Devastation and Reform 13/15

[faye_dartmouth]

A/N: Just two chapters after this. I'm looking forward to being done with it! Thank you to those who read and review :) And sendintheclowns who is far, far too nice to me. And to graham crackers for being the most amazing things EVER.  Previous parts here.

-o-

Chapter Thirteen

The motel room stank, but Sam didn't even have the energy to open up the window. It was musty from being locked up so tight with the air conditioning off. It didn't matter, though; Sam was already too weakened to have it impact him at all.

Instead, he staggered to the far bed, collapsing on it gracelessly, feeling both exhausted and restless at the same time.

Sam was usually a patient guy. He knew that things took time, things took work. Especially hunts. For as climactic and action packed as they could be, all the drama was typically at the end, only a resolution to a long and drawn out research and interview process, which was usually Sam's area of expertise.

So Sam understood patience. He'd dated Jess for nearly two years and he'd been a straight A student at Stanford—patience sort of came with the territory.

But Sam could not keep himself calm and anchored at all. Not now. Not with Dean in police custody, facing more charges than Sam's tired and addled brain cared to remember. Every time he tried to think beyond grave desecration and robbery, some part of him hurt, and usually not the same part, and his mind was stuck playing mental tag with the ailments of his body.

What Sam needed was a plan. He needed a course of action, some kind of strategy.

Too bad the best he could come up with was nothing more than get Dean out.

He chewed his bottom lip. But how? He'd gotten this far, and he was terrified to admit that he didn't know what to do next.

Perhaps even more terrifying was that the most alluring plan he could come up with involved him sleeping—long and hard and...

He jerked his head upright. He had to stay awake. To plan. To strategize. He had to help Dean.

A wave of nausea rolled through him and his stomach lurched. Nothing but pure dread kept it down; he didn't think he could have moved enough to project his own vomit clear of his body at this rate.

Flat on his back, he stared at the ceiling and tried to clear his mind. He tried to move past the nausea, to let the pain abate.

Neither happened.

The pain was intensifying, steady and slow, and Sam needed to do something about it. Without thinking, he rolled, throwing his legs over the bed with the last vestige of his energy.

Standing was a mistake. The adrenaline that got him here let him down, and the pain in his chest and shoulder radiated through him mercilessly. His legs gave way and the ground rushed up to meet him, sending new fire running up and down his body. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to make it go away, all of it, enough of it, anything.

With a hiccupping breath, he realized that the pain was not going to dissipate by waiting it out. The intensity, maybe a little, but the fact was that his pain meds were working their way out of his system and he'd overtaxed his body already with his escape. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and even remembering when he'd had a drink was getting hazy.

His body was going to shut down at this rate, which was not something he or Dean could afford.

First things first, he needed to deal with the pain. He couldn't expect to do anything until he could control the vibrant anguish.

Trembling, he forced his eyes open, waiting for the room to settle. From his position on the floor, he could look up at the dresser.

And there it was. Blessedly close. The First Aid kit. He knew it wouldn't have the same pain killers the hospital had pumped him full of, but they still had some good stuff, and at this point Sam would settle for a couple of aspirin.

His crawl was slow and lurching, and reaching up strained him almost more than he could endure and he could feel his stitching tugging painfully against his skin. But it was worth it—just an inch farther—

The bag tumbled to the floor and he nearly cried with relief. With trembling fingers, he unzipped the bag, still on his hands and knees. The contents blurred together and for a second he felt his breath catch in his throat. Gauze, antibiotics, thread—not what he wanted, not what he needed.

Then he saw it. The white bottle was an economy-size, and he didn’t know exactly what kind it was. He didn’t care. Sitting up just slightly with a curse, he twisted off the safety lid and tilted the bottle over, catching the pills that spilled from it.

Too many fell out, but he ignored it. Shaking his hand, he settled when he had three in his grip. It wouldn’t be enough, he knew. Nothing short of a prescription pain medication would. But he just needed something to take the edge off, just a little so he could focus on getting Dean out.

He swallowed them dry—the water was simply too far away. They stuck in his throat, and he swallowed convulsively until it went down.

Exhausted, he let himself drop to the ground, and prayed for the drug to take effect.

Jerking, he realized time had passed. The room was dimmer, but just as still and stale as before. Cursing himself, he pushed himself up. Dean was in jail and he was taking a nap. He needed to be working, planning—figuring out his options.

What he had was a whole lot of nothing. Their stuff, sure, but ideas, no. The room was relatively undisturbed. To his relief, the FBI had only confiscated the weaponry. Most of the other supplies—the notes and the herbs and candles—had been left.

It didn't help him come up with a plan though.

Sprawled on the bed, he tried to think what Dean would do, what Dean had done. Dean had sacrificed his freedom for Sam. What could Sam give back?

He could finish the hunt, stop the murders. Part of him yearned to do that, to save more lives. But as much as he hated to admit it, the ongoing presence of the puma spirit meant more evidence to support Dean was innocent.

Though, he thought ruefully, it also started to condemn him more and more. It would look rather coincidental--the timing of his escape and the newest victim. Which would make Dean's sacrifice for naught.

He could take care of that later, though, when Dean was by his side. That was the key: getting Dean back.

Drawing a shaky hand over his face, Sam tried to make himself focus. His thoughts were scattered, uncontrollable. He felt like a little kid off his ADD meds. Sam was never like this, not at all, so why were his nerves picking such an awful time to assert themselves?

He had to think like Dean. Be like Dean. His brother was collected under pressure. Cool. Confident. His brother had probably sat on a bed just like this and made the hardest decision of his life. Sam could almost see it. Dean'd just picked up the phone and called, no questions asked. His brother wouldn't have hesitated.

Just called.

The FBI.

Sam's mind reeled, the thoughts flying so fast he could barely hold onto them.

He couldn't do anything until he found out where Dean was. He wasn't sure what he'd do with the info, but if he at least knew where Dean was being held, what the facility was like—then Sam could plan his next step.

His phone.

Grappling, he went for his jacket pocket where he'd dumped it after emptying out the bag from the hospital. His fingers curled around it, and he pulled it out. To his luck, he had turned it off before they went on the hunt, so it was still charged. It wasn't much, but at this point he'd take what he could get.

Fumbling through the drawers, he found the phone book, and flipped it open to the government pages. How he ever actually saw clearly enough to read the numbers, Sam wasn't sure, but his fingers were dialing practically without his consent. Sitting heavily on the bed, he listened while it rang, and he rallied his strength.

It was like a switch had been flipped. Sam's nerves vanished and his weakness fell away. One steadying breath while the phone rang, and he was ready.

The receptionist answered, sounding perfunctory and a little tired.

Sam didn't hesitate. "I need to speak with Agent Henricksen immediately," he said, his voice gruff and to the point. It was an act, of course, attempting to make the poor schmuck on the other end comply. It was also his only recourse—anything less than that and his pain and fear would bleed through.

"May I ask who’s calling?" the secretary on the other end asked, impressively nonplussed.

"This is Deputy Director Alvin Platte," he continued without missing a beat. "I’m calling in regards to a recent arrest he made."

There was the distant sound of fingers on a keyboard. "Agent Henricksen has left the facility."

"Can you tell me the status of his prisoner?" Sam snapped.

There was more typing. "What were your credentials again, sir?"

"Don’t make me speak to your supervisor," Sam threatened. "Dean Winchester. Where is he being held? I gave Henricksen strict orders—"

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, sounding apologetic. "The prisoner has been moved."

"Moved?" Sam snapped. "By who?"

"Agent Henricksen signed the orders," she said.

The pounding of Sam's heart was deafening, but he willed it to the background. There were priorities, things to deal with, Dean. "Does it say where to?"

"No," she said. "Just that it is a trip to further the investigation, possibly a way to find additional accomplices."

Accomplices? Further the investigation? What exactly was Henricksen hoping to find and why was Dean going along with it?

"Sir? Did you need anything else?"

Sam barely heard her. It was pure reflex that he managed to respond at all. "No, no, thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful."

The call ended, and Sam was shaking. He couldn't move his hand to take the phone away. Adrenaline was pumping through him, pulsing with every heartbeat, and the intensity of it was making it hard to think.

Dean had been moved.

He should have seen that coming. He knew they wouldn't keep Dean locally forever, not with all the charges.

But released into Henricksen’s personal care?

That was suspicious, and Sam let his arm drop listlessly to the bed. He couldn’t help but remember the last time Dean had been remitted into the personal care of an officer of the law—a little excursion that had nearly gotten him killed.

But that wasn’t Henricksen’s style. Sam had done his research. Henricksen, though perhaps a bit of a dick, was a clean cop. A straight up, good American citizen, zealously defending the American legal system. He wasn’t the type to go off half-cocked and harm someone in his custody. Not necessarily for the sake of the accused, but for the sake of his own impeccable record.

No, that meant Henricksen was planning something. Something big.

Realization dawned and Sam cursed his own obliviousness under his breath. All the blood loss and drugs were interfering with his common sense.

Henricksen had a point to prove, only now Dean wasn’t his only suspect. After all, Dean had been in his custody when the latest attack had occurred. That meant Henricksen’s arrest rampage wasn’t done yet.

The guy had probably taken Dean with him to set a trap for whatever accomplices he surmised the great Dean Winchester to have.

The place for such a meeting to occur? Undoubtedly the Paper Warehouse. Even if Henricksen hadn’t figured out that it was the centralized location, Dean would clue him in on that much. Because Dean’s concern in all of this wouldn’t be to cut himself a deal but to save more lives. Dean would tell Henricksen the right location in the hopes of finishing the hunt and escaping.

Sam's stomach flipped uneasily and he felt his head going light. This was not good.

Sam didn’t doubt his brother’s abilities—not for a second. That didn’t change the fact that Dean would be limited while in custody. If Sam had Henricksen as well pegged as he thought he did, it was likely that Dean would never get out of his handcuffs long enough to mount any kind of defense against the puma, much less escape.

Dean needed his help. Sam needed to show up at the warehouse and help finish the ritual. As long as Michael was stopped and Dean was safe, Sam would deal with the rest of the consequences thereof, whether that meant another trip to the hospital or finding himself in police custody, he didn't care. Dean came first; then the town. Sam himself was a low priority.

Resolved, he pushed himself to stand, and a feeling of confidence swept over him when the room didn’t spin lazy circles around his head. He was improving—his steadiness was returning and the fuzziness was fading. The rest surely helped, and having a plan made his adrenaline moving. No doubt it was a temporary high, but he'd ride it as long as he could to get the job done.

Taking a step forward, he reached down to collect his notes and the leftover supplies for the ritual, and instantly regretted it. A wave of vertigo nearly took him down and he listed heavily toward the bed, throwing out one hand to steady himself.

He may be getting better, but he definitely wasn’t on top of his game. Hell, he might not be there without a few more days' bed rest and some really good drugs, but that really wasn't an option at this point.

He had a job to do. He had to save his brother's life.

Lifting himself again, Sam set his jaw, ignoring the tremors that shook his body, and headed out the door.

-o-

The warehouse was silent, almost eerily so amid the stacks of papers and boxes that surrounded them. Henricksen paced the floor in front of him, eyeing Dean skeptically with each pass.

Dean just rolled his eyes, and tried to keep his weight shifting. His butt was already going numb and with his wrists handcuffed behind him, his arms weren't exactly feeling hot either.

Henricksen looked anxious, almost excited. Here the guy thought he was going to make the catch of a lifetime and bring Dean Winchester to his knees.

The only thing they might catch was a maniacal puma spirit merged with some idealistic kid. Henricksen's bullets might have some effect on the kid, but Dean was pretty sure when the freaky crap hit the fan, Michael and his puma half would have the upper hand.

And what sucked more than anything else? Dean was handcuffed to a chair. All nice, primed and perfect bait for the puma's homicidal intent. Henricksen had set an ideal trap, he just didn't know what he was hunting.

It was a weird feeling, waiting for disaster. Sure, it was possible the puma wouldn't strike. But that just didn't seem like typical Winchester luck.

Besides, the puma has waited less than 24 hours after being recalled before taking another victim. That was a quick turnaround. Before, the attacks had been well spaced out. The puma seemed to be attacking with a new vengeance. Clearly the second summoning ritual had riled it in some way.

He probably should have been nervous, but he didn't want to give Henricksen the satisfaction. And it just wasn't his style.

He sighed loudly, with an overdramatic flair that elicited a look from Henricksen.

He huffed again, this time earning him a glare.

"Problem?" Henricksen asked curtly.

Dean just raised his eyebrows. "You've had me handcuffed to this chair for hours. There's no accomplice."

Henricksen looked perturbed. "Thought you said we'd have some company showing up."

"Not any company that I want to see."

Henricksen took to pacing again, seeming to weigh Dean's words. "Could be they got tipped off somehow."

"Or could be they don't exist," Dean tried again. "Though getting that point across to you is kind of like bashing my head against a brick wall."

The glare Henricksen shot him was deadly. "Keep trying."

Dean feigned hurt. "You wound me."

Before Henricksen could reply, the stillness was broken by the chirping of Henricksen's phone. He gave Dean a purposeful stare before removing the device from his belt and holding it to his ear. He turned his body away slightly, but kept Dean easily within his sights. "Henricksen," he barked into the phone.

Then the nodding started, punctuated with intermittent sounds of understanding.

With the agent's attention divided, Dean tested the bonds again, fiddling around to see what he could reach. If he just had a paperclip—

"What? What? Damn it," Henricksen snapped suddenly, bringing Dean's attention back up. "When? Yeah. Okay. Thanks."

He snapped the phone shut and turned back to Dean, his eyes narrowed. He moved back to Dean. "Your brother's MIA," he said, unconsciously checking his gun.

Dean perked up, his heart constricting in a combination of fear and relief. "What?" No matter what the scenario, ignorance was his best policy.

"Looks like he disappeared from the hospital," he said. He turned stony eyes on Dean. "Guess maybe you didn't need a mystery partner after all. It was Sam all along."

"I told you, Sam had nothing to do with this," Dean said again, the line coming out strong and defiant, no matter how much of a lie it was.

Henricksen gave a smirk of a smile. "I believed you once and made a deal I shouldn't have," he said. "But now someone else is dead the same night your nice, innocent little brother breaks out of the hospital? A little coincidental, don't you think?"

"Broke out? He was supposed to be free to go."

Amused, Henricksen cocked his head. "Well, let's just say I didn't trust him completely. He was under evaluation by the psychiatrist to assess his mental state."

"You had him committed?" Dean asked, too shocked to believe it.

The agent shrugged. "Only if he wouldn’t cooperate."

"We had a deal," Dean seethed.

"And you were supposed to fully cooperate, which hasn't exactly happened. Time to call it even, I suppose."

Dean tensed, wanting to stand, wanting to punch the smirk right off the agent's face. But he eyed the gun in Henricksen's grip and knew he would be no help to Sam dead. "You son of a—"

"Aw, come on, Dean. We all do what we have to do. And now we need to sit here and wait for that brother of yours to show up."

The big brother in Dean flared up, loud and persistent. "And if he doesn't come?"

At this, Henricksen laughed. "I know you don't believe that. What you really need to make sure is that I don't have shoot-to-kill orders."

Dean could not keep himself from paling. It was a momentary thing, a small weakness his well-trained facade quickly masked. "Even if Sam were to come, you have to know he's better trained than to walk right into your trap."

Henricksen shrugged, indifferently. "I've seen your little brother's medical reports, Dean. Little Sammy's not really up to snuff. So why would he break out except on some foolhardy plan to save your sorry ass or keep on with the program? Too bad for him, though, that the drugs and pain and blood loss really screw up one's ability to reason or to perceive threats." He paused, eyeing Dean carefully and inching forward. "I think you know that. I think you know Sam will come—maybe not to kill anyone, but for you. And I think you know that he can be caught. Because I can see the fear in your eyes, Dean." He stepped away, shaking his head. "You should have taken me up on the deal. Never should have blown it. Not that I'm complaining. This works for me far better. I get two Winchesters instead of one."

The frustration and the fear tightened Dean's throat to the point where he wasn't sure he was breathing anymore. "You really have this all wrong," Dean hissed at him. "You've got all the facts right there in front of you, and you're still coming to all the wrong conclusions. You better hope Sam does show up, because he'll be the only one here who has what we need to stop this thing once and for us."

Shaking his head, Henricksen smirked at him. "You and your threats again. The only thing Sammy will be good for is some serious jail time once he shows."

"Like Sam would even be capable of hurting anyone," Dean seethed. "You heard the doctor. You know what kind of shape he was in."

The agent cocked his head. "Your little brother has also been known to escape from a locked, second-story police building," he said. "You Winchesters seem capable of some of the most impossible feats around. Nothing will stop you from a little good old fashion murder, now, would it? Didn't stop Sammy from breaking his way out of the hospital."

It was a futile argument. Some people just wouldn't believe it--not until they saw it. Sometimes, Dean could respect that. Hell, that's the way Dean lived his life. But his patience for ignorance when it put others at risk was thin. His patience for others who put his brother at risk was nonexistent. "You've got a lot to learn," Dean said finally.

A grin spread across Henricksen's face. "So do you."

Only one of them could be right, and it was just a pride thing that made Dean know it'd be him.

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