Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ A Sea of Waking Dreams ❯ A Shooting ( Chapter 8 )

Chapter 8

 

Niko's way actually appeared to be—at least on the surface—nothing more than a condensed version of Dean's way. He got on his phone and made a call to someone called Robin Goodfellow or something weird like that—and from the sound of it Robin Goodfellow was a man who did not know when to shut up.

 

Dean, for his part, just sat on his bed and raged at his own impotency. Niko had assured him that this would work faster than even going to the cops would, but Dean couldn't see how calling one guy would turn the trick and find their little brothers. On the other hand, Niko was undoubtedly one of the most professional—not to mention older-brotherly—people he'd ever met, and he seemed to have no doubt that this would work.

 

But never in his life had Dean sat on the sidelines and watched someone else work to save his brother. He wasn't liking it so much.

 

He was still dwelling on it when Niko hung up the phone.

 

“Well?” he asked, and if there was a little bit of a snap in his voice, well, he figured Niko would know its source.

 

“He's calling me back in five minutes.”

 

“Okay. Well, who else can you call?”

 

“No one,” Niko said calmly.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“That was it,” Niko said, gesturing to his phone. “Robin will take it from here.”

 

“Uh…no,” Dean said, already reaching for his own cell.

 

“Who are you calling?”

 

“The cops.”

 

“You don't need to do that. I've taken care of it.”

 

“You made one phone call. To a guy named Goodfellow.”

 

“Dean, relax,” Niko said gently. “I know how you feel, but Robin will come through. He always does.”

 

“How can you sit here like that? So calm? Both our brothers could be hurt—” Or worse. “—right now, in case you've—”

 

“I haven't forgotten,” Niko said quietly. “Not for a single moment.”

 

Dean took a breath, was about to reply, when the phone rang, and Niko picked it up, looking mildly surprised. “That was fast,” he murmured, before opening it and putting it to his ear. “Anything?”

 

Dean watched impatiently, drumming his fingers on his leg, as Niko listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then, quite suddenly, the other man hung up the phone and stood up.

 

“Apartment building on Sixty-Eighth. Someone brought in two `sick' guys an hour or two ago. Come on.”

 

Dean stared at him as he headed out the door. “You've got to be kidding me,” he muttered as he followed.

 

Seriously, it was cool that he got the answers so fast and all, but that was just wrong…

 

XXX

 

The fire took a big leap after Michael shot Cal. It was probably a significant thing, that, but Sam didn't have the focus or energy to try and figure it out. Instead, he just lay there and watched the flames with mild interest while Michael paced in front of him, probably talking to him, maybe even thinking he was listening. He wasn't, though—he was too busy being angry.

 

Actually, being angry felt…kind of cool. He hadn't let himself feel the emotion in so long, but when Michael pulled the trigger it had come crashing over him, wave after wave after wave. And yet…and yet, he did nothing, because there was still that wall there that kept him from even trying to act on the emotions.

 

So he just lay there, fiery knives shooting up and down his arm, resolutely not looking at Cal's body and waiting for the inevitable crashes and slams that would signal Dean's whirlwind arrival. When Dean came, Michael would pay for his crime.

 

But…he couldn't help thinking, distantly, that it didn't matter. Not really. Because at the end of the day, Niko would still have lost his brother. He would still have to experience the pain that Sam wouldn't wish on anyone, ever.

 

Michael suddenly stopped talking, and Sam looked up to find him staring down and looking, for the first time, calm. No, not even that—peaceful. He looked peaceful, and Sam began to get a very bad feeling.

 

“So that's it,” Michael said. “It's time, I guess.” The gun in his hand came up, but he didn't point it—not yet. Instead, he looked at Sam and said quietly, “I know I won't get away with it. I do realize that. I'll get caught—maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after, but someday.” He looked away for a moment, and then nearly whispered, “I just thought you should know.”

 

And then he lifted the gun, and just as Sam had expected all along, the door exploded inwards.

 

XXX

 

Dean had been trying very hard not to picture what must be happening to his brother right now, and as such he hadn't prepared himself for what he'd find when he kicked down the door to the apartment building's basement. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have snapped so completely.

 

Michael didn't even have time to turn around before Dean aimed for his leg and pulled the trigger. Dean didn't pause to watch his collapse, but instead ran to Sam and fell to his knees. Sam stared at him with wide eyes as he began fumbling with the chains binding his brother's wrists.

 

“Dean…” he said, in a pathetic voice that was closer to a whimper.

 

“Shh, Sammy, I know. I'm here now. It's gonna be okay…”

 

“No, Dean, you don't understand. Cal…”

 

Something about the way he said it caused Dean's stomach to clench, and he turned to look in the other direction for the first time.

 

He really wished he hadn't.

 

Cal was lying inert on the floor, his own hands bound in an unbelievably awkward position, and there was so much blood that it was impossible to tell what had even opened him up in the first place. Beside him, Niko knelt his back to Dean and Sam, his hand on Cal's shoulder, utterly still, head bowed, and Dean's stomach disappeared entirely at the sight.

 

“I didn't mean…he just wanted me…and Cal was just there…it shouldn't have…” Sam babbled, his eyes growing wider with every word, his breathing hitched. Dean recognized a full-blown panic attack when he saw one, and reached out to grip Sam's shoulder firmly, the other hand still locked on the chains. Sam's eyes met his, some of the pain bleeding over. “Dean…he's…”

 

“He's alive.”

 

Niko's voice was quiet, but then he turned to Dean and met his eyes, and again Dean could see his terror plainly.

 

“He's alive, but we need to go. Now.”

 

“You take him,” Dean said abruptly, the need for hurry making him short. “Out to my car. I'll finish up down here.”

 

“Hurry,” Niko hissed, and then he was gently lifting Cal in his arms and heading for the door, not even pausing to glance at Michael, who was still lying motionless on the floor.

 

Sam looked far from comforted when Dean turned back to him. “Dean,” he whimpered again, that being one of the only things he seemed capable of saying coherently.

 

“Didn't you hear, kiddo?” Dean said soothingly, finally feeling the chains start to give a little. “He's alive. He's gonna be fine, okay?”

 

“He wanted me,” Sam repeated. “Cal was just there…and…Dean…”

 

“Hey,” Dean said quietly, leaning forward until Sam met his eyes. “Listen to me, okay? I'm here now. I'm gonna get you outta here, and we're gonna get Cal to a hospital, and everything's gonna be fine.”

 

It was then that he noticed that Sam was shaking, and he started working harder on the chains, suddenly wanting to give Sam one of the hugs he was getting way too used to.

 

“Dean, my arm hurts.”

 

Dean froze. “Oh, man, I'm sorry, Sam, I forgot.”

 

“He stepped on it. It hurts, Dean.”

 

He sounded calmer now that he was talking about his own pain, but Dean had exactly the opposite reaction. His hands went immediately to Sam's arm, and it didn't take too long to ascertain that the splint was no longer doing its job—Sam's arm was broken.

 

And Dean was too busy trying to reign in his bloodlust that his hunter's instincts failed. It was only for a moment, but it was enough.

 

It was enough because he didn't even register it when Michael pushed himself up, took up his gun, and leapt forward to smash it over Dean's head.

 

XXX

 

The flames were almost upon him when Dean started unchaining him. He could see them licking at his legs, creeping closer to envelope him. They froze when Dean's hands fell on his arms, his shoulders, his wrists, and his voice broke over Sam, quiet and soothing—but they didn't retreat. They stayed where they were until Niko said Cal was alive, and then they backed off—almost a whole inch.

 

He zoned out a little after that, but when he returned, it was to the fair certainty that he'd done some major babbling. He wasn't sure what he'd said, but whatever it was, it made Dean go pale with anger, his hands suddenly becoming so gentle that Sam could barely feel them brushing against his broken arm.

 

And whatever it was, it made him angry enough that he didn't notice Michael getting to his feet and limping forward to hit him over the head with his gun.

 

Dean fell flat on the floor, Michael dropped the gun and himself next to Dean, his hands locked around Dean's throat as he lay dazed, and Sam was swallowed completely by the flames for the second time in his life.

 

XXX

 

Niko was not feeling terribly patient tonight, and fifty-seven seconds after he emerged from the apartment building, he was on the very verge of calling Robin for a car or hotwiring Dean's. He'd already decided to give Dean exactly thirty more seconds, and then he was gone.

 

The only problem was…gone where?

 

Beside him, Cal lay limp, his head in Niko's lap, Niko's arm around him, holding him close. If he was in any pain, he didn't show it—he'd barely roused to consciousness even when Niko pressed a hand over the wound in his stomach to try and stop the bleeding, which Niko knew from experience to hurt like hell. He wasn't complaining, and it was worrying Niko more than he cared to admit.

 

Ten seconds had passed. That left twenty until Niko took Cal to…

 

Where?

 

“Stay with me, Cal,” he muttered absently, his free hand resting on Cal's clammy forehead. Fifteen seconds. “You're not leaving now, or ever. I swear, if you do…” He left the threat hanging, mentally promising all manner of punishments should Cal decide to walk into the stupid, thrice-damned white light that he really should've known to stay away from by now.

 

Ten seconds left now. Cal's blood wasn't coming quite so fast now, and Niko tried to believe that wasn't a bad thing.

 

Five seconds left.

 

At twenty-seven seconds, the sound of a gunshot split the air.

 

XXX

 

The first thought to break through Dean's impact-induced haze was that this guy must've been more insane than they'd thought—or just really, extremely motivated. `Cause gunshot wounds hurt, and what was he doing running around bashing people's heads in with a bullet in his leg?

 

The second thought was…well…ouch.

 

Then the hands locked around his throat and he pretty much ceased to think anything but, Oh, God, this is Sam's freaky fetish, not mine…wait, where's the air? Okay, kinda hard to breathe now…why can't I move? This can't seriously be the way I'm gonna die, right?

 

The thought freaked him out a lot more than it should've, and he finally began to struggle, but weakly. Too weakly. He was seriously going to die here. It was just too ridiculous to comprehend.

 

Darkness was encroaching on the corners of his vision when the gun went off, once, twice, and then a third time.

 

At first, he was sure Michael had shot him by accident, and was waiting with resignation for the pain when the hands strangling him suddenly loosened and a huge, heavy weight fell on him.

 

For a few minutes, he could only lay there and wheeze, before panic set in—Sam—and he started to shove Michael's dead weight—God, literally—off of him. It took a moment, but finally he was on his feet, facing Sam.

 

Sam, who was chainless and standing, the gun still aimed and held in a perfectly steady hand, and a look of steely determination in his suddenly-clear brown eyes.

 

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Author's Note: Sorry, everyone! I meant to have this up sooner, really, but no one would cooperate! Not Sam, not Dean, not Niko, not Michael, not my muses, not the silly people who make my work schedule, NO ONE. To make it worse, this chapter was horrible to write, and I never did manage to make myself completely satisfied with it—mostly, but not quite.

 

Secondly, if anyone has been sending me any messages, reviews, or anything like that lately, and I haven't been replying, it's because I haven't been getting them. I've been having a little trouble receiving some of my mail, so I'm really sorry. I don't know if I ever will get them, unless they're sent all over again.

 

And last, a very special thanks to Faye Dartmouth, who didn't seem to mind at all when I PMed her at one in the morning asking where the best place was to shoot Cal if I wanted to hurt him badly, but not kill him—even though I'm pretty sure she didn't have the faintest idea who I was—and who didn't even laugh at me when I made the mistake of thinking she was some kind of doctor or nurse. Seriously, she's one of the coolest people ever, and if you've been living in a hole somewhere and haven't read her stories, go do that right now!