Teacher's Pet Chapter 5
Title: Teacher's Pet Chapter 5
Author: JCRGIRL
Banner: imogen_lily
Pairing: Dean/Sam, OMC/Sam
Rating: NC-17 overall, PG-13 this chapter
Warnings: Overall: Wincest, AU, bondage, non-con (not the boys), kidnap, abuse, D/S overtones, weecest (Sam is 16)
Word Count: ~ 3850
Beta: glimmerella
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: Sam is kidnapped and the hunting community, headed by Dean and John, band together to find him. Four days after he's taken, Sam stumbles out of the woods beaten, bruised and broken and reminds Dean and John that not all evil is supernatural.
Athor Notes: I found a call for anyone interested in a bunny over on abused_sammy. I like bunnies so I went over and saw a cute one. I petted it and loved it and it followed me home. This is what comes of petting bunnies. That being said this story is to fulfill my prompt claim for Prompt Fest 2.5. So much thanks to glimmerella for the wonderful beta job she does and imogen_lily for the cheerleading. Stories are just words on paper without great editing and they'd never be written without encouragement. *Hugs and kisses* to you both.
John passed the Bedford city limits sign just as dawn’s first rays colored the sky in shades of coral, pink and orange. He rolled down Main Street, the small Mom and Pop storefronts dark against the emerging light of morning breaking. It was a peaceful town - a model of Eisenhower utopianism, Rockwellian in its simplicity and serenity. A snapshot of times gone by, set in the American Midwest as a reminder of the peace of the past. It was a deceptively innocuous picture at best. Beneath the veneer of hometown Americana something had lurked in plain sight and taken a piece of what was left of his fractured soul. A late night fox in the henhouse.
Stopping in front of the house, brakes squeaking, he parked next to the Impala and knuckled the weariness from his eyes. Sleep was not a luxury he could afford right now. Police believed chances of recovering a kidnap victim were slim after the first 48 hours, but, in the hunting world, that time estimate could be overly generous. That thought in mind, he pushed open the door of his truck and made his way up the front porch stairs.
Dean turned toward the door as he entered having heard the unmistakable rumble of his father’s truck when he pulled in the driveway. “Hey.”
“Hey.” John replied, searching his oldest’s face. Dean’d always been paler than either him or Sam, his coloring favoring Mary’s delicate peaches and cream complexion, but now he appeared gray. His bright, jade green eyes that John learned long ago shone with pure mischief were dull and resigned. With startling clarity, John realized that thing hadn’t taken a piece of Dean’s soul - it had taken Dean’s everything. They had to find Sam alive or he might as well set up twin pyres and then load his own gun. “Anything?” He gestured to the open laptop on the coffee table.
Blowing out a breath, Dean reached over and closed the lid, eyes resolutely not looking at the bumper sticker for fear of what his expression would tell his father. A list of the states they’d identified as having a Columbia was scrawled on a notepad to the right of the computer, Indiana crossed off at the top. After he finished with the Bedford Tribune editions, he decided to check the last week’s worth of issues of the local newspapers for all the Columbias. It was something to occupy his hands and mind, the former the devil’s playthings and the latter his playground. He’d already read about the drought woes and increasing academic improvement in Columbia, Indiana and was now knee deep in the battle over how to restore the gazebo in historic Columbia, Kentucky. “Yeah, I got nothing. You?”
Sighing wearily, John moved to the couch and plopped down heavily next to Dean. “I’ve called in a few favors. Bobby’s coming and Caleb is meeting up with Pastor Jim. I think Elkins is driving over, he was in Nevada chasing something. I talked to this guy Ash that I know; depending on the day he’s either a genius or stoned. He’s setting up some kind of program to track Sam’s cell.”
“You think this Ash will be able to tell us where Sam is?” Dean picked up the pack of cigarettes, jerking his wrist to force one above the others for easier extraction. He raised an eyebrow when John slapped his arm and motioned toward the box. Holding one out for his dad, Dean wondered if that lead poisoning would be contagious. It didn’t appear either of them would live to die of cancer without Sam.
Taking the cigarette, John waited until Dean lit his and passed him the lighter before he answered, “If anyone can do it, Ash can. He helped me track down a…” His cell phone rang interrupting his thought. He dug in his pocket, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “Speak of the devil.” The muttered words dislodged the cigarette and he hissed in pain when the smoldering end fell on the exposed skin of his hand before landing on the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he answered the phone with a curse.
“Well, good morning to you too, JW.” Ash drawled over the line. “If that’s the way you answer when people call with good news, I’d hate to hear what you say to someone with bad.”
“Good news?” John sat forward on the couch, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Next to him Dean moved closer.
“It took some fancy hacking, A-Line has a pretty decent firewall, but I was finally able to get through and find him, or rather his cell phone. It’s about a mile east of Columbia, Missouri.”
“Columbia, Missouri? You got coordinates?”
“Yeah, I got them.” Ash sounded tired. “I’ll e-mail them to you. Where do you want me to send it?”
“Send it to Dean’s account, dwinchester@mailer.srv.” John jutted his chin in the direction of the laptop. Dean leaned over and lifted the lid then signed into his e-mail account.
“I just sent it, should be there in a minute. Let me know if you need anything else.” A feminine voice spoke in the background. “Oh, hey. Ellen says that Travis and Martin just finished a job in Tennessee. They said call them and they’ll help however they can.”
“Tell her thanks for me. I appreciate it. And Ash, I owe you one.”
“I know you’re good for it. Good luck.” Ash hung up. Sam’s incoming call log was still up on the screen in front of him, repeated calls from a strange number highlighted in yellow. Picking up the PBR next to him, he opened a new screen and started another search.
Snapping his phone closed, John focused on the laptop screen willing the message to hurry and get there. They finally had a starting point and he was itching to get going. The counter next to Dean’s Inbox registered a new e-mail and Dean quickly clicked on it.
Turning to his father, he smirked at the sender's address. “Dr. Badass?” Dean opened the message and jotted down the coordinates - N 38.948351 W 92.333779.
“Told you some days he’s a genius others a stoner. Pack up while I call Travis and Martin. They’re close by and can give us a hand.”
Nodding, Dean stood and moved to the bedroom he shared with Sam, hope flickering in his chest. Shoving clothes and personal items into worn duffle bags, Dean lifted his pillow and retrieved the Bowie knife hidden there. Running a thumb along the edge to check the sharpness, he vowed that when he found the thing that took his brother, he’d make it pay. Nice and slow. Once Sammy was back with him, he’d have all the time in the world to make it suffer and he planned to use every minute to its fullest.
After stocking up on caffeine and safely hiding John’s truck behind the garage where Dean worked, they hit the road in the Impala, heading west toward the Illinois-Indiana border. John drove while Dean recounted everything that had happened since his departure - almost everything…there were some things that Dean didn’t think their father needed to know - including Sam’s recent mood swings, but, as they neared the state line, they were no closer to figuring out what took the youngest Winchester.
A police siren broke the early morning stillness and in the side view mirror Dean could see red and blue lights approaching them fast.
“You speeding?” He leaned over in the seat to look at the speedometer.
“Not enough to get pulled over. Brake lights out?” He glanced in the rear view at the police cruiser that was quickly catching up to them, headlights flashing.
“Of course not,” Dean bristled, “Unless it just happened.”
John navigated the Impala to the side of the road when it became apparent that the commotion was for them. “What names do you have registrations in?”
Dean popped open the glove box and pushed aside several unpaid parking and speeding tickets until he found the envelope that contained the forged registrations. “Anderson, Efframian, Smith, Tyler and Simmons.” He called out the names as he flipped through the stack of Bobby’s finest work.
“Give me Efframian. I’ve got a license to match it.” John lifted to one side to retrieve his wallet and find the driver’s license with his picture and Burt Efframian’s name.
Dean handed over the registration and was just shutting the envelope back in the glove compartment when the trooper approached.
“Good morning, sir. Can I see you driver’s license and registration?” The man scrutinized them both with a cool, calculating look before fixing a hard smile on his face.
“Of course, officer. What seems to be the trouble?”
Dean watched the man carefully as his dad passed over the requested documents. Something wasn’t right. This trooper was tightly wound, anger seething just under the surface, emotions completely at odds for a routine traffic stop. Examining the papers, the man leaned back to cast a glance into the backseat.
“We got a call about a young man who was being abused by his father and boyfriend. Your vehicle matches the description of the boyfriend’s car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Mr. Efframian?” The officer peered over the top of his aviator glasses at them.
Being a professional liar for over fifteen years afforded John the ability to act with Emmy-winning talent on the fly. “No officer, I don’t think I do. This here is my son, Hector. As you can see he’s perfectly fine.” John infused as much Midwestern innocence as he could into his performance.
“Let me see some ID?” The trooper snapped his fingers at Dean and held his palm out.
Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the ID for Hector Efframian from one of the slots at the back. He passed it to the officer.
The trooper looked over the license, flipping it over and examining the back, then handed it back to Dean. “So Hector is your only son?”
Dean watched the fingers on his father’s right hand, resting against his thigh, twitch at the question. Dean’s stomach turned to ice when his father answered, “Yes, my one and only. His mother died when he was a toddler and I never remarried.”
The officer’s face softened, unconsciously twirling the gold band on his left hand with his thumb. “It’s hard to find someone to live up to the memory,” he muttered, “I’m sorry to bother you gentlemen. We take accusations of child abuse very seriously around here and the car was a dead-on match. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” The officer handed back John’s papers and thumped his fist against the door of the Impala, then headed back to his cruiser.
Raising an eyebrow, Dean took the registration back from his dad. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.” John watched the trooper get back in his car and make a U turn to go back the way they came.
“Me either.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the weak sunlight warming the cool dawn air. His muscles felt too pliant and uncoordinated as the last of the drugs still circulated his system. His stomach seized, on the verge of emptying his pancakes on the floor, and he groaned at the spasm.
“Awake again so soon? You have a high tolerance for drugs, Samuel. I will have to learn to adjust the dosages accordingly.”
Sam opened his eyes to see steel blue staring at him in the reflection of the rear view mirror. His stomach clenched again and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “Imma be sick.” He frowned as the words came out slurred and hoped that Reece got the message.
“Hold on, angel. There is a rest stop right up here. We’ll get you out and see if you feel better.”
A few minutes later, Reece stopped the car and came around to the back door. He cut the tape holding Sam’s legs and hands together and helped the youth sit up. “Remember the rules, Samuel. There might not be any cute waitresses around, but I’m sure the Hendersons’ would like to make it to their destination safely.” He nodded out the passenger window to an RV parked a few spaces away. Strapped to the back were bicycles, two adult and one with training wheels and tasseled handlebars. The drapes were drawn against the emerging morning light and the vehicle was silent. “Now, come on. Let’s get you some fresh air to settle your stomach.”
Reece pulled him from the car and held him until he gained his balance. Straightening up, Sam’s stomach lurched and churned. “Throw up.” He managed before clamping his mouth shut, worried his gut thought the words were permission.
Hurrying him into the small building at the center of the complex, Reece guided him into the handicapped stall at the end. Sam shoved the lock into place and barely made it to the commode before he vomited up his breakfast. In between his retching he could hear Reece’s soothing words from outside the stall door.
“It’s okay, Samuel. Get it all up. You’ve allowed yourself to get too worked up over everything. You just need to calm down and you’ll feel better.”
Sam tuned him out, allowing the sound of his own heaving to fill his ears. He wanted to rage at the man. Yell at him that if he hadn’t drugged Sam to the gills he wouldn’t be sick, but in the end the most he could do was lean over the toilet. After several long minutes, Sam sat back against the disgusting tile and breathed through the lingering nausea.
“You okay, Samuel?” Reece’s voice was accompanied by a small knock to the door.
“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” Sam tucked his feet underneath him and pushed up from the dirty floor.
“Just a minute, Samuel. Be sure to rinse your mouth. I’ll be waiting outside making sure that the Hendersons’ are nice and safe.”
Sam waited until he heard the hiss of the hydraulic arm on the main restroom door then flushed the toilet and exited the stall. He walked over the sink and slammed his hand down on the cool porcelain in frustration. Jerking his hand back, he looked at the small river of blood traveling from his palm down to his wrist and forearm. Examining the sink, he found an area where the enamel was chipped leaving a sharp edge. Lifting his arm, he watched mesmerized as the blood flowed over his skin, following the indentations and grooves created by his muscles.
Catching the droplet at the head of the stream with the forefinger of his other hand, he smeared it over the pad with this thumb. His eyes slowly moved to the mirror and an idea started to form. Variations on a theme. Gathering more blood on his finger, he started to draw on the glass.
The rune was as clear in his mind as the day he created it.
Finishing the last line, he rinsed the blood from his finger and arm and wrapped a paper towel around his still bleeding hand. Reece was waiting for him just outside the restroom entry and immediately noticed the makeshift bandage.
“You’ve injured yourself, Samuel.” He frowned, lifting Sam’s hand to remove the towel and examine the wound.
“The sink was chipped. I cut myself on a sharp section.” Sam tried to pull his hand back, but Reece’s hold was firm.
“You need to be more careful. You mustn’t damage what is mine. So far you have made yourself ill and hurt yourself. In the future, please know that will not be tolerated.” Reece replaced the towel and curled Sam’s fingers over it to hold it in place.
Gritting his teeth, Sam bit back that he was not Reece’s, he was Dean’s. A glance to the parking lot showed a young woman and a little girl standing next to the Hendersons’ RV. Swallowing his protest, Sam ducked his head in submission. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” Reece crooned and led Sam back to the car with that hated hand on his back.
Passing a bulletin board, Sam saw a four foot by eight foot map of Kansas tacked up behind the glass. A large red dot labeled helpfully with ‘YOU ARE HERE’ showed their current location. They were somewhere off I-35 just southwest of Kansas City, less than an hour and a half from Lawrence. Wouldn’t it be something to die so close to where he was born?
Reece ushered him to the car and maneuvered him on the back seat again. The older man retrieved a first aid kit from under the seat, cleaned and bandaged Sam’s hand. Leaning over the console, he returned holding a syringe. Sam eyed the plastic and metal, a feeling of dread filling him. The drugs gave Reece too much control over him and Sam needed to take it back.
“Wait, wait, please!” Sam held his hands up as Reece laid the syringe on the seat next to his hip. “Sir, no more drugs, please. My stomach…” He curled a hand around his abdomen for emphasis. “I promise, sir, I’ll be good. You don’t have to drug me.” Sam forced his hand to rest on Reece’s arm.
Reece smiled down at the hand on his arm. “I see that. You are my good boy.” He stroked Sam’s hair missing the shudder that the younger man tried hard to suppress. “It just took you a little while to realize it. Let’s compromise.” He picked up the syringe and leaned over the console again. This time he returned with a smaller one and showed it to Sam. “This is Benadryl. It has the same formula as Dramamine so it should settle your stomach and help you get some rest. We’re almost there, not much further. Then we can start our life together.”
Resigned, Sam held out his arm and braced for the pinch he knew was coming. Reece’s new belief that Sam wanted to be his ‘good boy’ - Sam didn’t suppress the shudder this time - didn’t extend far enough that he felt comfortable with Sam unbound. Once again Sam’s hands and feet were circled in duct tape and he was lain out on the back seat.
Feeling the rumble of the engine starting, Sam let his mind drift back to the rune on the mirror. The odds of Dean finding it were even less than him finding the bracelet at the Biggerson’s. The restaurant was one of Dean’s favorites so he might find it. What was the likelihood he’d be traveling down I-35 and have the urge to pee at the right moment? At least he knew it was something that Dean would recognize immediately.
“What is it, Sam?” Dean’s finger traced the straight lines and angles of the design on the paper.
“It’s a rune.”
“Obviously. Where did you get it?”
“I-I created it.” Sam ducked his head and blushed when Dean’s gaze snapped from the drawing to him. “When you said you wanted to get a tattoo, but wanted it to mean something, I designed this.”
“You made this?” Dean’s voice was full of awe and wonder. He went back to mapping the pattern with this finger, tactilely committing it to memory. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s a composite of three Celtic runes. The base” Sam ran his finger over the upward pointed arrow “is tiwaz, the warrior’s rune. Then the overlapping othila rune” his pad copied the mirror imaged elongated ‘z’s that sprouted from the vertical line of tiwaz, “for family. Finally, gebo,” he traced the ‘x’ in the center, “for love, to tie it all together.”
Dean silently stared at the paper and Sam felt self-consciousness prickle at his nape and color his cheeks. “Sorry. It…it was stupid.” He placed the tips of his fingers on the paper and slid it across the table closer to him.
Dean’s hand came down quickly, stilling the sliding sheet. “Where should I put it?”
“You want to get it?” Sam couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice.
“What do you think? Shoulder blade?” Dean ignored Sam’s question and tugged the design from his brother’s fingers. “It’s close to my heart but somewhere Dad isn’t likely to see and freak out about the ink?”
“Yeah, Dean. I think that’s the perfect place.”
Sam watched the billboards blur by the windows until boredom and Benadryl pulled at his eyelids. Yeah, it was a long shot, but sometimes a long shot was all you had.
“You gotta be kidding me.” Dean gestured at a white billboard with a huge yellow smiley face on it. “Columbia welcomes you, Dad.”
John snorted and focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of him. According to Ash’s coordinates, Sam was around here somewhere, but the next exit wasn’t for miles and fields lined both sides of the road. What if Sam was lying beside the road, hidden in the tall grass?
“Hey,” Dean sat up straighter in his seat and pointed off to the side of the interstate, “does that patch of grass look matted to you? Like maybe a car pulled over there?”
“Sure does.” John maneuvered to the shoulder and slowed the car.
The doors to the Impala opened like the spreading of a raven’s wings and the two hunters emerged. Dean slid his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialed Sam’s number.
Please, please, please.
In the distance, he could hear Sam’s phone echoing each ring he heard over the line. They moved in tandem toward the sound. When the phone switched to voicemail, Dean hung up and called again. Swinging their boots side to side, they separated the long grass blades and moved through the field toward the sound.
Hanging up, Dean glanced down to redial and saw something gray nestled in the yellow reeds. Bending down, he picked up the plastic square, heart hammering in his chest. “Dad, I think I found it.” He flipped open the cell phone and ran a thumb over the cracked screen. Distantly he heard his dad’s boots tromping the grass in his haste to reach him.
The display showed 10 missed calls, all from him, and a small envelope in the corner indicated unheard voicemails. Pushing the message button, he was surprised to see that Sam had 38 new voicemails. Dean knew that three were him from the previous night, the rest were from an unfamiliar number dating back to the end of the previous week.
Who would have called Sam so many times and why didn’t Sam listen to the messages?
Passing the phone to his father, Dean’s eyes roved over the gently swaying field. What in the hell had Sam gotten himself into?
Author: JCRGIRL
Banner: imogen_lily
Pairing: Dean/Sam, OMC/Sam
Rating: NC-17 overall, PG-13 this chapter
Warnings: Overall: Wincest, AU, bondage, non-con (not the boys), kidnap, abuse, D/S overtones, weecest (Sam is 16)
Word Count: ~ 3850
Beta: glimmerella
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Just playing in Kripke's sandbox.
Summary: Sam is kidnapped and the hunting community, headed by Dean and John, band together to find him. Four days after he's taken, Sam stumbles out of the woods beaten, bruised and broken and reminds Dean and John that not all evil is supernatural.
Athor Notes: I found a call for anyone interested in a bunny over on abused_sammy. I like bunnies so I went over and saw a cute one. I petted it and loved it and it followed me home. This is what comes of petting bunnies. That being said this story is to fulfill my prompt claim for Prompt Fest 2.5. So much thanks to glimmerella for the wonderful beta job she does and imogen_lily for the cheerleading. Stories are just words on paper without great editing and they'd never be written without encouragement. *Hugs and kisses* to you both.
John passed the Bedford city limits sign just as dawn’s first rays colored the sky in shades of coral, pink and orange. He rolled down Main Street, the small Mom and Pop storefronts dark against the emerging light of morning breaking. It was a peaceful town - a model of Eisenhower utopianism, Rockwellian in its simplicity and serenity. A snapshot of times gone by, set in the American Midwest as a reminder of the peace of the past. It was a deceptively innocuous picture at best. Beneath the veneer of hometown Americana something had lurked in plain sight and taken a piece of what was left of his fractured soul. A late night fox in the henhouse.
Stopping in front of the house, brakes squeaking, he parked next to the Impala and knuckled the weariness from his eyes. Sleep was not a luxury he could afford right now. Police believed chances of recovering a kidnap victim were slim after the first 48 hours, but, in the hunting world, that time estimate could be overly generous. That thought in mind, he pushed open the door of his truck and made his way up the front porch stairs.
Dean turned toward the door as he entered having heard the unmistakable rumble of his father’s truck when he pulled in the driveway. “Hey.”
“Hey.” John replied, searching his oldest’s face. Dean’d always been paler than either him or Sam, his coloring favoring Mary’s delicate peaches and cream complexion, but now he appeared gray. His bright, jade green eyes that John learned long ago shone with pure mischief were dull and resigned. With startling clarity, John realized that thing hadn’t taken a piece of Dean’s soul - it had taken Dean’s everything. They had to find Sam alive or he might as well set up twin pyres and then load his own gun. “Anything?” He gestured to the open laptop on the coffee table.
Blowing out a breath, Dean reached over and closed the lid, eyes resolutely not looking at the bumper sticker for fear of what his expression would tell his father. A list of the states they’d identified as having a Columbia was scrawled on a notepad to the right of the computer, Indiana crossed off at the top. After he finished with the Bedford Tribune editions, he decided to check the last week’s worth of issues of the local newspapers for all the Columbias. It was something to occupy his hands and mind, the former the devil’s playthings and the latter his playground. He’d already read about the drought woes and increasing academic improvement in Columbia, Indiana and was now knee deep in the battle over how to restore the gazebo in historic Columbia, Kentucky. “Yeah, I got nothing. You?”
Sighing wearily, John moved to the couch and plopped down heavily next to Dean. “I’ve called in a few favors. Bobby’s coming and Caleb is meeting up with Pastor Jim. I think Elkins is driving over, he was in Nevada chasing something. I talked to this guy Ash that I know; depending on the day he’s either a genius or stoned. He’s setting up some kind of program to track Sam’s cell.”
“You think this Ash will be able to tell us where Sam is?” Dean picked up the pack of cigarettes, jerking his wrist to force one above the others for easier extraction. He raised an eyebrow when John slapped his arm and motioned toward the box. Holding one out for his dad, Dean wondered if that lead poisoning would be contagious. It didn’t appear either of them would live to die of cancer without Sam.
Taking the cigarette, John waited until Dean lit his and passed him the lighter before he answered, “If anyone can do it, Ash can. He helped me track down a…” His cell phone rang interrupting his thought. He dug in his pocket, cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. “Speak of the devil.” The muttered words dislodged the cigarette and he hissed in pain when the smoldering end fell on the exposed skin of his hand before landing on the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he answered the phone with a curse.
“Well, good morning to you too, JW.” Ash drawled over the line. “If that’s the way you answer when people call with good news, I’d hate to hear what you say to someone with bad.”
“Good news?” John sat forward on the couch, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray. Next to him Dean moved closer.
“It took some fancy hacking, A-Line has a pretty decent firewall, but I was finally able to get through and find him, or rather his cell phone. It’s about a mile east of Columbia, Missouri.”
“Columbia, Missouri? You got coordinates?”
“Yeah, I got them.” Ash sounded tired. “I’ll e-mail them to you. Where do you want me to send it?”
“Send it to Dean’s account, dwinchester@mailer.srv.” John jutted his chin in the direction of the laptop. Dean leaned over and lifted the lid then signed into his e-mail account.
“I just sent it, should be there in a minute. Let me know if you need anything else.” A feminine voice spoke in the background. “Oh, hey. Ellen says that Travis and Martin just finished a job in Tennessee. They said call them and they’ll help however they can.”
“Tell her thanks for me. I appreciate it. And Ash, I owe you one.”
“I know you’re good for it. Good luck.” Ash hung up. Sam’s incoming call log was still up on the screen in front of him, repeated calls from a strange number highlighted in yellow. Picking up the PBR next to him, he opened a new screen and started another search.
Snapping his phone closed, John focused on the laptop screen willing the message to hurry and get there. They finally had a starting point and he was itching to get going. The counter next to Dean’s Inbox registered a new e-mail and Dean quickly clicked on it.
Turning to his father, he smirked at the sender's address. “Dr. Badass?” Dean opened the message and jotted down the coordinates - N 38.948351 W 92.333779.
“Told you some days he’s a genius others a stoner. Pack up while I call Travis and Martin. They’re close by and can give us a hand.”
Nodding, Dean stood and moved to the bedroom he shared with Sam, hope flickering in his chest. Shoving clothes and personal items into worn duffle bags, Dean lifted his pillow and retrieved the Bowie knife hidden there. Running a thumb along the edge to check the sharpness, he vowed that when he found the thing that took his brother, he’d make it pay. Nice and slow. Once Sammy was back with him, he’d have all the time in the world to make it suffer and he planned to use every minute to its fullest.
After stocking up on caffeine and safely hiding John’s truck behind the garage where Dean worked, they hit the road in the Impala, heading west toward the Illinois-Indiana border. John drove while Dean recounted everything that had happened since his departure - almost everything…there were some things that Dean didn’t think their father needed to know - including Sam’s recent mood swings, but, as they neared the state line, they were no closer to figuring out what took the youngest Winchester.
A police siren broke the early morning stillness and in the side view mirror Dean could see red and blue lights approaching them fast.
“You speeding?” He leaned over in the seat to look at the speedometer.
“Not enough to get pulled over. Brake lights out?” He glanced in the rear view at the police cruiser that was quickly catching up to them, headlights flashing.
“Of course not,” Dean bristled, “Unless it just happened.”
John navigated the Impala to the side of the road when it became apparent that the commotion was for them. “What names do you have registrations in?”
Dean popped open the glove box and pushed aside several unpaid parking and speeding tickets until he found the envelope that contained the forged registrations. “Anderson, Efframian, Smith, Tyler and Simmons.” He called out the names as he flipped through the stack of Bobby’s finest work.
“Give me Efframian. I’ve got a license to match it.” John lifted to one side to retrieve his wallet and find the driver’s license with his picture and Burt Efframian’s name.
Dean handed over the registration and was just shutting the envelope back in the glove compartment when the trooper approached.
“Good morning, sir. Can I see you driver’s license and registration?” The man scrutinized them both with a cool, calculating look before fixing a hard smile on his face.
“Of course, officer. What seems to be the trouble?”
Dean watched the man carefully as his dad passed over the requested documents. Something wasn’t right. This trooper was tightly wound, anger seething just under the surface, emotions completely at odds for a routine traffic stop. Examining the papers, the man leaned back to cast a glance into the backseat.
“We got a call about a young man who was being abused by his father and boyfriend. Your vehicle matches the description of the boyfriend’s car. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Mr. Efframian?” The officer peered over the top of his aviator glasses at them.
Being a professional liar for over fifteen years afforded John the ability to act with Emmy-winning talent on the fly. “No officer, I don’t think I do. This here is my son, Hector. As you can see he’s perfectly fine.” John infused as much Midwestern innocence as he could into his performance.
“Let me see some ID?” The trooper snapped his fingers at Dean and held his palm out.
Dean pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the ID for Hector Efframian from one of the slots at the back. He passed it to the officer.
The trooper looked over the license, flipping it over and examining the back, then handed it back to Dean. “So Hector is your only son?”
Dean watched the fingers on his father’s right hand, resting against his thigh, twitch at the question. Dean’s stomach turned to ice when his father answered, “Yes, my one and only. His mother died when he was a toddler and I never remarried.”
The officer’s face softened, unconsciously twirling the gold band on his left hand with his thumb. “It’s hard to find someone to live up to the memory,” he muttered, “I’m sorry to bother you gentlemen. We take accusations of child abuse very seriously around here and the car was a dead-on match. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.” The officer handed back John’s papers and thumped his fist against the door of the Impala, then headed back to his cruiser.
Raising an eyebrow, Dean took the registration back from his dad. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.” John watched the trooper get back in his car and make a U turn to go back the way they came.
“Me either.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut against the weak sunlight warming the cool dawn air. His muscles felt too pliant and uncoordinated as the last of the drugs still circulated his system. His stomach seized, on the verge of emptying his pancakes on the floor, and he groaned at the spasm.
“Awake again so soon? You have a high tolerance for drugs, Samuel. I will have to learn to adjust the dosages accordingly.”
Sam opened his eyes to see steel blue staring at him in the reflection of the rear view mirror. His stomach clenched again and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. “Imma be sick.” He frowned as the words came out slurred and hoped that Reece got the message.
“Hold on, angel. There is a rest stop right up here. We’ll get you out and see if you feel better.”
A few minutes later, Reece stopped the car and came around to the back door. He cut the tape holding Sam’s legs and hands together and helped the youth sit up. “Remember the rules, Samuel. There might not be any cute waitresses around, but I’m sure the Hendersons’ would like to make it to their destination safely.” He nodded out the passenger window to an RV parked a few spaces away. Strapped to the back were bicycles, two adult and one with training wheels and tasseled handlebars. The drapes were drawn against the emerging morning light and the vehicle was silent. “Now, come on. Let’s get you some fresh air to settle your stomach.”
Reece pulled him from the car and held him until he gained his balance. Straightening up, Sam’s stomach lurched and churned. “Throw up.” He managed before clamping his mouth shut, worried his gut thought the words were permission.
Hurrying him into the small building at the center of the complex, Reece guided him into the handicapped stall at the end. Sam shoved the lock into place and barely made it to the commode before he vomited up his breakfast. In between his retching he could hear Reece’s soothing words from outside the stall door.
“It’s okay, Samuel. Get it all up. You’ve allowed yourself to get too worked up over everything. You just need to calm down and you’ll feel better.”
Sam tuned him out, allowing the sound of his own heaving to fill his ears. He wanted to rage at the man. Yell at him that if he hadn’t drugged Sam to the gills he wouldn’t be sick, but in the end the most he could do was lean over the toilet. After several long minutes, Sam sat back against the disgusting tile and breathed through the lingering nausea.
“You okay, Samuel?” Reece’s voice was accompanied by a small knock to the door.
“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.” Sam tucked his feet underneath him and pushed up from the dirty floor.
“Just a minute, Samuel. Be sure to rinse your mouth. I’ll be waiting outside making sure that the Hendersons’ are nice and safe.”
Sam waited until he heard the hiss of the hydraulic arm on the main restroom door then flushed the toilet and exited the stall. He walked over the sink and slammed his hand down on the cool porcelain in frustration. Jerking his hand back, he looked at the small river of blood traveling from his palm down to his wrist and forearm. Examining the sink, he found an area where the enamel was chipped leaving a sharp edge. Lifting his arm, he watched mesmerized as the blood flowed over his skin, following the indentations and grooves created by his muscles.
Catching the droplet at the head of the stream with the forefinger of his other hand, he smeared it over the pad with this thumb. His eyes slowly moved to the mirror and an idea started to form. Variations on a theme. Gathering more blood on his finger, he started to draw on the glass.
The rune was as clear in his mind as the day he created it.
Finishing the last line, he rinsed the blood from his finger and arm and wrapped a paper towel around his still bleeding hand. Reece was waiting for him just outside the restroom entry and immediately noticed the makeshift bandage.
“You’ve injured yourself, Samuel.” He frowned, lifting Sam’s hand to remove the towel and examine the wound.
“The sink was chipped. I cut myself on a sharp section.” Sam tried to pull his hand back, but Reece’s hold was firm.
“You need to be more careful. You mustn’t damage what is mine. So far you have made yourself ill and hurt yourself. In the future, please know that will not be tolerated.” Reece replaced the towel and curled Sam’s fingers over it to hold it in place.
Gritting his teeth, Sam bit back that he was not Reece’s, he was Dean’s. A glance to the parking lot showed a young woman and a little girl standing next to the Hendersons’ RV. Swallowing his protest, Sam ducked his head in submission. “Yes, sir.”
“Good boy.” Reece crooned and led Sam back to the car with that hated hand on his back.
Passing a bulletin board, Sam saw a four foot by eight foot map of Kansas tacked up behind the glass. A large red dot labeled helpfully with ‘YOU ARE HERE’ showed their current location. They were somewhere off I-35 just southwest of Kansas City, less than an hour and a half from Lawrence. Wouldn’t it be something to die so close to where he was born?
Reece ushered him to the car and maneuvered him on the back seat again. The older man retrieved a first aid kit from under the seat, cleaned and bandaged Sam’s hand. Leaning over the console, he returned holding a syringe. Sam eyed the plastic and metal, a feeling of dread filling him. The drugs gave Reece too much control over him and Sam needed to take it back.
“Wait, wait, please!” Sam held his hands up as Reece laid the syringe on the seat next to his hip. “Sir, no more drugs, please. My stomach…” He curled a hand around his abdomen for emphasis. “I promise, sir, I’ll be good. You don’t have to drug me.” Sam forced his hand to rest on Reece’s arm.
Reece smiled down at the hand on his arm. “I see that. You are my good boy.” He stroked Sam’s hair missing the shudder that the younger man tried hard to suppress. “It just took you a little while to realize it. Let’s compromise.” He picked up the syringe and leaned over the console again. This time he returned with a smaller one and showed it to Sam. “This is Benadryl. It has the same formula as Dramamine so it should settle your stomach and help you get some rest. We’re almost there, not much further. Then we can start our life together.”
Resigned, Sam held out his arm and braced for the pinch he knew was coming. Reece’s new belief that Sam wanted to be his ‘good boy’ - Sam didn’t suppress the shudder this time - didn’t extend far enough that he felt comfortable with Sam unbound. Once again Sam’s hands and feet were circled in duct tape and he was lain out on the back seat.
Feeling the rumble of the engine starting, Sam let his mind drift back to the rune on the mirror. The odds of Dean finding it were even less than him finding the bracelet at the Biggerson’s. The restaurant was one of Dean’s favorites so he might find it. What was the likelihood he’d be traveling down I-35 and have the urge to pee at the right moment? At least he knew it was something that Dean would recognize immediately.
“What is it, Sam?” Dean’s finger traced the straight lines and angles of the design on the paper.
“It’s a rune.”
“Obviously. Where did you get it?”
“I-I created it.” Sam ducked his head and blushed when Dean’s gaze snapped from the drawing to him. “When you said you wanted to get a tattoo, but wanted it to mean something, I designed this.”
“You made this?” Dean’s voice was full of awe and wonder. He went back to mapping the pattern with this finger, tactilely committing it to memory. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s a composite of three Celtic runes. The base” Sam ran his finger over the upward pointed arrow “is tiwaz, the warrior’s rune. Then the overlapping othila rune” his pad copied the mirror imaged elongated ‘z’s that sprouted from the vertical line of tiwaz, “for family. Finally, gebo,” he traced the ‘x’ in the center, “for love, to tie it all together.”
Dean silently stared at the paper and Sam felt self-consciousness prickle at his nape and color his cheeks. “Sorry. It…it was stupid.” He placed the tips of his fingers on the paper and slid it across the table closer to him.
Dean’s hand came down quickly, stilling the sliding sheet. “Where should I put it?”
“You want to get it?” Sam couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice.
“What do you think? Shoulder blade?” Dean ignored Sam’s question and tugged the design from his brother’s fingers. “It’s close to my heart but somewhere Dad isn’t likely to see and freak out about the ink?”
“Yeah, Dean. I think that’s the perfect place.”
Sam watched the billboards blur by the windows until boredom and Benadryl pulled at his eyelids. Yeah, it was a long shot, but sometimes a long shot was all you had.
“You gotta be kidding me.” Dean gestured at a white billboard with a huge yellow smiley face on it. “Columbia welcomes you, Dad.”
John snorted and focused on the stretch of asphalt in front of him. According to Ash’s coordinates, Sam was around here somewhere, but the next exit wasn’t for miles and fields lined both sides of the road. What if Sam was lying beside the road, hidden in the tall grass?
“Hey,” Dean sat up straighter in his seat and pointed off to the side of the interstate, “does that patch of grass look matted to you? Like maybe a car pulled over there?”
“Sure does.” John maneuvered to the shoulder and slowed the car.
The doors to the Impala opened like the spreading of a raven’s wings and the two hunters emerged. Dean slid his phone from his inside jacket pocket and dialed Sam’s number.
Please, please, please.
In the distance, he could hear Sam’s phone echoing each ring he heard over the line. They moved in tandem toward the sound. When the phone switched to voicemail, Dean hung up and called again. Swinging their boots side to side, they separated the long grass blades and moved through the field toward the sound.
Hanging up, Dean glanced down to redial and saw something gray nestled in the yellow reeds. Bending down, he picked up the plastic square, heart hammering in his chest. “Dad, I think I found it.” He flipped open the cell phone and ran a thumb over the cracked screen. Distantly he heard his dad’s boots tromping the grass in his haste to reach him.
The display showed 10 missed calls, all from him, and a small envelope in the corner indicated unheard voicemails. Pushing the message button, he was surprised to see that Sam had 38 new voicemails. Dean knew that three were him from the previous night, the rest were from an unfamiliar number dating back to the end of the previous week.
Who would have called Sam so many times and why didn’t Sam listen to the messages?
Passing the phone to his father, Dean’s eyes roved over the gently swaying field. What in the hell had Sam gotten himself into?