last01standing: ([BtVS] Hush)
[personal profile] last01standing
Title: The Shadow Men [4/?]
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Kripke owns SPN, not me
Summary:The campus of Stanford lies in ruins. The veil between hell and earth is getting thinner by the day and Sam Winchester may be the only thing standing between the world and total destruction. [AU, apocafic]
Previous Parts:1 | 2 | 3 



THE SHADOW MEN
CHAPTER 4


He stole a car. An expensive model Lexis because he figured they could afford it and drives two towns over, checked into the cheapest motel he could find and called Chris. She answered the phone on the third ring sounding bone tired and irritated. “Singer’s Salvage.”

“Chris, it’s Sam.”

“Is Mason with you?”

Sam hesitated for a moment but then said, “No, but I’ve got problems.”

“I’m not bailing you out of jail, Sammy, I don’t have that kind of cash.”

“Not jail,” Sam said, looking at the unconscious man on the bed. “Just—I found someone and I think he’s hurt. I need you to get all the first aid stuff you can and get down here. I don’t want to move him more then I have to.”

“Why can’t you—“

“The hospital’s not an option for this guy,” Sam said. He glanced over to the bed, watching the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest. There was a jarring difference between the motel’s garish colors and the man’s grayish skin almost like he didn’t quite belong in this world. “Just get here, please?”

“Sam, you know it’s getting harder to move around right. People are panicking. It’s the fires. There was damn near a riot in town when I got back. They’re talking about the end of the earth. I put up salt around the house and I was looking through some of your uncle’s books. The ones Mason was after. I found something called a Devil’s Trap. Apparently demons can’t cross ‘em.”

“I can’t believe we’re talking about demons,” Sam mumbled. “Maybe the world really is going to hell.”

“I’m not sure you should joke about things like that, Winchester,” Chris said. She sounded cheerful on the phone, but Sam knew her well enough to recognize the front.

There was a soft moan from the bed followed by a single word mumbled through cracked lips: “Johnny?”

“Chris, I’ve got to go,” Sam said. “Can you make it here or not?”

“I can make it if you give me the address,” Chris said. “Not going to have much luck otherwise

Sam checked the motel stationary and read the address back to her before hanging up to go check on the man.

He didn’t look the slightest bit demonic anymore. The shadows had solidified, twisting themselves into the shape of a man. Sam didn’t think he was dangerous. He looked terrible. The white t-shirt Sam had found him in was twisted and torn almost to shreds. Across his stomach were huge swooping cuts that threatened to break open anytime he moved. Mason’s bullet had only just clipped the shoulder, but the wound was ugly and raw and Sam had wanted to throw up while he was dressing it.

“Hey,” Sam said. “Are you waking up?”

He crouched over the figure, examining him for some clue about his identity. But his eyes suddenly shot open. They were wide and green and filled with panic and terror. “Hey,” Sam said. “Hey, calm down, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He reached out a hand in the slowest, least intimidating manner he could, hoping to placate the man, but it didn’t work in the slightest. He flinched away from the hand and let out a scream.

The scream was like nothing Sam had ever heard before. It was low and loud and utterly feral, like a wounded animal. “Shit,” Sam said. The motel was low rent, but he had to think this was bound to draw some unwanted attention and considering the stole lexis in the parking lot, Sam didn’t want to deal with any of that. He clapped a hand over the man’s mouth, effectively silencing the sound, but the figure thrashed and flailed the other ways, a wild spray of blows that went everywhere and every where. “I’m not trying to hurt you,” Sam said. “I’m here to help! I promise.”

One of the cuts on his stomach tore open spilling very real, very red blood all over the sheets. “Oh, shit,” Sam said, careful to keep his voice gentle. “Just calm down! You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The man calmed down just a little, his limbs going completely, rigidly still. After a second, Sam removed his hand from the man’s mouth. The man looked at his right shoulder where Mason had shot him earlier, noting the patchwork bandage Sam had attached while he was unconscious. He moved his mouth slowly, as if trying to remember the patterns of speech, attempting to fit his tongue around the words. When it came, the voice was scratchy and disused, escaping his lips in barely more then a whisper. “Am I out?”

Sam didn’t have the faintest clue of what he was talking about, but the sentiment seemed extremely important, like it was the only thing that really mattered in this guy’s life. “Yeah,” Sam said. “Yeah, you got out.”

The man nodded faintly, tension draining from his body. He was asleep a few seconds later. Sam sighed and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wrapping it around the reopened wound as tightly as he could. Then he collapsed on the bed next to him and fell into his first sound sleep since before the fires.

He woke up a few hours later by the creaking bedsprings from the other bed in the room. Sam cracked open his eyes just in time to see the man pull himself up to a sitting position. The small motion had him breathing heavily but he hid his pain well, barely letting a shudder cross his face. “What the hell are you doing?”

The man jerked his head around, a quick, precise movement that seemed skittish and violent all at once. Sam immediately regretted his question. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, it’s just—you’re hurt.”

The man looked down at his injuries as if he’d completely forgotten they were there. A frown creased his face. “I wanted—“ he gestured vaguely with his left arm, cradling the other to his chest. He made a face. “Shit.”

“What?” Sam asked. “Painkillers?”

“No,” the man said, still frowning. His voice was getting better, still rough and grating but Sam could hear some character to it, some personality. He growled in frustration and mimed water coming down on his head with a hand and moving fingers.

“A shower?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “A shower.”

“Can you stand up that long?”

“Walked out, didn’t I?” the man retorted, stumbling toward the bathroom, using the wall for support.

Walked out of where? Sam wanted to ask. What could have done this to a man? What could have torn him up and spit him back out looking like this? He knew better then to trail him to the bathroom. With how skittish the man had been regarding sudden movements, Sam didn’t think offering help would come across as anything but a threat.

Surprisingly, he made it across the room without incident, taking small but steady steps and keeping his breathing even. Sam remembered breaking his arm when he was a kid, remembered the way the pain had coursed through his body, remembered how it had been a struggle to hold back tears until the painkillers kicked in. This man looked worse, looked like he’d lost a fight with a wild animal and he wasn’t only dealing with the pain, he was on his feet and moving.

The door swung closed and a second later there came the sound of running water. Sam sank back down onto the bed, trying to make sense of the situation, he stared at the ceiling and suddenly he was missing Jess more then anything else in the world. It hit him like a truck, crashing into his side and caving half of his bones. All he could think of was her smile, her face and the doctor leading him into the room with her corpse.

He hadn’t let himself stop moving for a second since it happened, hadn’t let himself dwell on the memories. But now he’d opened the floodgates. He remembered her hair, her voice, her smile, the late night conversations and the small kisses between class and there were suddenly tears on his cheeks. He hadn’t cried since Uncle Bobby passed and even then he’d never felt this alone.

There was a muffled knock on the door and then a familiar voice saying, “Sammy, get off your ass and let me in.”

Sam took a deep breath and pulled himself back together, stifling the tears. He wiped angrily at his eyes and pulled himself to his feet to open the door. Chris shoved a duffel bag into his chest and stalked inside. “So where’s the injured guy?”

“Believe it or not,” Sam said. “He’s in the shower.”

Chris flopped back down on the bed. “You’re kidding me. The way you were talking, I thought he was bleeding to death.”

“I thought so too,” Sam said. He paused for a beat. “You’re actually sitting in his blood.”

He really shouldn’t have taken that much amusement with the sheer speed Chris shot up from the bed. Especially not when he missed Jessica so bad it hurt, but it helped a little. Chris didn’t look a thing like Jess with her dark eyes, darker hair and pale skin. Chris was a few inches shorter then Jessica had been and stick thin with a nearly flat chest. It was easier like this. There was less to spark the cinders of his memory.

“If you don’t warn me about stuff like that, I swear I’ll kill you, Winchester.”

Sam tossed the duffle bag onto the bed. “What’s all this. I just needed some first aid.”

“That’s all the stuff I could find in your freakily gigantic size. You had some stuff lying around Bobby’s and I figured what with the fire and all...”

“Thanks,” Sam said quietly. “I really owe you for this one.”

She swatted him in the chest. “Sam, you’ve owed me for ages before this. I own your soul by now.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, forcing a laugh. “I guess you do.”

Chris smiled at him and slapped a keychain into his hands. “This is for you too. Figured it would be easier without a stolen car.”

It took him a second to place it, but he recognized this key, recognized it because he’d seen it hundreds of times, lurking on a loop behind the counter at Singer’s Salvage. The key belonged to a 1967 Chevy Impala that had been around since before he could remember. It had been busted up pretty bad, but Bobby would tinker around with it every so often, trying to get all the parts back into working order. To the best of Sam’s recollection, the car hadn’t been running in the past twenty years. “You got the Impala going? You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all,” Chris said. “Been playing with it for a couple months. Finally got all the kinks out of the transmission. It’s a sweet ride.” She paused, chewed at the inside of her cheek, brushed a strand of errant hair out of here eyes. “I’d bet you could fit a body in the back if you need too. Seems like the sort of thing that would come in handy with, well you know.”

It wasn’t something that Sam would have even thought to worry about, but that was Chris, she found practical ways to make use of almost anything. A truck that could be used to tote bodies was just another step in the long list of things that had included an engine fixed with a piece of a television antennae and a radio repaired with an old computer circuit board. She had an eye for solutions beyond the obvious, for seeing double uses in things. “Sounds good, Chris,” he said. “Thanks.”

The door to the bathroom swung open and suddenly there was the man, standing dripping wet in the doorframe with a towel hanging loosely from his waste. Sam noticed the scars first, the thin white lines snaking through the angry red slashes. He could pick out a few burns, a knife wound, a few where Sam couldn’t even guess at the source. He could tell Chris noticed the other wounds beforehand, noticed the slashes across the stomach and the gunshot wound on the shoulder. “Christ,” she whispered, “how are you even standing?”

The man stood perfectly still for a second as if paralyzed by this new and different person. Chris gave Sam a puzzled look, and Sam couldn’t do much but shrug. Finally the man’s mouth formed the word, “Christo.”

Chris recognized the phrase from Mason’s disjointed ramblings about demons and salt and identification. “He thinks I’m a demon? Really? Go Christo yourself.”

In response, the man’s face split into something resembling a smile. The difference it made was startling. For the first time, Sam realized just how young this guy was. If he had to guess, he’d put him at twenty-five or twenty-six, just a few years older then Sam himself.

Not to mention he was an apparent hunter. Someone like Mason who knew the correct phrase to draw demons out, who probably knew about salt lines and burning bones. After Mason had shown his true colors, he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

“You think I could borrow some—“ the man made a sweeping gesture with his left arm before finally finding the word. “Clothes?”

“Yeah,” Sam said digging through the duffle bag Chris had brought him for some of his smaller things. “We’ve also got some first aid stuff we should probably do first.”

“Sure,” the man said and slowly maneuvered his way to the bed sitting straight on it, wet towel and all.

Sam hesitated for a moment, fingers resting on the case for the first aid kit, exchanging a look with Chris. She held up her hands. “Don’t look at me, Winchester. I’m not the one adopting strays.”

Shaking his head, Sam took the first aid kit and set it down on the bed disinfecting all the cuts first before wrapping them tightly in gauze. The man was so still, Sam was able to drift back to the first aid class he’d taken in Stanford when he’d dressed fake cuts on a inflatable dummy.

When he finished, the man looked him in the eyes and mumbled, “Thanks.”

Sam was struck by the uncomfortable feeling that it had been a long time since someone had shown this man any measure of kindness. Chris moved over toward them, sitting on Sam’s bed with crossed legs. “What’s your name anyway?”

The man frowned, pressing his eyes shut. Sam slowly started packing up the first aid kit. He placed it back in his duffle bag, knowing there’d be a use for it sometime later and tried not to notice how the man had still failed to answer.

“I’m Christina,” Chris offered finally.

“And I’m Sam,” Sam said, echoing the greeting. “Sam Winchester.”

The man opened his eyes again, something Sam didn’t recognize sparkling in their depths, something like defiance mixed with regret. “Dean," he said. "I think my name was Dean.”

________________________________________________________________________


That's all for now but there should be more this weekend.
 | 5 | 

(no subject)

28/8/08 02:10 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] morganslady.livejournal.com
This weekend!!! OMG--It's Dean..

(no subject)

28/8/08 02:21 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
Damn you're quick! I just posted like fifteen minutes ago!

Yes, it's Dean (dot, dot, dot)

(no subject)

28/8/08 02:36 (UTC)
ext_47: a wolf looking at reflection in a lake (AtS -- Illyria)
Posted by [identity profile] silverblade219.livejournal.com
was Dean? As in, not anymore?

Interesting so far.

(no subject)

28/8/08 02:52 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
Oh, no I'm not commenting on anything to do with this incarnation of Dean right now. You'll just have to chill here to find out. =)

(no subject)

28/8/08 03:10 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] mrsevilpigeon.livejournal.com
You brought Dean out of hell, just for me? Thanks!

Seriously, you're all that's getting me through this long summer. New TV soon. Yay. Looking forward to more story, too. :-)

(no subject)

28/8/08 03:18 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
Happy to be of service! We'll see how long this epic fic roll keeps up when classes are in full swing, but by then we should have new TV for real so it won't be quite so bad.

No comment on Dean. I've been playing his plot arch close to the chest of this one. (ps. damn you and your guessing mojo!) There's always more then meets the eye for everything in this one. Believe it or not, this is plotted well enough to have foreshadowing.

(no subject)

28/8/08 23:18 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] redrikki.livejournal.com
Dude, how cool/weird would it be if "our" Dean came out of hell in an apocalypse in this parallel reality? Maybe that's just me. Can't wait for more.

(no subject)

28/8/08 23:44 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
That would be cool. Not saying if that's it or not, but it would be pretty wicked. Glad you're still liking this. There will be more this weekend. I'm thinking Saturdayish.

(no subject)

29/8/08 01:46 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] tabaqui.livejournal.com
*flails around like a mad thing*

I knew, of course, but....omg!! What, what, what???
*bounce*

And Chris! Wheeeee! She's rockin'.

*dances*
I'm really enjoying this.
:)

(no subject)

29/8/08 02:39 (UTC)
Posted by [identity profile] trolllogicfics.livejournal.com
*bounces right with you*

I'm glad this is half as fun to read as it is for me to write.

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