Synopsis: Sam and Dean are ambushed on a hunt in a way they didn't expect.
With hurt/limp/kidnapped Sam, and mild hurt/possessed Dean.
Awesome hero Bobby.
Warnings: violence, language, suggestion of sexual abuse and assault.
Set any season you want, more or less, but with spoilers for season one episode Asylum. I suppose you could say post season 4, given Bobby's knowledge of GPS tracking, but hey! It's fan fiction, you can choose whenever the hell you want.
PLEASE pay no attention to any medical facts, etc.
In fact, if anybody complains about anything, I'll transport myself electronically through the broadband link, rip off your arms and legs, and beat you to death with the wet ends!
Yeah, and that means you 'Guest' reviewers too. You might be anonymous, but one of my mates works for Inland Revenue, so never fear:
Somehow, someway, we'll find you. Oh bet on it.
I'm kidding of course... mostly! ;-)
Many thanks to Neats for the beta.
This story is complete in 3 or 4 chapters, and will be posted one chapter at a time over the next week or so.
Sorry I've been away for so long, guys. All is explained in the A/N at the end.
The beer was warm, the evening too chilled for comfort, and the smell of burning, rotten flesh still lingered harshly in his nostrils.
Sam heaved a world weary sigh and glanced back at his brother.
Dean's concussion-glazed eyes were squinting and scanning the treeline for any further threats, but Sam was almost positive the job was finished this time. After three aborted digs, at least two arguments, several bruised ribs and matching concussions, the brothers had finally located the correct grave.
Wife beater and murderer Joel Hardwick was now toast, but the bastard hadn't gone down easy. He'd put up one hell of a fight, slamming his ghostly fists into Dean's face over and over, repeatedly ramming Sam into a tree stump, and tossing them both around a time or six.
His grave marker had been vandalised, along with several others in this area of the prison cemetery, and the boys' had a damn hard time trying to find the sick sonofabitch.
It was fitting, Sam supposed. This section was only recently opened, the older part almost inundated following the recent outbreak of flu that was dropping inmates like hot stones, and Hardwick was a relatively new addition to the bad guy burial ground. He'd only been interred last month, but his spirit went active when his long suffering wife, Kimberly, was set to remarry precisely one year after his sentencing. His ghost not only ruined the ceremony and terrorised the guests, but put the groom in a coma. The bride had escaped with minor injuries and spent her honeymoon at her fiancé's bedside. Sadly, the guy never regained consciousness.
Evidently, Hardwick's jealousy and possessiveness had extended beyond the grave.
However, he wasn't anywhere near finished with his ex. Over the course of the next few weeks, he rampaged through her home, killed her pet fish, and tried to hang her from the upstairs chandelier.
The last straw came when Kimberly returned home from work one evening to find her new kitten nailed by its paws to the chimney stack in the living room. The poor little thing survived but was left badly traumatised, and had to go live at the local animal shelter for its' own safety.
Heartbroken many times over, and filled with an unbelievable rage brought on by years of maniacal domestic abuse, she decided it was time to call in the specialists. A friend of a friend's put her in contact with Bobby Singer, who in turn recommended the Winchesters.
Less than a day later, Hardwick had her cornered with an electric hair dryer suspended over her bath water, when two tall, determined and ridiculously handsome guys blasted their way in, armed with salt-loaded shotguns.
The spirit had vanished in a cloud of hot salt, and the hairdryer would have fried the poor woman if not for Dean's 'batman reflexes' – Dean's words, not Sam's.
In an admittedly spectacularly athletic display, he'd leapt forward and caught it in an outstretched hand, just above the waterline.
Kimberly's eyes had crossed and she'd slumped into a dead faint.
A brief argument between the brothers over who would deal with the wet, naked, unconscious lady, led to a hurried round of 'rock paper scissors'.
Dean lost, as usual.
While a sulky Dean kept watch for Hardwick, Sam, red faced with embarrassment, carried the wet, naked, unconscious lady into her bedroom and attempted to gently bring her round. Realising how it might look if she woke up, still naked, with a complete stranger hovering over her, he'd decided to do the decent thing, and in so doing revealed his own previously undiscovered talent: Drying off and dressing someone while keeping one's eyes firmly closed was an art form, and Sam was a master at it.
An hour later, sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in a bathrobe covering her pyjamas, and towel wrapped round her head, Kimberly had explained all about her not-so-dearly departed, abusive ex-husband…
Which had led Sam and Dean to this.
Sam poured the rest of his beer away. The alcohol wasn't helping his headache.
"You ready to hit the road?" he called out and winced. He hadn't meant for his voice to be so loud, and it sent a shockwave of pain through his skull.
Dean pulled his cell phone out, peered at the cracked screen, blinked heavily and grinned crookedly up at Sam.
"M'phone's screwed," he replied, vaguely. "Ghosty broke it." He frowned and pouted like a five year old. "Bad ghosty!"
"We'll get you a new one, dude," Sam told him, soothingly. After you've slept off the concussion.
"Yeeeah? With… with int'net and all? So I can wassssh porrrn?"
Sam fought a smile. "Wash porn? Sure. Anything you want." He added, gently. "Let's just get outta here, huh?"
Licking his lips and biting off a sigh, Sam raised an eyebrow, "Yeah?"
"Why's there two of ya?"
This time, Sam smiled sympathetically. "Guess I'm driving, huh?"
Dean squinted and swayed. "'Cos if there's two of ya, that means I got me a spare Sammy."
He swayed again, heading for a face plant, but Sam stepped in and caught his shoulder just in time.
"Easy, tiger," he murmured, manhandling his brother over to the car and, after some fumbling and cursing, into the passenger seat.
Shoulders slumped with weariness and head aching like a sonofabitch, Sam trudged around to the driver's side and slid behind the wheel.
"You want pizza tonight, dude?" he asked as he turned the key in the ignition. "Assuming you're up to it, of course."
When no answer came, Sam turned his head, expecting to see his brother out cold. He was in for a shock.
Dean was staring back at him, eyes red and angry, fists clenched and raised, ready to strike.
"I saw you with her," he hissed, nostrils flaring, the skin around his eyes, nose and mouth scrunched up with sheer hate. "I saw how you looked at her, how you touched her. She was naked. The little slut was naked for me, not you! She's mine! No one else's!"
"Dean…" Sam tried, but a shaking hand grabbed him by the shirt front and yanked hard, until Dean was right in his face, breathing hot breath and last night's fried onions on him.
He was cut off by the other hand snaking round his throat and pressing down hard with inhuman strength.
"No one gets to touch her but me, you bastard!"
It dawned on Sam very quickly just how bad this was. Hardwick had possessed his brother, and there was no reasoning with him.
"Let… go of me," Sam gasped, and futilely tried to struggle out of the ghost's hold. "And… let go of my brother!"
The minor act of rebellion earned him a broken nose and added to his brewing concussion. His throat was being slowly crushed and his lungs felt like they were on fire. Lifesaving air eluded him, and his vision became crowded with black dots.
"S-stop…" his mouth formed the word but no sound came out.
"Fuck you!" Hardwick bellowed and Sam tried not to flinch as spittle flew and sprayed over him. "You don't tell me what to do!"
The grip on Sam's throat loosened a little with the ghost's psychotic tirade, and when he leaned back Sam knew he didn't have much time left before the next attack.
He gulped and fumbled for the door handle. "Dean, I know you're in there. Please, you have to fight this…"
Hardwick roared in Dean's voice, grabbed the side of Sam's head and slammed it against the side window in time to a litany of "Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you…!"
The glass cracked and eventually smashed, but Hardwick carried on pounding Sam's head against the door frame. It didn't matter much by that point because Sam had lost count after the third strike, which was around the time he lost consciousness altogether.
Bobby was busy soldering an LED in place on a circuit board, when he stopped for the fifth time in thirty minutes, eyed the phone and huffed. The boys were supposed to have checked in with him as soon as Hardwick was taken care of, and that should've been a few hours ago.
It was no big deal. Salt and burns don't always go strictly according to plan, and the spirit nearly always fights 'til the very end. Bobby had seen enough simple jobs go awry to know that, but he had a distinctly bad feeling about this one.
An hour later, he gave in, picked up the phone and dialled.
Dean's cell went straight to voicemail. Bobby frowned, tried Sam's number instead and was on the verge of giving up after the eighth ring, when someone finally answered.
"Sam?" Bobby said, softly, when there was nothing but silence. "You ok?"
"Bobby?" said a voice, hesitantly, as though trying out the name for the first time.
Bobby's frown deepened. Something's wrong here.
"Dean? That you? I tried your cell but got voicemail. Everything ok? Where's your brother?"
There came a long pause. Then:
"Sam's asleep, and my phone's busted."
A theory was taking shape in Bobby's head, and he didn't like it.
"Everything go ok with the Hardwick job? When you boys comin' home?"
Dean let out a long breath. "Yeah, uh… Sam ain't feeling too good, so it'll be a while before we hit the road again."
Bobby nodded to himself. It pretty much confirmed his suspicions, but he decided on just one last push.
"That's a damn shame, given your birthday's tomorrow, son," he replied, all kindness and disappointment. "I made a cake with candles and everything."
This was the ultimate test. If this truly was Dean 'pie-hole' Winchester then Bobby was about to get his ass verbally kicked for the insult.
Dean's nervous laugh had him twitching.
"Sounds real good, Dad. Maybe put it on ice for when we come home later next week."
Well, what dya know? A triple faux pas, and bold as brass. Bobby's hand clenched tight around the phone, knuckles white and straining.
Cake? Really? Since when?
Ain't Dean's birthday 'til January, you sick sonofabitch, and as much as I'd liked to be I sure ain't his 'dad' either!
Hardwick might have been sick but he was lacking somewhat in the brains department. What kind of idiot switched from using Christian names to 'Dad' in the same conversation, anyhow?
Bobby corralled his fear and anger, and remained calm. "Next week you say? I'll look forward to it. You take care, son. And I'll see you both real soon."
He hung up before Dean could answer.
"Balls!" Bobby yelled out, and swept the worktop clear of circuit boards, components and soldering iron. They clattered across the floor of the kitchen, leaving a cooling silvery trail. "What the hell you done with my boys, you bastard?!"
As expected, the house and salvage yard met his demands with silence.
He stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides a good five minutes, until a light bulb went on above his head.
"Of course," he growled, and headed to the study, where his old, beaten up computer sat idle, gathering dust.
He swiped a hand down the screen and turned it on.
As soon as it finished booting up, Bobby huffed on his hands and rubbed them together.
"Now, let's see…"
The brothers had once showed him how to track cell phones using GPS, but that had been a while ago. However, Bobby was a fast learner and had a better memory than most civilians gave him credit for.
Within minutes, he had Sam's cell location.
He had one last phone call to make.
"Kimberly? Bobby Singer, here. You still have anything of Hardwick's left lying around? A keepsake maybe?"
The young woman was silent for almost too long and Bobby had to stop himself from yelling again.
"Uh… yeah? I still have the wedding and engagement rings he gave me," she sounded a little self-conscious and stunned. "I removed them the night he was arrested and stored them away in the back of my jewellery box. I guess I just forgot all about them."
Bobby rolled his eyes but silently reminded himself that she was a civilian and probably wouldn't have known any better.
"Ok. Listen up," he told her, firmly. "You got an open fireplace? Good. Go light it. Get it real hot then use it to destroy those rings. Make sure they melt completely before putting the fire out. You hear me? If you don't then your ex-husband will come back for you, and there'll be no stopping him this time."
"Ab-absolutely," Kimberly stammered, fearfully, but didn't ask any questions, thankfully. "I'm on it."
"Good girl," Bobby praised shortly, then hung up.
Within the hour, he was high tailing it out of the salvage yard with enough of an arsenal hidden in his truck to thrill and excite the Navy Seals.
Hold on, boys.
Kimberly gazed in despair at the fireplace in her living room.
Shitty shit, shit.
It hadn't been used ever. The reason being, it was now effectively a fake fireplace. She and her fiancé hadn't known that when they moved in, and hadn't gotten around to trying it out. But now, ducked down under the mantel piece and staring upwards, she saw that the chimney had clearly been bricked up long ago, and the real estate guy had failed to mention that little fact when he sold it to the young couple.
It crossed her mind to be angry because that was one of the major selling points of the house, but this was no time for a tantrum.
"Shit," she breathed again, and tried not to panic.
Biting her lip, she went through her options.
"Bonfire. Back yard."
She'd always been known as the resourceful one out of all her siblings, after all, so she ran to the French windows at the back of the house, wrenched them open, and stopped short when a thought occurred to her.
"No wood. No kindling." Kimberly nearly sobbed out loud, but then her eye caught sight of an old shed at the bottom of the garden.
It was made of wood.
It was also rotting to pieces and there hadn't been any rain in weeks.
A fire should catch nicely.
She stalked towards it with a determined look on her face.
This is merely my 'back to writing' fic so please excuse its lameness.
I'm still working on that dark story I promised you back before Christmas, and I'm hoping it won't be too much longer. I warn you now that it has turned a little weird, and there is some silliness in the plot which you'll have to forgive me for.
I apologise for my rather long absence from fan fiction due to serious illness; I'm still not one hundred per cent as yet, but I am gradually getting back on track. I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis earlier this year. It recently flared up and went systemic on me, causing all kinds of complications, the most serious of which was perimyocarditis, and wound up in hospital for a while.
I was told by cardiology it is considered to be similar to but more painful than a mild heart attack. Not fun.
I'm still in a lot of discomfort and on some powerful pain killers, so some of my stories could get VERY weird, I warn you now. Enjoy.
Love and hugs,