He looks up, nods at Dean, and slaps his palm to the ground.
A blinding white light fills the warehouse and a sound like the echo of thunder rolls through it. Dean has to avert his eyes and when the world behind his lids is dark again, he looks up. The warehouse is empty. In front of him, Bobby sucks in a deep breath and starts coughing.
“Hey hey hey, easy. Easy! There you go. Just take a breath.” Dean and Bobby stay like that for a few minutes until there isn’t a hint of blue left to the older hunter’s skin. Then Dean gets up and offers Bobby his hand. After both of them are standing, Dean walks over to the fox. There are some markings on the floor, some sort of symbol. Cas is gone and so is the demon overlord.
“Huh,” Bobby says next to him while he takes in his surroundings. It’s still dark, but they don’t hear or see a thing. “So, are you ready to look for John? I think the monsters are all dead or gone.”
Dean nods and together they walk over to the container on the right. On their way, Dean picks up the duffel that he’d let go off during Bobby’s suffocating stunt. He gets their flashlights out, passes one of them to the other man, and raises his gun, just in case. Behind him, Bobby cocks the sawed-off. Both hunters step close enough to the container to touch it. They flick the lights on and Bobby grabs the latch. He looks at Dean.
“Ready?” he asks. Dean nods. The older hunter pulls the door open and both their flashlights cut through the dark. There is no one inside, but that doesn’t mean they won’t have a look around. Dean goes in first and stops dead in his tracks. He is stunned. This looks like the bastard child of a kitchen and a doctor’s office that dreamt of being a library. The walls are paneled with white tiles, as are floor and ceiling. Some cabinets are lining the left hand wall and a brown cot divides the whole thing in half. A crumpled black sheet or blanket lies next to it on the floor. The condition of the cot speaks of frequent use. It’s not dirty or broken, but the leather is worn and a slight bent in the middle shows where someone might have lain. On the back wall four dark brown, floor to ceiling bookshelves are housing hundreds of books. Some of them are piled on the floor and along the wall to the right, too. On the gleaming steel work surfaces right next to the door lie a few boxes. Their labels read ‘tapes’, ‘bandages’, ‘burn dressings’, and more.
“What is this place?” Dean gives the cabinet doors a pull; they are locked. As if that ever stopped them. Inside they find more medical supplies. There are wound cleansers, surgical scrub brushes and solution, rolls of gauze, IV lines, syringes, and various antibiotics. In one shelf they discover a few sealed trays with what looks like surgical instruments; and in another, a defibrillator lies next to a box with cold medicine. This isn’t even the weirdest thing, though. What has both of them confused is the small kitchen unit at the left hand wall behind the cot. There is a sink and a small microwave and underneath the drain a miniature fridge. It holds a few ice packs on the bottom shelf, some more medicine and half a loaf of bread next to an apple. Miraculously, it seems to be running. There’s no light inside, but it gives off cold. Three faded green flower stickers decorate the microwave. When they step out of the container again they check their surroundings, but they are still alone.
“Left or right, kid?” Dean shrugs and points to the left.
They follow the same routine with the second container. Bobby grabs the handle and pulls while taking a step to the side, shotgun never losing its aim. Dean sweeps his flashlight inside but he doesn’t move forward. Bobby looks over his shoulder and takes a stuttering breath. “Dear god,” he says.
When he finally steps inside, Dean is silent and tries not to lose his breakfast. Where the first container had emitted a weird homey feeling, this one radiates the opposite. There is nothing light, white, or cozy in here. It’s a place for suffering. The walls are bare metal, grey in the front and in the back mostly of a reddish-brown, like dark rust. There is no furniture except for a table in the back next to another cot. Grills on the floor are evenly spread over the place. Someone must have taken the time to build a drain into this thing. In the front section of the container two hooks at one wall are placed next to a bigger grill on the floor. A blue towel dangles from one of the hooks. Dean looks up and sees a shower head. He shivers and notices that the air smells funny.
Bobby passes him by and gently squeezes his shoulder. The older hunter stops a few steps ahead of Dean and looks up. Dean follows suit and spots a roll of chain on the ceiling. He frowns, but Bobby is already a step ahead of him. He walks to the wall and pulls a lever. The reel of chain unwinds a few inches and the hunters see that it’s actually a wire-meshed fence. On a roll. Bobby prods something with his shoe and now Dean notices the small hooks at the floor, at least twenty or thirty of them, right underneath the roll of fence. Bobby lets go of the lever and the fence winds up back on the roll. This is genius on a sick sonovabitch level.
Both of the long walls are stripped except for the showerhead in the front, but the small wall in the back looks like a craftsman’s wet dream. It’s covered in tools; a wide range of drills and saws, pliers, hammers and wrenches, chisels and scrapers. There is a mallet, too, next to a few screwdrivers, a wire stripper and a goddamned fucking axe. Both of the hunters have stepped deeper into the container as if sleepwalking. They’ve seen more than their share of seriously fucked up things; it comes with the job description. But then, they hadn’t stumbled into the set of a third-class horror movie while looking for Dad. This can’t be for real.
Dean wouldn’t have needed to get closer to the table to guess what the stuff on top might have been for. But he has stepped up and now he is close enough to touch the damn thing. The air around him gets thinner. In a long, neat row several kitchen knives point to the back wall. They are sorted smallest to biggest. Underneath them scalpels, scissors, and a bunch of small plastic boxes are queued up. Next to the table, half hidden from view, Dean spots a blowtorch. Bobby turns away from the wall with the tools and picks up one of the plastic boxes.
“Nails,” he says surprised and as soon as Dean sees realization dawn on his face, the older hunter lets go of the box as if burned. The nails scatter all over the floor and Dean flinches at the sudden noise. Dean doesn’t want to know what Bobby has thought of. In fact, he tries not to think at all. He feels the air trying to get out of this place and he want nothing more than to follow suit. He’s sure he won’t be able to bear being in here much longer. He turns around and honestly doesn’t care whether it looks like he’s running when he stumbles over something on the floor. Are those- chains?
“Dear god,” Bobby says once more. He sounds wrecked. Dean has walked into chains, alright. A pair of chains that is bolted to the floor; and now that he pays attention, he sees another pair dangle from the ceiling. All of them have metal cuffs at their end. These are manacles. Shackles. And they are bloody. Now that Dean has realized what old, dried blood on metal looks like, he longs for ignorance. He looks at the walls again, at the floor and the ceiling; and he discovers what it really is that he initially mistook for rust. Now he knows what that odd smell is, too. He might just have turned an ugly shade of green.
This can’t be happening, he thinks and glances blankly ahead. He doesn’t notice Bobby getting closer until the older man gently shakes his shoulder. Unfortunately, that has Dean’s attention snap back to his surroundings and to what he is staring at. A wall that is literally painted in blood. Next to him, Bobby is saying something, but the bloody wall him captivated. Something about it keeps nagging him in the back of his head.
“Dean!” Bobby tugs at his hand and suddenly Dean knows what it is. It’s all too much.
“It’s too much, Bobby.” The other man nods his head.
“I know Dean, I’m sorry. We should-”
“No, Bobby. Look. The blood, it’s too much.” Bobby follows Dean’s train of thought and takes a closer look. The reddish brown is spread over walls, floor, and ceiling and in most places there seems to be more than one layer. Bobby nods slowly.
“This can’t all be John’s.” Dean knows that in theory this is a bad thing. He truly wishes no one had ever been or bled in this nightmarish room at all. But he feels a faint sense of relief at thought that all the ‘rust’ doesn’t necessarily equal Dad bleeding out in here. So, even if he had been in this wretched container, he might not be that bad off, after all. Dean glances at the torch and swallows. Right.
Both of them aren’t keen on staying in the fucking container any longer. Outside, Dean realizes he must have blanked out again, because he can’t remember sitting down or putting his head between his knees. Bobby is crouching in front of him and supplies him with a steady litany of mumbled comfort. He thinks briefly about shaking the other hunter off, about slapping on a brave front and dismissing this whole thing with his usual ‘I’m fine’. But he knows that what he just saw will get a top notch spot in his list of nightmares to come. So he is fine with just sitting here for a minute. Bobby doesn’t seem to mind.
When the world has stopped swaying, Dean slowly raises his head and his gaze falls onto the third container. He closes his eyes and fights another bout of nausea. He honestly doesn’t want to know what’s behind door number three. Dean lets lose a small, disgusted sound and stares at the fucking thing. Bobby follows his line of vision, looks back at him, and makes something that could be a shrug, a nod, or anything in between. “We have to check it out. Just in case- you know.”
Oh, Dean knows. Just in case Dad is in there; just in case they need to build a pyre in the back of the salvage yard later. Just in case there is someone or something else behind that door that needs their help - or that needs to be killed. Of course he fucking knows. This is his life. Dean grabs the hand that Bobby extends and gets to his feet. He pats away the dust from his legs and is surprised to see that his jeans are bloody and torn. So is his shirt.
“Cas may have one hell of a healing mojo, but he sure is no seamstress.”
The mental image that Bobby’s comment conjures up is so ridiculous that Dean can’t help but grin. In this moment, he realizes once more how lucky he is to have Bobby at his side. He nods at the older hunter. “Let’s do this.”
Bobby doesn’t move, though, and schools his expression into a carefully blank mask. “You can tap out of this, you know. If you’d like. Wouldn’t think any less of y-”
Dean straightens up and Bobby falls silent. “No man, I’m good. Let’s go.”
This time they exchange a grim look before opening the container. Bobby raises one eyebrow and Dean gives a curt, answering nod - Ready, boy? - Hell yeah! - before the older hunter grabs the latch and unlocks the door. They both still look a little shaken, but they haven’t survived this long out of dumb luck. They know that they can’t let their emotions get the better of them. So when the third door swings open, their hands are steady on their guns and their eyes unblinking. What greets them behind the door is complete darkness and the smell of something living.
Both hunters keep their weapons trained on the opening, but Dean’s breath catches in his throat. This could be it. The gleam of their flashlights reveals that the container is empty except for a bowl and a plate at the very end, right in front of a lump of fabric that could be blankets. Dean steps a little closer, gun raised and ready to shoot, but nothing happens. It’s quite anticlimactic. The younger hunter throws a glance at Bobby and shrugs. “It might be empty.”
Bobby shakes his head. “It might not be.” Dean stares at the pile in the rear. He knows how dangerous a wounded John Winchester can be, especially when disoriented. That would be ‘dangerous in the sense of potentially fatal’. Dean hesitates. Besides him, Bobby clears his throat
“John? Are you in there?” Nothing happens except for more nothing.
“Dad? It’s us, Bobby and me. Can you come out?” Dean hates it when he sounds this small. Bobby nudges his side with the sawed-off. The pile in the back is moving.
Instantly both men switch to full on hunter mode, guns at the ready and senses on high alert. What emerges from the blankets is definitely not John Winchester. The silhouette is too small and scrawny. It’s human or at least humanoid, and it keeps his head down and an arm in front of its face. With the other hand it’s clutching a checkered blanket of faded blues and greens close to his chest. It doesn’t step closer; if anything, it seems to shrink away from them. Their flashlights keep circling it and finally Bobby lets out a tense breath. “That’s a kid.”
Dean steps towards it, but Bobby holds him back and frowns. Dean should know better; until they know whether the child is human or not they can’t let their guards down. They keep their flashlights on it and Dean can see that the fingers that hold the blanket are bandaged. He swipes his light over the other hand. More bandages, white and thick. The little he can see of the face is sickly pale. It’s wearing a nondescript sweater and a pair of trousers, but no socks or shoes. The feet are as white as snow, too. The kid’s silhouette looks wrong in an unusual way; all bony and sharp edges. Dean things it might be a boy. Besides him he hears Bobby mutter, “God I hate it when it’s kids.”
Dean goes for his best reassuring voice and asks, “Hey buddy, are you hurt? Do you think you can come out?” The boy shakes his head.
“Great,” Bobby mutters and Dean agrees. The shake of the shaggy mop of hair could mean that the kid is either too scared or too hurt to come. Or that he is fine.
“Yeah,” Dean says more to himself, “Let’s try that again.” He raises his voice a little.
“What’s your name, kid?” Silence.
“Can you talk?” Nothing.
“Can you look at me?” The boy slowly raises his head. He looks at Dean for a short second before the skinny hand flies up again to keep the gleam of their flashlights away. This one second is enough, though. Both of them see the wide hazel eyes, that scared open look that once was so familiar to them.
“Holy crap,” Bobby says. Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s not even sure he’s still breathing. He keeps staring ahead and tries to make sense of this. He briefly ponders whether he might have suffered a psychotic break. He feels like falling. Straight out of reality and into one of his nightmares. Because this. It can’t be happening. This kid has Sammy’s eyes.
go back (part six) || Masterpost || continue (part eight)
Northern Perils Seeping South: The South. [January 13th, 1999]
Dean.
Bobby, Dean, and Cas are hunched behind a few bushes right at the edge of a small forest. They have the perfect view of an old factory that houses at least one of the containers from Canada. All day, they have scoped the place and they seem to have gotten lucky. For hours, two men in matching grey suits have walked the perimeter of an abandoned warehouse every 15 minutes. Most probably demons, and angered ones at that. They weren't able to make out what they were talking about, but their body language was clear enough: they're pissed. A woman of slender built and with hair so light it looks almost white has come in and out of the warehouse twice. The graceful, floating way she moves indicates that she might not be human, but still the odds are better than they expected. There is no one else here and with Cas on their side, it’s three against three. Also, angel trumps demon so they should be good.
A load of empty crates is scattered between piles of trash and they still have ten more minutes before the men in grey are patrolling again. Bobby grabs Dean’s arm and whispers, “Don’t do anything stupid,” before he gives the signal. The three of them leave the shelter of the trees and run for a pile of discarded wood. Dean would like nothing better than to get in there already, but Bobby is right. He can’t screw this up. They’ll make their way slowly up to the warehouse and see what’s what first.
They crouch in the shadow of their cover and nine and a half minutes later angry voices can be heard. Just like clockwork, Dean thinks and strains his ears to finally hear what the two men are talking about. The door of the warehouse bangs open and the argument echoes loud and clear over to their new hide-out.
“-didn’t even screw that sheet on right. I mean, how hard can that be?”
“Well excuse me for trying to save your stupid ass. I sure had more important things on my mind than an artfully executed job of interior design.”
“But-”
“No, you know what, you’re always like that! I’m so sick of this. Next time you can go in and disarm all those damned sigils! Even better yet, when he’s with the fox you can go in and restore them. I’m done.”
“Elaine, come on!”
“No, shut up! I don’t want to hear it. It’s your turn anyway.” Dean elbows Bobby in the ribs. ‘Elaine’ he mouths and raises his eyebrows. Bobby shrugs and looks just as confused. The voices veer away from them, but they are still close enough to be understood.
“But he might have seen things.”
“Yeah.” There’s a laugh. “So what’s he going to do with that? It’s not as if he could walk out of here and tell people about his wondrous journey through Canada.” They must be talking about Dad. Hold on, we’re getting you out of there. Dean trembles with anticipation and Bobby’s face is set into grim determination. Castiel’s face looks blank.
“Yeah yeah, you’re right as always, love.” The voices are a little farther away now, they must be walking towards the back.
“Damn right I am. And stop sucking up to me. I hate it when you do that.” During a moment of silence all that Dean hears is the sound of their own tense breaths. “Honestly. Just stop worrying, for once! It’s such a waste of my time. The Canadians are dead; no one knows where we are. The kid is as docile as ever. And you know, even if he’d try to get away now, what is he going to do? It’s been years since he was out in public. He wouldn’t know where to go.” Years, Dean wonders, that can’t be true. Dad had left him months ago, not years. Maybe they’d grabbed more than one hunter.
“I’m sorry, love. It’s just that I sometimes wish you hadn’t volunteered us for this. There’s nothing but trouble with these Winchesters. Who knows whether the pay off will be worth it.” Winchesters. Dean feels ice run along his spine. At least they have confirmation that Dad’s inside now.
“Bobby,” Dean whispers when muffled voices indicate that the men have turned around the far corner. But Bobby shakes his head slightly and tilts his head to the side, trying to understand more of the mumbled conversation. Dean sighs and settles again.
“I hear you.” Dean can make out, barely. “Even hurting the freak isn’t as fun as it used to be.”
“At least we didn’t get the big brother, he’s supposed to be a real pain in the ass.” Screw this. Dean is done waiting and listening to this cryptic shit. He rises from behind their shelter and looks around. I’ll show you pain in the ass, you bastards.
The moment Dean steps out into the meager light, the angel is an explosion of movement next to him. A blink later, he has reached the warehouse and goes for the nearest man in grey that is just running around the corner. Way too fast to be human. Demons, then. The other one is only a step behind and as soon as he sees Dean, he starts running towards him full tilt. Bobby cocks the shotgun and shoots the thing straight in the chest. It goes down and Dean grins. In the background, the angel flings himself at the other demon, crashes into him, and both tumble through the splintering door of the warehouse. Part of a nearby wall implodes with the force. The hunters nod at each other in grim satisfaction. Two down, one to go. But before they can look for the last one, the blonde, the thing on the ground groans and grabs its bloody chest and slowly raises its head.
“Ouch,” it says, with a frown and a crazy smile, “that hurt.” Bobby doesn’t waste time and goes straight for the head this time. The demon goes down in a cloud of red.
Dean tucks his gun into his pants and pulls out the machete, just in case. He carefully closes in on the body but before he has taken three steps, he’s suddenly going sideways instead of forwards. He flies through the air, flails his arms to no effect, and goes down hard a second later. He doesn’t slow down, though.
He gets dragged through garbage, mud, and wooden crates. He can’t figure out how to protect his head from clearing a way for the rest of his body. His side is torn open where he is scraping over the floor. Debris and what feels like liquid fire are settling in the gashes. When his back hits a small barrel with enough force to knock the wind out of him, he sees his chance. He reaches for a nearby pipe that’s sticking out of the ground. His arm snaps right through when he hits it.
“Dean!” he hears Bobby shout, but he couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He still can’t get any air into his lungs. Fucking barrel. His movement finally stops when he slams into something hard and unyielding. His head snaps back and blood fills his mouth. He hopes that he just bit his tongue upon impact. Dean closes his eyes and fights back his body's first reflex which is to panic. Same as the second and the third. But he knows it'll be alright. He just has to take a second to make sense of things.
Dean lies on his back and has a good view of the first, pale stars of the evening. He’s not breathing yet but there’s nothing he can do about that. A few clouds are sailing the wrong direction. They make him dizzy so he turns his gaze to the steady ground. That should help. Ground is good. It's dirty, he sees, but it indeed is right there, under his cheek now, and he can see the hand that tried to grab the pipe. Probably. It's a white and red, oddly angled thing but it has fingers and vanishes into his jacket sleeve so it should be his hand. Even if he can't really feel it. At all. Still, no reason to worry. He’s had worse. Once. Dean finally sucks in an excruciating gasp and tastes blood on his tongue. That’s it. As long as he’s breathing, he’s in the game. Right now, he’s making it back to his feet as fast as he can. Which means that a few throbbing heartbeats later he's still on the floor. Don’t you worry, Dad, he thinks. Any minute now, he’s gonna get up. He takes another shuddering breath and groans at the pain radiating from his back to his chest and further into his everywhere. He might have cracked a rib or two.
Good thing he’s a Winchester and knows the theory of breathing through pain. Which becomes increasingly difficult. Not because of the pain part, but because of the other one. The. The breathing. Dean would like to shake his head to clear away the cobwebs, but he seems to have forgotten how. A strangled sound comes from somewhere to his right and he opens eyes he can’t remember closing. This is a weird dream. Vivid and wrong. Painful. The sound repeats itself and it’s one of these really urgent ones so - pain be damned - he rolls over to his side to see what’s going on.
Moving is a really bad idea, though. Because, first of all, scratch dream, there in the back stands the fucking warehouse that's holding Dad. They're in the middle of something, some- getting Dad, yes, that's it, but Dean is down. Not good. Second, nope, he didn't crack any ribs; these are definitely broken. He might also have dislocated a shoulder or two and he’s not sure what’s wrong with his side in general. Both of them, actually. Second, no, third, before he tries to puke without puncturing a lung he glimpses the dead thing in the suit, with blood leaking from several wounds. It has Bobby by the throat and tries to shake him into submission. That can’t be right. Maybe he is dreaming after all.
The pain takes over for a bit and through his dimming field of vision he sees Bobby’s cap fly away in an artfully executed arch. The older hunter’s arms and legs are flailing and glimpses of flying paper and the Impalas cracked windows flash before Dean’s eyes. He honestly would like to help the man but the lack of air turns into a real problem right now. There is a change to the shake-growl-flail fight Bobby is in and Dean squints his eyes to bring the scene back into focus. Cas stands over a grey pile and Bobby is on his knees next to him. If Cas is there, it might be ok to shut his eyes for a second so he does.
“Dean. Dean. Dean?” The steady sound disturbs his painless floating just when it worked so well for him. His rush back to awareness isn’t pleasant. It hurts like hell. Holy. Shit. Painpain…ugh. Ow! Shit. Well, that clearly doesn’t help things. Bobby, he thinks.
“Mhbee.” Well, close enough.
“Don’t talk, Dean. Cas will take care of you. I think you might have broken a couple of ribs there.” No kidding. “Shoulder looks pretty bad too. Don’t move too much, son. You’ll be alright. Cas?”
“Dean.” He would have flinched at the sudden earnest tone of the angel that close to his ear. But he is busy staying alive, thank you so much for asking, so he thinks it’s ok not to react at all.
“Dean.” Damnit, Cas.
“Do not talk, I will heal you. This will be unpleasant. Please continue to breathe.” No shit. Dean tries to roll his eyes but pain explodes in the back of his head. His eyes snap open. He sees a blob with Bobby’s shirt and another one, closer, in beige. Trenchcoat. Two fingers blur into focus as they are nearing his temple. Oh crap, is all he can think, crap crap crap. Every fiber of him is glad that he wasn’t awake for this in Wyoming, after all. When the fingers touch him, the agony is instant and whites out everything.
The next time Dean opens his eyes he is still lying on the ground, but he is blissfully pain free. Cas and Bobby are kneeling next to him, one on each side. The angel smiles and Bobby looks like death warmed over. Bobby's shirt and jacket are torn and reddish, but the bleeding seems to have stopped already. Dean carefully tries to move fingers and toes, arms and legs, and finally his head.
“Wow!” He stares at the angel. “You’re good!” Dean gets to his knees, then to his feet, and still he doesn’t feel a pinch. He grins at Bobby and is surprised by the bear hug the older hunter pulls him into. Dean’s smile falters. Bobby had just started to scale down the mother henning; now he’ll never hear the end of it. On their way to the warehouse they pass one of the men in grey and Dean takes a closer look. “Demon?”
“Yes.” Castiel doesn’t look impressed. Behind the frayed remains of the door and the crumbling front wall, the second demon is lying in a heap. A few feet to the right something big and furry lies on the ground. The only light inside filters through the open wall. It’s fucking twilight zone in here. Both hunters close in on the thing carefully, and Dean is surprised to discover that it’s a fox. It’s as big as a pony. He doesn’t have much experience with this, but Dean is sure that foxes aren’t supposed to be this huge. Or this white. He taps the things front paw with his boot and Bobby smacks his shoulder.
“Haven’t I taught you not to play with dead things?” Dean rubs his neck sheepishly and takes a step back.
“What the hell is this?” Dean asks. Bobby shrugs. Both of them turn to Castiel.
“This is one of the Kitsune Hengeyokai.” Dean immediately shakes his head.
“No way is this a kitsune! Dad and I, we hunted a couple of them a few years back. They were nothing like this.” Castiel nods and almost looks sad.
“I am not surprised that you know not of them. These creatures are very old and gentle. They avoid human contact. I believe you will never see another one.” Dean looks at the angel, then at Bobby, and finally gestures towards the mound of white fur.
“But- it’s dead, Cas. If it’s supposed to be so freaking gentle, then why is it all bloody?” Castiel’s expression is oddly stricken.
“She attacked me,” he simply says and turns away.
Dean stares at the angel’s back and once more at Bobby. The older hunter shrugs and mouths ‘Angels’. They follow Cas to the containers that are standing in the middle of the warehouse. There are three of them, not just one. They stand in a neat row, one next to the other, and all of their doors are shut. They approach the closest one, far on the right, when something steps out of the shadows in front of them. It’s another man in another fucking suit.
“You can stop right there,” the new demon says.
“I don’t think so.” Bobby says and squares his shoulders.
Dean gestures towards Cas. “We have brought an angel, asshat. So if I were you, I’d get my sorry demon hide out of here before he deals with you like he did with them.” He points his thumb back over his shoulder. The demon follows the direction with a piercing stare.
“Is that so,” it says and looks Castiel square in the eyes.
“It is.” Castiel says. Dean looks from one to the other and feels like he is missing something. The thing in the suit shrugs and doesn’t seem impressed. Demons can be so stupid.
“I am here to tell you that your journey ends here. You cannot pass.”
“You’ve watched a little too much TV if you ask me, douchebag.” Dean lowers his voice into a pained whisper. “Fly, you fools!”
The demon’s grin widens into something cold and menacing. “Exactly,” it says and looks at Bobby. The hunter freezes on the spot and raises his hands to his throat. Dean is at his side in a blink, grabs the man’s shoulders and turns him around. Bobby’s eyes are wide. He isn’t breathing.
“Cas! Do something!” Bobby doesn’t make a sound and starts clawing at his skin. “Nonono. No, Bobby! Stay calm.” He knows exactly what the other hunter is going through right now. “Castiel! Help him!”
“Stop this.” Dean thinks he must have misheard. This demon sonovabitch is killing Bobby and Castiel opts for a polite request?
“Oh, I think I will not.”
“You will.”
“Will I?” Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me! The demon stares at the angel and something in the air shifts.
“And what if I continue?” Dean is sure he could cut onions with that question. Bobby falls to his knees.
“Dammit! Cas, he’s dying!” Castiel looks over at them and his face betrays no emotion. He catches Dean’s eyes for a long second and steps back until his heels hit the dead fox. Dean steadies Bobby’s head in his lap. The man’s lips are turning fucking blue. Dean tries not to think that their time is running out. Castiel has come through for them before, he knows what he’s doing. Right?
Dean takes Bobby’s hand and squeezes it tight before he zeroes back in on the angel. Cas has bent down and grabbed the dead kitsune. He rolls it over and everybody’s eyes follow him now, even Bobby’s. Cas kneels on the ground over the bloody mess and looks at his hand. It is red from where he touched the fox. He looks up, nods at Dean, and slaps his palm to the ground.
A blinding white light fills the warehouse and a sound like the echo of thunder rolls through it. Dean has to avert his eyes and when the world behind his lids is dark again, he looks up. The warehouse is empty. In front of him, Bobby sucks in a deep breath and starts coughing.
“Hey hey hey, easy. Easy! There you go. Just take a breath.” Dean and Bobby stay like that for a few minutes until there isn’t a hint of blue left to the older hunter’s skin. Then Dean gets up and offers Bobby his hand. After both of them are standing, Dean walks over to the fox. There are some markings on the floor, some sort of symbol. Cas is gone and so is the demon overlord.
“Huh,” Bobby says next to him while he takes in his surroundings. It’s still dark, but they don’t hear or see a thing. “So, are you ready to look for John? I think the monsters are all dead or gone.”
Dean nods and together they walk over to the container on the right. On their way, Dean picks up the duffel that he’d let go off during Bobby’s suffocating stunt. He gets their flashlights out, passes one of them to the other man, and raises his gun, just in case. Behind him, Bobby cocks the sawed-off. Both hunters step close enough to the container to touch it. They flick the lights on and Bobby grabs the latch. He looks at Dean.
“Ready?” he asks. Dean nods. The older hunter pulls the door open and both their flashlights cut through the dark. There is no one inside, but that doesn’t mean they won’t have a look around. Dean goes in first and stops dead in his tracks. He is stunned. This looks like the bastard child of a kitchen and a doctor’s office that dreamt of being a library. The walls are paneled with white tiles, as are floor and ceiling. Some cabinets are lining the left hand wall and a brown cot divides the whole thing in half. A crumpled black sheet or blanket lies next to it on the floor. The condition of the cot speaks of frequent use. It’s not dirty or broken, but the leather is worn and a slight bent in the middle shows where someone might have lain. On the back wall four dark brown, floor to ceiling bookshelves are housing hundreds of books. Some of them are piled on the floor and along the wall to the right, too. On the gleaming steel work surfaces right next to the door lie a few boxes. Their labels read ‘tapes’, ‘bandages’, ‘burn dressings’, and more.
“What is this place?” Dean gives the cabinet doors a pull; they are locked. As if that ever stopped them. Inside they find more medical supplies. There are wound cleansers, surgical scrub brushes and solution, rolls of gauze, IV lines, syringes, and various antibiotics. In one shelf they discover a few sealed trays with what looks like surgical instruments; and in another, a defibrillator lies next to a box with cold medicine. This isn’t even the weirdest thing, though. What has both of them confused is the small kitchen unit at the left hand wall behind the cot. There is a sink and a small microwave and underneath the drain a miniature fridge. It holds a few ice packs on the bottom shelf, some more medicine and half a loaf of bread next to an apple. Miraculously, it seems to be running. There’s no light inside, but it gives off cold. Three faded green flower stickers decorate the microwave. When they step out of the container again they check their surroundings, but they are still alone.
“Left or right, kid?” Dean shrugs and points to the left.
They follow the same routine with the second container. Bobby grabs the handle and pulls while taking a step to the side, shotgun never losing its aim. Dean sweeps his flashlight inside but he doesn’t move forward. Bobby looks over his shoulder and takes a stuttering breath. “Dear god,” he says.
When he finally steps inside, Dean is silent and tries not to lose his breakfast. Where the first container had emitted a weird homey feeling, this one radiates the opposite. There is nothing light, white, or cozy in here. It’s a place for suffering. The walls are bare metal, grey in the front and in the back mostly of a reddish-brown, like dark rust. There is no furniture except for a table in the back next to another cot. Grills on the floor are evenly spread over the place. Someone must have taken the time to build a drain into this thing. In the front section of the container two hooks at one wall are placed next to a bigger grill on the floor. A blue towel dangles from one of the hooks. Dean looks up and sees a shower head. He shivers and notices that the air smells funny.
Bobby passes him by and gently squeezes his shoulder. The older hunter stops a few steps ahead of Dean and looks up. Dean follows suit and spots a roll of chain on the ceiling. He frowns, but Bobby is already a step ahead of him. He walks to the wall and pulls a lever. The reel of chain unwinds a few inches and the hunters see that it’s actually a wire-meshed fence. On a roll. Bobby prods something with his shoe and now Dean notices the small hooks at the floor, at least twenty or thirty of them, right underneath the roll of fence. Bobby lets go of the lever and the fence winds up back on the roll. This is genius on a sick sonovabitch level.
Both of the long walls are stripped except for the showerhead in the front, but the small wall in the back looks like a craftsman’s wet dream. It’s covered in tools; a wide range of drills and saws, pliers, hammers and wrenches, chisels and scrapers. There is a mallet, too, next to a few screwdrivers, a wire stripper and a goddamned fucking axe. Both of the hunters have stepped deeper into the container as if sleepwalking. They’ve seen more than their share of seriously fucked up things; it comes with the job description. But then, they hadn’t stumbled into the set of a third-class horror movie while looking for Dad. This can’t be for real.
Dean wouldn’t have needed to get closer to the table to guess what the stuff on top might have been for. But he has stepped up and now he is close enough to touch the damn thing. The air around him gets thinner. In a long, neat row several kitchen knives point to the back wall. They are sorted smallest to biggest. Underneath them scalpels, scissors, and a bunch of small plastic boxes are queued up. Next to the table, half hidden from view, Dean spots a blowtorch. Bobby turns away from the wall with the tools and picks up one of the plastic boxes.
“Nails,” he says surprised and as soon as Dean sees realization dawn on his face, the older hunter lets go of the box as if burned. The nails scatter all over the floor and Dean flinches at the sudden noise. Dean doesn’t want to know what Bobby has thought of. In fact, he tries not to think at all. He feels the air trying to get out of this place and he want nothing more than to follow suit. He’s sure he won’t be able to bear being in here much longer. He turns around and honestly doesn’t care whether it looks like he’s running when he stumbles over something on the floor. Are those- chains?
“Dear god,” Bobby says once more. He sounds wrecked. Dean has walked into chains, alright. A pair of chains that is bolted to the floor; and now that he pays attention, he sees another pair dangle from the ceiling. All of them have metal cuffs at their end. These are manacles. Shackles. And they are bloody. Now that Dean has realized what old, dried blood on metal looks like, he longs for ignorance. He looks at the walls again, at the floor and the ceiling; and he discovers what it really is that he initially mistook for rust. Now he knows what that odd smell is, too. He might just have turned an ugly shade of green.
This can’t be happening, he thinks and glances blankly ahead. He doesn’t notice Bobby getting closer until the older man gently shakes his shoulder. Unfortunately, that has Dean’s attention snap back to his surroundings and to what he is staring at. A wall that is literally painted in blood. Next to him, Bobby is saying something, but the bloody wall him captivated. Something about it keeps nagging him in the back of his head.
“Dean!” Bobby tugs at his hand and suddenly Dean knows what it is. It’s all too much.
“It’s too much, Bobby.” The other man nods his head.
“I know Dean, I’m sorry. We should-”
“No, Bobby. Look. The blood, it’s too much.” Bobby follows Dean’s train of thought and takes a closer look. The reddish brown is spread over walls, floor, and ceiling and in most places there seems to be more than one layer. Bobby nods slowly.
“This can’t all be John’s.” Dean knows that in theory this is a bad thing. He truly wishes no one had ever been or bled in this nightmarish room at all. But he feels a faint sense of relief at thought that all the ‘rust’ doesn’t necessarily equal Dad bleeding out in here. So, even if he had been in this wretched container, he might not be that bad off, after all. Dean glances at the torch and swallows. Right.
Both of them aren’t keen on staying in the fucking container any longer. Outside, Dean realizes he must have blanked out again, because he can’t remember sitting down or putting his head between his knees. Bobby is crouching in front of him and supplies him with a steady litany of mumbled comfort. He thinks briefly about shaking the other hunter off, about slapping on a brave front and dismissing this whole thing with his usual ‘I’m fine’. But he knows that what he just saw will get a top notch spot in his list of nightmares to come. So he is fine with just sitting here for a minute. Bobby doesn’t seem to mind.
When the world has stopped swaying, Dean slowly raises his head and his gaze falls onto the third container. He closes his eyes and fights another bout of nausea. He honestly doesn’t want to know what’s behind door number three. Dean lets lose a small, disgusted sound and stares at the fucking thing. Bobby follows his line of vision, looks back at him, and makes something that could be a shrug, a nod, or anything in between. “We have to check it out. Just in case- you know.”
Oh, Dean knows. Just in case Dad is in there; just in case they need to build a pyre in the back of the salvage yard later. Just in case there is someone or something else behind that door that needs their help - or that needs to be killed. Of course he fucking knows. This is his life. Dean grabs the hand that Bobby extends and gets to his feet. He pats away the dust from his legs and is surprised to see that his jeans are bloody and torn. So is his shirt.
“Cas may have one hell of a healing mojo, but he sure is no seamstress.”
The mental image that Bobby’s comment conjures up is so ridiculous that Dean can’t help but grin. In this moment, he realizes once more how lucky he is to have Bobby at his side. He nods at the older hunter. “Let’s do this.”
Bobby doesn’t move, though, and schools his expression into a carefully blank mask. “You can tap out of this, you know. If you’d like. Wouldn’t think any less of y-”
Dean straightens up and Bobby falls silent. “No man, I’m good. Let’s go.”
This time they exchange a grim look before opening the container. Bobby raises one eyebrow and Dean gives a curt, answering nod - Ready, boy? - Hell yeah! - before the older hunter grabs the latch and unlocks the door. They both still look a little shaken, but they haven’t survived this long out of dumb luck. They know that they can’t let their emotions get the better of them. So when the third door swings open, their hands are steady on their guns and their eyes unblinking. What greets them behind the door is complete darkness and the smell of something living.
Both hunters keep their weapons trained on the opening, but Dean’s breath catches in his throat. This could be it. The gleam of their flashlights reveals that the container is empty except for a bowl and a plate at the very end, right in front of a lump of fabric that could be blankets. Dean steps a little closer, gun raised and ready to shoot, but nothing happens. It’s quite anticlimactic. The younger hunter throws a glance at Bobby and shrugs. “It might be empty.”
Bobby shakes his head. “It might not be.” Dean stares at the pile in the rear. He knows how dangerous a wounded John Winchester can be, especially when disoriented. That would be ‘dangerous in the sense of potentially fatal’. Dean hesitates. Besides him, Bobby clears his throat
“John? Are you in there?” Nothing happens except for more nothing.
“Dad? It’s us, Bobby and me. Can you come out?” Dean hates it when he sounds this small. Bobby nudges his side with the sawed-off. The pile in the back is moving.
Instantly both men switch to full on hunter mode, guns at the ready and senses on high alert. What emerges from the blankets is definitely not John Winchester. The silhouette is too small and scrawny. It’s human or at least humanoid, and it keeps his head down and an arm in front of its face. With the other hand it’s clutching a checkered blanket of faded blues and greens close to his chest. It doesn’t step closer; if anything, it seems to shrink away from them. Their flashlights keep circling it and finally Bobby lets out a tense breath. “That’s a kid.”
Dean steps towards it, but Bobby holds him back and frowns. Dean should know better; until they know whether the child is human or not they can’t let their guards down. They keep their flashlights on it and Dean can see that the fingers that hold the blanket are bandaged. He swipes his light over the other hand. More bandages, white and thick. The little he can see of the face is sickly pale. It’s wearing a nondescript sweater and a pair of trousers, but no socks or shoes. The feet are as white as snow, too. The kid’s silhouette looks wrong in an unusual way; all bony and sharp edges. Dean things it might be a boy. Besides him he hears Bobby mutter, “God I hate it when it’s kids.”
Dean goes for his best reassuring voice and asks, “Hey buddy, are you hurt? Do you think you can come out?” The boy shakes his head.
“Great,” Bobby mutters and Dean agrees. The shake of the shaggy mop of hair could mean that the kid is either too scared or too hurt to come. Or that he is fine.
“Yeah,” Dean says more to himself, “Let’s try that again.” He raises his voice a little.
“What’s your name, kid?” Silence.
“Can you talk?” Nothing.
“Can you look at me?” The boy slowly raises his head. He looks at Dean for a short second before the skinny hand flies up again to keep the gleam of their flashlights away. This one second is enough, though. Both of them see the wide hazel eyes, that scared open look that once was so familiar to them.
“Holy crap,” Bobby says. Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s not even sure he’s still breathing. He keeps staring ahead and tries to make sense of this. He briefly ponders whether he might have suffered a psychotic break. He feels like falling. Straight out of reality and into one of his nightmares. Because this. It can’t be happening. This kid has Sammy’s eyes.
go back (part six) || Masterpost || continue (part eight)