Chapter Text
Sam Winchester raised the wiper speed of his Dodge Charger one notch. The rain has been getting heavier and heavier since he left Highway 26 about an hour ago. He hates working in the rain. Although it makes it easier to find possible tracks, rain always means the risk of missing something. The snap of a branch, of creeping footsteps, or the growl of a hungry vampire. A good thirty minutes ago he passed the sign for Scottsbluff. It's way past midnight, and there's hardly a car on the road. His coffee, which he'd bought at the last gas stop, is half empty and cold. He's tasted worse.
Once again, he went over his equipment in his mind. The machete is his favorite weapon. Fast, sharp, deadly. Blood-soaked bullets may slow a vampire down, but they are more for emergencies. The night-vision goggles to keep up with the bloodsuckers, Sam loves his technological toys.
"You sure about these coordinates?" he asks Bobby one last time on the speakerphone.
"You want to trade Princess, and I'll go hunting and you do all the work?"
"I love you too, Bobby."
"Are you sure you don't want someone else with you? You'll go a lot faster with two."
The 35-year-old hunter shakes his head vigorously, forgetting that Bobby can't see him.
"Forget it, I'm not babysitting some rookie again. I'm most effective alone."
Sam steers the Charger towards the coordinates that Bobby has sent him that morning via GPS.
The vampire nest is said to have taken up residence in a remote shed. Three or four, if Bobby's information can be trusted. They leave too many tracks. People disappear. Bodies pop up, shredded and almost drained of blood. Sam was planning on taking another day to visit the pathology department first to find out more about the victims. But time is pressing, and why wait when you can get right to the problem? Sam's fingers drum nervously on the steering wheel. His tension rises, like before every hunt. Even though this is almost a routine job, the excitement for the fight makes the adrenaline rush through his veins every time.
He plans to park the car a little further away, take his equipment, and walk the rest of the way.
He reduces the speed of his car and is about to take the last turn when he notices the flickering lights.
"What the fuck?"
"What's wrong, Sam?" Bobby's voice sounds slightly nervous.
"I'll call you back." Sam ends the conversation and parks the car to get an overview of the situation.
"Shit."
He keeps the engine running. It's quiet in the car except for the squeaking sound of the windshield wipers and the rain pouring down on the car. The road in front of him goes straight ahead towards the run-down estate. It's not a warehouse as Bobby and he had suspected, more like an old farm with several barns. It looks rundown and deserted, and if it weren't for the four patrol cars that light up the night in a sea of red and blue, it'd be pitch black.
Sam watches the surreal scenery. Two cars have spotlights which are pointed at the main entrance, where people are apparently being led away. Humans, Sam thinks, not vampires.
Cops are pacing up and down in front of the building, several people making wild gestures with their phones. It seems they haven't been on the scene too long and no clear chain of command has been established. Two more cars are parked in front of one of the barns and this one is also illuminated. Sam thinks of a strategy to get more information, when a siren blares behind him, and a fifth car stops just behind him.
"Fuck." So much for a plan. He hastily opens the glove compartment and searches for a suitable ID.Just as he has decided on an identity, a deputy appears at his driver's side .
Sam turns off the engine and lowers the window.
"Good evening, Officer.“
"Good evening. Can I ask what you're doing here?"
"Of course." Sam opens his badge.
"Special Agent Borden. I was just in the neighborhood and..."
"What the hell is the FBI doing here?"
"As I was trying to explain, I happened to be in the area, and I'm just offering my help."
"You Feds always say that." The officer studies Sam's badge in the light of his flashlight. After a moment, he returns it with a disapproving look.
"OK, go ahead and talk to Sheriff Duncan. I'll let him know you're coming up."
He turns around and starts talking into his radio.
Sam starts the engine and slowly drives the last few yards to the farm .
This was so not what he had planned. A short chase, quick kill, then eliminate the tracks, and finish with a whiskey to celebrate. That's the way the evening should have gone. Instead, he has to go out into the rain and have a talk with a sheriff who is probably as unhappy about Sam's appearance as Sam is himself. Sam parks the Dodge next to one of the police cars, sends Bobby a quick text message, and gets out of the car. For a moment he stretches his long limbs. Then he goes to the trunk of the car and takes out his raincoat, making sure that the protective cover fits perfectly over his arsenal. You wanna let sleeping dogs lie.
Sam knows that the important thing now is to make the right impression. Not appear too insecure, which makes the cops cautious and suspicious , but not too arrogant either, otherwise you'll bite on granite. He is the stranger here. He straightens up to his full size and puts his shoulders back, then he walks towards the small, fat figure, which is already stomping towards him, snorting.
"What the fucking hell do the Feds want here?"
Well, this is starting off promisingly.
Once again, Sam takes out his badge.
"As I told your colleague, Sheriff Duncan, I'm just here to offer my help. I don't want to make you or your fellow officers feel like I'm one-upping you."
Sheriff Duncan has to tilt his head back a little bit to look up to Sam. Sometimes Sam is grateful for his height advantage.
The man seems to be in his forties, and in a pathetic attempt to block the rain, over his uniform he has on a thin, black raincoat; it gives him the appearance of a large, over-bundled up child, unable to move his arms freely.
But, of course Duncan is not pleased with Sam showing up at his crime scene.
"Does your supervisor know about this impromptu visit Borden?"
Duncan shifts from one foot to the other, while the fat raindrops roll down Sam's neck, and his patience runs out.
"Yes, Sheriff, he knows that. But, of course, you're free to ring him out of bed and ask for it if you'd like."
Sam looks at him, challengingly .
"You bet I would."
Sam rolls his eyes. Same dick measuring shit every time. He should have brought his cigarettes. And a ruler.
Angrily, the sheriff stompes a few yards away from Sam and punched the number he was given into his phone. It's routine from here on out. Sam watches with an amused expression as the sheriff gets visibly smaller during the phone call. Damn , that's the third bottle of Jim Beam he owes Bobby.
"All right, Agent Borden," Duncan’s voice is distinctly more friendly, "come with me. I want out of this fucking rain."
The first sensible line he's uttered , thinks Sam and follows the sheriff into the main building.
Sam lets Duncan go first. The house is, contrary to expectations, quite warm, and Sam opens his jacket and flips the hood back off his head. His hair curls from the humidity . From the corner of his eye he sees Duncan's disparaging look at his long hair, but he has neither the time nor the inclination to get into it.
Several policemen are wandering around the rooms, the whirring of a camera and the repeated flickering of the flash coming from one room in particular.
"I hope you haven't eaten. This sight is not for anyone with a weak stomach ." Sam takes in the sarcastic tone of Duncan's voice. He could have told him that just five days ago he had killed a ghoul by repeatedly hitting its head with a rusty shovel until it exploded. While in the shower later, he was still scrubbing brain matter from his body. But what good would it do? "I think I can take it," he says instead.
As they walk into the living room, Sam looks out of the window, as a police car is driving away. Probably with the two people being taken in. Dammit, he has to make sure that they are definitely only people, and not monsters.
The living room itself looks like the aftermath of a fight. Armchairs have fallen over, furniture has been destroyed, and the lifeless body of a man lies on the floor. Neat, early fifties.
"Still waiting for the coroner,“ Duncan says as a way to explain the mess and the body.
Sam studies the scene carefully. The man was apparently hit by two bullets in the chest. Normal bullets. Not a vampire then. The body lies there, pale in its own blood and piss. Absolutely no sign of anything supernatural.
"The short version, Sheriff." Whatever Bobby's intel was, it was wrong, and Sam wants to get the hell out of here.
"We got a tip on an illegal dogfight. You know where they train the animals to kill each other and bet which one survives."
Sam nods, he abhors violence against animals, he loves dogs, and the guy lying dead in front of him is lucky that Sam didn't catch him first.
"What about that?" Sam looks away from the body as he sees movement outside at the barn.
"Well, the tip was wrong."
Not just yours , Sam thinks.
Duncan continues.
"But the check turned out they weren't letting dogs fight each other, they used slaves."
" What ?" Sam turns back around.
"Yeah, I know, and normally we would have just gone back to the station, but then the weirdo here started to fuck with us, then one thing led to another and we opened fire.
Total self-defense, Agent. You gotta believe me."
Sam turns away from the scene and moves his hand over his mouth.
He's got to get out of here. Quickly. Before he says the wrong thing.
Slaves are a part of society that does exist, but you don't talk about them. Officially, they are people without any legal claim. Homeless, orphans, child molesters, whoever would have nothing left but death unless they renounce their rights as human beings. Always under the guise of being voluntarily, of course. But what choice did they have really? Sam has had some impossible discussions in his past, as a teenager who wanted to fight the system. The cockiness of youth that you only have to shout loud enough to be heard. But slaves were also, unfortunately, an industry. Too many rich and successful people with influence have earned the privilege to own a legal slave; for housework, as a nanny and, how do you call it officially, "physical support".
That was the official description . All your debts to the state would be paid off, but then you belonged to the system, body and soul.
The gray area ...collateral damage. Prostitution, drugs, illegal fights. Turn over a stone and you will find a snake.
"What happens to the slaves now?" Sam hears himself ask. Stay out of this, Sam. It's not your business. Get the hell out of here.
He hears the voice in his head, but he can't help but ask anyway. He has to know.
„One's already dead, didn't survive the fight.
The other three aren't worth much either.
They trained them pretty good. I don't think they even know they're human anymore. Anyway, they're so fucked up, it doesn't matter now anyway.“
"What do you mean by that?"
Duncan just shrugs his shoulders
"We'll just put them to sleep."
At that moment a rifle shot breaks the silence from outside.
Sam's eyes grow large and concerned .
He starts running even before his brain has processed the information.
Outside, the rain pours down in his face. His hair is stuck to his neck . A few yards away, he sees two cops, standing. One of them is holding a rifle.
Kneeling opposite him are two figures helplessly exposed to the power of the law. A third figure is already lying lifeless in the rain.
"No! Stop !" Sam yells at the cop . His lungs are burning and a second shot makes him flinch . The second figure collapses.
"God damn it, stop !" Sam draws his gun.
He takes the safety off and shoots up in the air at the same moment.
Three things happen almost simultaneously.
Sam runs as if his own life is at stake, screaming "FBI" and pointing a gun at the cop. He spins around in horror, undecided what to do next.
And the third, still living slave clumsily raises his head and looks at Sam. Green, hopeless eyes stare directly at him and Sam stumbles. It is as if a blow hits him. But he catches himself, only more spurred on, and finally stands between the two cops and the man.
Sam raises both arms in the air, showing his gun. He breathes heavily, and his voice is loud and thunderous.
"One more shot and I swear deputy, it'll be your last." The young man looks over to his sheriff, who has followed Sam while loudly panting and cursing.
"Agent Borden, cut the crap. Let the young man do his job."
"His job?" Sam's voice is shrill, his nerves are exposed.
"He shot people!"
"Slaves!" Duncan corrects him.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
"What else can we do with them? Abandon them? Their owner lies dead in his house.
And by law they must be transferred to someone else within twelve hours of their owner's death, otherwise the regulation is clear. And looking at him," he motions to the green-eyed slave on the ground, "he won't last much longer with those wounds. We're just doing him a favor here."
Sam turns around and has to fight the tears. He must not show any weakness here now, but it tears his heart apart. The young man before him is in chains, and a heavy, rusted collar has eaten into his neck. His clothes are covered in blood, his hair is wet and matted over his face. Sam can no longer see the difference between a fresh wound and an old one. But it's the man's eyes that won't let him go. Pleading, huge eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes.
Sam's brain is working like crazy.
"Agent, I'm gonna have to ask you to step aside."
Duncan's gonna try it one more time. Sam can see the young cop ready to raise his gun.
"One more step, Deputy, and you'll regret it." Sam's voice is cold.
"I am the highest ranking officer here, and I will now take this slave myself and hand him over to my superior. I will leave this place with him on the spot and relieve you of any responsibility towards him. Is that clear, Sheriff Duncan, or do you wanna talk to my supervisor again?"
It's dead quiet for a moment.
The red-blue flickering from the police cars forms an almost grimace-like pattern on Sheriff Duncan's face. Pride and anger, but also resignation are reflected. And Sam resolutely resists.
Then he sees Duncan's face break and he stomps angrily to the side.
"Let him take the cripple," he says to his men. Then to Sam, „Leave us alone with this shit and get the fuck out of here."
Sam doesn't hesitate. He puts his gun away and bends over the kneeling man.
"Can you stand up?"
Groaning,the man rises, and Sam realizes that he is only a little bit shorter than himself. . But as soon as he stands, he almost collapses again. At the last moment Sam catches him and grabs him under his arms. Slowly, he drags the man to the Charger.
"Ten bucks says he croaks in the car," one of the cops comments.
"The asshole just wants to get something cheap to fuck," the other cop says with a sneer.
Sam bites his lip at the crude comments. He quickly opens the passenger door of the charger. Very carefully he puts the young slave on the seat and straps him in. He seems to be unconscious and Sam is relieved as he can feel his pulse and breath. He has almost gone around the car when he looks at the two deputies one last time . One of them kicks insolently at the corpse of one of the slaves, while the other one places his hand over his crotch and laughs over at Sam. Taking four big steps, Sam is in front of him. The young deputy is still grinning when two of his teeth land in the muddy ground. Sam's knuckles are bloodied and one is probably broken. He really should have brought the cigarettes.
The Chargers's engine roars and the wheels eat through the mud. Worriedly, he looks at the man sleeping in the seat next to him.
It's only when the car rolls a bit down the highway that Sam starts breathing normally again.
He dials Bobby's number.
"You son of a bitch, are you gonna tell me what's going on over there?“
Sam was still relieved to hear the old man's barking.
"Bobby, I need your help."