A/N: So in all the talking that I do with Peanut, she gave me a certain challenge, oh, almost a year ago. I've finally finished it. Don't think it quite does it justice and I'm not sure that I followed it exactly, but since I started it as soon as she gave it to me, lost the muse, then finished it in the last two days, that's saying something. Just not sure what. I'll give you the prompt at the end and it can be your decision. This is set before Bobby gets his legs back.
"There are two hunts in town Dean. Both of them are goin' down…tonight. Full moon is tonight and across town the banshee has two victims to go after yet. They both have to be stopped."
"I don't like the thought of splittin' up Sam. I'm gonna call Bobby and get him on the horn with one of the other local hunters to take the banshee."
"Last I heard, there was a Shtriga in Bismarck too. There's no way they can make it here before moonrise."
"I still don't like this. I mean, haven't we proven, again and again, that we don't do well apart?"
"We have to Dean. I can't sit back and let someone else die." Sam said, his eyes pleading with Dean.
Dean sighed. "Alright, Sammy."
"Thanks." Sam said, practically running to the table in the room where all of the research for both hunts rested. He handed Dean the research on the Banshee.
"I'm takin' the werewolf." Dean thrust the research back at Sam and crossed his arms over his chest.
"That's the only way I'm lettin' you outta my sight Sam."
"It's too dangerous!"
"And you think I was gonna let you go after the sonuvabitch?" Dean's arms flew wide.
Sam got quiet, his eyes drifting downward. "When the trickster killed you that time…that Wednesday that lasted forever… after you were gone I got reckless. I hunted a werewolf. Alone." Sam huffed a distracted laugh, lost in the memory. "Damn near bit me. I wound up breaking his teeth with the butt of my .45 before I put him down."
"Damnit Sammy…" Dean said, trailing off as he realized that Sam had every right to do what he had to do. After all, Dean himself had and it was only a day before he sold his soul. Sam had been alone for months.
Dean sighed. "Alright, look, let's take the hunts together. I don't like the thought of splitting up. You've said it yourself before, we can't save everyone. Maybe the werewolf won't get lucky until after we gank the banshee."
"Can we really take that chance Dean?"
"Yes, we can Sam!"
"NO! I CAN'T!" Sam stormed across the room, gathering up silver rounds and his pistol.
"What the hell are you doin'?"
"I'm going hunting." Sam went to the door and burst through it, slamming it in Dean's face as he strode across, intent on stopping Sam. The Impala fired up and spun it's way out of the lot, tires screaming as it pulled onto the road, headed across town.
Sam eased from the car, heading for the trunk where he grabbed his pistol, donning a wrist sheath with a long silver knife. He locked the Impala and made his way along the waterfront to the pier where he knew the werewolf would be hunting tonight. The silvery moon was high in the sky and Sam saw the buildings surrounding him and the surface of the ocean in a kind of stark, glowing relief.
He slowed his steps, his silver pistol being lifted from his waistband as he heard something metal crash around the corner. Growling reached his ears and he stopped at the corner of a warehouse, peering down the narrow alleyway along side the building. He cautiously stepped around the building when the growling sounded out again, followed by the sound of something metallic rolling. Two dogs fought at the base of spilled trash cans each vying for the edible bits the starving animals could find.
Sam breathed a sigh of relief, cut short when a growl from behind him had him spinning around, trying to get the gun up. The glowing eyes of a man nearly Sam's height had him stepping backwards involuntarily. He felt harsh, warm breath against his neck as the beast growled, jagged teeth grotesquely twisting the still human features.
Sam fired the pistol, the silver bullet going wild as the werewolf lunged and took him hard to the wooden loading dock beneath him. Sam grunted, bringing up his arms to protect his neck and face from the teeth of the werewolf. Sam's hands closed on the man's shoulders, one slipping up to push the snarling face away. A shot rang out and Sam felt the body on top of him flinch and fall forward. The man landed heavily on Sam, clawed fingers narrowly missing scratching their way down his neck before they dug into the wood beneath his ear.
"Grahh!" Sam shoved at the dead werewolf, hearing the heavy man's teeth recede to normal human lengths next to his ear. His stomach lurched at the sound, a cross between a slurp and a grind and he jumped again as he felt the weight lifted from him and rolled aside. He looked up, seeing someone looming over him, a hand thrust in his face, fingers flat and palm cocked to the side as if reaching to help him up. He took the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. He faced the wiry man.
"Thanks." He said, catching his breath. He looked at the hunter as the man gave a low chuckle.
"No problem at all, Sam." Sam gave a startled grunt as the butt of a pistol connected with his temple. He fell back to the wooden floor, blood pooling beneath his face from the split in his skin. The hunter raised an arm and motioned to the hunters who stepped out from behind crates and dumpsters along the waterfront building. One of them quickly dumped salt and lighter fluid on the werewolf's carcass, lighting it up and bathing Sam's still form in firelight and shifting shadows as he and another disarmed him and picked him up between them. They grunted as they had to support his weight, the toes of his boots digging into the pier as they dragged him off.
Dean walked up to the stone house. The historic property was well maintained, a groundskeeper working in the ornate gardens along the side of the lush yard. The man nodded at him and Dean nodded back before he lifted the lion's head door knocker and let it tap against the brass plate beneath. A woman in a maid's uniform opened the mahogany doors. "I'm here to see Robert McNamara." Dean said.
The maid eyed Dean up and down, a smirk tipping her lips up. "I assume you're the one he warned me about." Her Latina accent muddled the words just a bit but her musical tone got Dean's attention.
"He warned you about me?"
"Yeah. To get myself out of your way. I'll show you to him." Dean stepped through the door behind her and she led him through the foyer and down a hall through another set of double mahogany doors.
"Mr. McNamara, your appointment is here."
"Thank you Julia." The dark haired man with gray at his temples looked up from the laptop computer on his rosewood desk. The Latina maid nodded and left the room.
"What do you think you can do to help my family?" he asked, sounding like he had laryngitis.
"Well. You got a problem. Something is killing the men in your family and your family is down to two men. You and your grandson."
"And you know who is doing this?"
"Not who. What." Dean said.
The man stood, his hand wrapping over the edge of his desk before he straightened his suit and walked around to lean against the front of it, his slumped posture making him barely an inch shorter than the hunter.
"Believe what you want, but I can stop this thing, and you won't die tonight."
The man straightened, and looked at Dean eye to eye. "Doesn't matter. You're not stopping anything." Dean slumped, falling into the man before he slid to the floor. A gruff man in a canvas Carhartt jacket lowered the rifle, blood dripping off the stock from the back of Dean's head.
"Might have worked if the screamin' bitch hadn't already finished the job an hour ago. Let's get him back to base." The rifle bearing hunter nodded, tapped Dean in the head with the toe of his boot and stooped to grab his shoulders as suit grabbed Dean's legs. He was hauled outside and tossed into the back of a gray cargo van. Suit and the other one slid into the van, the Latina "Julia" now in jeans and a dark coat behind the steering wheel.
Sam moaned, his chin lifting from his chest. His head lolled as he fought to control the dizziness that the motion elicited. He opened the eye that wasn't swollen shut, the room dark around him. A harsh light came on above his head and he couldn't help crying out as the glare forced him to close his eye against the pain in his skull.
"I see it's awake." a gravelly voice rang out in the darkness beyond the light's reach.
"Wha-what d'you want with me?"
"A little birdie told me something about you, Sam. Seems you had something to do with what's going on around the world right now."
"I-I don't…Who are you?"
"You're avoiding the question." He replied as he stepped beneath the edge of the cone of light cast by the fixture Sam sat beneath. Sam blinked, trying to get his good eye to focus on the man he didn't know. He saw him, dimmed and blurry from his one eyed perspective. Wavy dark hair, just with a hint of gray at the forehead and temples capped a malice filled face. Gray eyes glinted coldly as they caught the light from above Sam's head.
"Someone told me you were ground zero when someone cracked the door on a very, very, old gilded cage that was never supposed to be opened. That right Sam?"
"I…I didn't…." Sam stammered. Sam never saw the fist coming at him until it connected with his jaw, sending his head snapping to the right. "Guhh…." Sam brought his head back, wobbling on a neck that he couldn't make work properly. He blinked moisture from his good eye and spit blood from his mouth, feeling the torn tissue on the inside already begin to swell.
"Who are you?" Sam ground out, spitting again, this time narrowly missing the man's boot. That earned him a kick to the knee cap which made him feel sick.
"Name's Yeats. You might remember me from that little book your daddy kept. Then again, maybe not, because we didn't exactly see eye to eye on a few things." Yeats circled closer to Sam, towering over him. "See, when I found out a long time ago that little Sammy Winchester had a posse of freaks gunnin' for him, I told John Winchester to drown you in the nearest lake. Your daddy didn't like that too much." Yeats said as he pulled his collar down and showed Sam an old scar across his throat.
"I know you started the apocalypse, Sam. I know you got a lot of good hunters killed when Demons started crawlin the walls waiting for orders. I'm gonna see that you stop what you started." He motioned towards what Sam thought to be a warehouse door behind him and he heard booted footfalls echoing into the room that he was in, along with the jangle of chain and the rustle of other things he couldn't see.
"Please! I didn't….know what I was doing! I just…wanted justice!"
"Make sure there's no way he can escape, until we're ready for him. And make sure he's… compliant… when you begin." The hunter who had walked into the light grinned evilly as he sat down a plastic kit that resembled a gun case at his feet. The chain dangled in its loop around the hunter's shoulder, much like a coil of rope would have. He lowered this to the wooden floor beside the kit and stooped in front of Sam, dark eyes lighting up as he gripped Sam's jaw roughly and squeezed, more blood pouring from Sam's forcibly parted lips.
"So you're the one responsible for getting my brother killed?" He said with a sneer on his thin face that made him look like a rat. "You know he and I, we used to torture things like you, just to find out what the game plan was. Didn't expect one of those things to have the balls to come back and turn on us. Gonna be fun, what I'm gonna do to you."
Sam heard Yeats leave the room, then Rat let go of his jaw and he heard the clatter of the chain again, soon feeling the cold weight settle around his torso and arms where the rope was. He heard a padlock snick closed at his back.
"Please…You don't wanna do this." Sam near whispered.
"Are you kidding?" Rat sneered. "This is exactly what I wanna do."
Sam saw him slide brass knuckles onto his hand, then felt the breath knocked from his lungs as that same hand plowed into his stomach between the loops of chain. Rat's other fist drove into Sam's chin, snapping his head painfully backward against the top of the chair. Rat dropped the brass to the floor with a harsh clang and reached for the plastic kit, just as Sam managed to bring his head back under his control. The two latches snapped open and Rat removed a piece of rounded rubber tubing and the light glinted off of several syringes filled with dark liquid.
"What's … that?" Terror struck Sam when his mind cooperated enough to answer his question for him. Rat flipped open a pocket knife one handed and quickly sliced through both of Sam's shirt sleeves. He tied the tubing around Sam's bicep. "NO! NO! DON'T!" Sam yelled, "DON'T!" As Rat plunged the needle of the first syringe into Sam's vein.
Dean's pounding head finally cleared as he sat uncomfortably bound to a chair, blinking blearily at his own lap. He felt blood slowly drying on the back of his neck. Random noises around him in the darkness revealed that he was in some kind of multi-roomed building. The thumps, muffled human voices and sounds of various actions made him realize he wasn't alone. He heard every thing go silent except for one voice that took over, just low enough that Dean couldn't make out the words.
He struggled to listen to what he heard in the next chamber, but his heartbeat pounding in his ears made him miss much of what was said. Dean fought to calm himself. Dean heard boots thumping into the dark room where he sat bound painfully to the chair.
"Who the hell are you? What do you want?" Dean asked the shadowed figure.
"Oh, I have what I want. Now I just have to get it to do what I want." The gravelly voice, a familiar one to Dean, said from the dimness.
"You?" Dean said. A light switch clicked and Dean was quickly blinded, his head reacting violently. He finally got his eyes to adjust and saw the man from the fancy house with the banshee problem. "Who the hell are you?"
"I found a little case nearby. Was gonna take it on 'til I found out you were interested in it. So I just let it finish off what it started, then I decided to have a little fun role playing. See, I've been looking for you and your…brother… for a long time. Then I found out what that freak started and that you were gonna walk right into my sights. And, well, it was just too good to pass up. And too easy once I realized you and your brother had split up."
"Where's Sammy?" Dean growled. "What the hell did you do to him?"
"I'm not doing anything to him. Just making sure he realizes just how inescapable his destiny is."
"Screw you!" Dean struggled against his ropes. "Where's my brother?"
The man held up a hand, silencing Dean. "You should find out, any second.
"NO! NO! DON'T! DON'T" Dean heard Sam's cry echoing through the rooms around him.
"What the hell are you doin' to my brother?" Dean cried, struggling against his ropes again, even harder than before. "You hurt him and I'll kill you! You hear me, I'll kill you!"
The man quickly moved in and punched Dean straight in the nose. Dean's head snapped back, making him choke on the blood that suddenly gushed down his throat. He lowered his head to his chest and coughed, bringing blood and mucus up to bubble over his lips.
The man chuckled and kicked Dean in the chest, knocking his chair backwards. Dean's head hit hard and his world spun, blood from his injured nose being jarred out of his throat to splatter on his face and the floor next to him. The impact made his head throb, and his chest reacted to the blow by quickly tightening and making it hard to breathe.
He gestured to the three who walked in behind him, a younger version of himself, another young, scruffy hunter named Randy, and the Latina woman moved in and sat Dean back upright in the chair, the ropes biting into Dean's skin as he was jostled around. His head slumped against his sternum and he remained still.
"He wakes up, make his time as our guest…memorable."
Bobby Singer's fingers grasped the pistol laying inches from his hand on his desk when he heard the whisper of air in the Library where he sat. Castiel appeared with the brush of wings and the rustle of canvas.
"What the hell do you want?" Bobby grumbled, laying the gun back on his desk and looking at the disheveled angel in the suit and trench coat that never changed.
"Dean and Sam were supposed to meet me and they haven't shown up."
"Well, why don't you go scare the life outta them instead of me then?"
Castiel remained silent, and Bobby answered his own question. "You hid them a little too well didn't you?"
"Apparently so. I have been calling his cell phone for several hours. The last time I spoke with him, he and Sam were hunting…"
"A Banshee and a werewolf about four hours North of here. Yeah, I know. I told them about the hunts. Got another one handling something in Bismarck. Seems to me like every thing creepy crawly is climbin the walls."
"I think something has happened."
"What are you blabbin about? Those boys can handle a spook and a glorified sheepdog in their sleep." Bobby stared down the angel. "You're really worried about them." He made it a statement.
"Can you trace their cell phones?" Castiel asked.
"In my sleep." Bobby rolled to his computer, an ancient looking thing that looked like it couldn't even turn on anymore. He fired it up and sophisticated software started processing data that he entered on the screen that looked like it was good for nothing but a boat anchor.
"Think you're right." Bobby said a few minutes later. Last location on the boys was right in the middle of the hunts, then…nothin'."
Castiel circled the computer to stand beside Bobby, looking at the screen. He put his hand on Bobby's shoulder and they disappeared in the flutter of wings.
"Damnit, Columbo, you ever do that to me again and so help me I will find a way to kill you!" Bobby growled, as his stomach finally caught up with the rest of him.
"Who is Columbo?" Castiel asked, unfazed by the gruff hunter's threat.
"Nevermind." Bobby realized they were in a sheltered location, and that their "entrance" hadn't been seen by any passersby. Feeling a little less like knocking the angel's block off, he gestured to the wharf across the street, and the big storage warehouse nearby. "There's the boys' car."
"I cannot sense them. The Enochian sigils on their ribs protect them from detection." Bobby watched the warehouse near the Impala, his eyes narrowing when someone he vaguely recognized come out of the warehouse and light a cigarette. Bobby realized who the man was.
"Think I know why we can't find the boys." The hunter said, memories of the person he was looking at and the falling out that almost got him killed, flooding his mind. "They're in some deep crap. We need guns. And you need to go and knock his ass out. Now."