Chapter Text
"Detective Stanton?" Sam asked Dr. DeCary in surprise as he hurriedly pushed himself to sit straighter and shoved his laptop aside.
"Yes, she just had a couple of follow-up questions. She believes that she may have just hit a breakthrough, so—" Dr. DeCary didn't have time to finish his sentence before Detective Stanton strode in past him.
"I'll take it from here. Thank you for your help, doctor," she said bluntly as she shepherded him out and closed the door in his face with a snap. She rounded on Sam and laid such a look of loathing on him that he realized three things at once.
One, they were dumb, two Dean should be just fine, and three, he was screwed.
"You boys just couldn't leave well enough alone, could you," Stanton snarled as she stalked forward and Sam fumbled through the blankets, looking for the call button.
This was bad. This was really, really, bad.
Stanton was on him before he could do anything. Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she pinned his hand back against the bed while her other hand came up to wrap around Sam's throat.
"Don't move," she snarled, squeezing hard, and Sam leaned his head back, struggling to breathe around the pressure. She stared at him for a long second, her lip curling up in disgust before she relaxed her hold enough to let Sam speak.
"You," he croaked out, "it was you. How long—?"
She smiled wide enough to show all of her teeth. "How long have I been dear old Detective Stanton? The whole damn time. It was me from the moment that I met Dean downstairs in the ER. I was right under your noses and you didn't even notice, you ignorant buffoons."
Keeping him pinned against the pillows by his throat, she fumbled through her purse with her other hand and pulled out a bright yellow scarf.
Sam knew where this was headed and tried to pull away. He was still wearing the silver ring that Dean had passed over to him, if he could just—Stanton growled, her hand clenching around his throat and cutting off his air supply.
"I told you not to move."
Sam gasped raggedly, trying to pry her hand away from his throat but she easily ignored it as she increased the pressure. Sam couldn't breathe, he couldn't—black spots were dancing in front of his eyes.
She abruptly released him and took a step back, panting. Sam coughed raggedly, trying to drag air in.
Smoothing back her hair with one hand, she watched him struggle before moving back to the bed.
"Don't try that again," she warned him again before grabbing Sam's arm with bruising force. She yanked it towards the safety railing and, pinning both of his hands there, used the scarf to tie them tightly to the railing. "I'm not going to gag you, but I would think twice about trying to call for help," she said as she worked, giving him another heartfelt glare. "You do that, and I'll say that you tried to attack me. I'll even let slip your real name. The world still remembers the Winchester brothers, after all, and they will not question the validity of my statement."
She took a step back again as Sam returned the glare. Out of her sight, he slowly flexed his wrists, testing the strength of the scarf. It was immediately clear to Sam that, unlike him, she hadn't been trained to tie knots since before she was out of high school, and the scarf was loose in ways that he could work with.
It would have been a piece of cake if he wasn't so damn weak, but he would figure it out. He just needed to buy himself some time.
Stanton wasn't watching him, her eyes on the door, and Sam shifted, trying to create more leverage and also alleviate the growing pain in his side that had sharpened due to the position that she had forced him into.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked calmly, watching her intently even as he began to casually rotate and twist his wrists to loosen the integrity of the scarf. The IV was digging uncomfortably into his skin, but he ignored it.
Stanton made a sound of disbelief, turning back to face him. "Isn't it obvious? It's my life, or yours. It's either hunt or be hunted. I'm not a killer, but you, Sam, and your brother? You are. You would hunt me down and murder me in cold blood if I didn't do something, so here I am, making a stand."
"Not a killer?" Sam snorted, shaking his head. "You murdered Ted Ambrose."
She smothered a flinch, looking away. "That was a mistake, looking back. I thought…" she trailed off.
"You thought that it would cover your tracks from hunters like us?" Sam filled in snidely. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but a body disappearing and coming back up again in such an odd way was much more attention-grabbing than just about anything else that you could have done. Why didn't you just dump the body after you killed Ambrose?"
It was something that Sam had genuinely been wondering about ever since they started the case. It would have made so much more sense to dump the body than to leave it in bed. It probably would have flown under their radar, and then Stanton would have been free and Ambrose would have just been a body that disappeared from the morgue.
Stanton pursed her lips, wrapping her arms around herself like she was cold. "That was another mistake. I just—I'd never been in that situation before, and I…panicked."
"Oh, I never would have guessed that," Sam said sarcastically.
She smiled thinly at him and leaned down, gripping his chin in her hands. The edges of her manicured nails dug into his skin, but Sam refused to wince. "I'm not an idiot, despite what you clearly think. I've done things that you will never be able to do. I took this—this curse—and turned it into a gift. I'm not just some mindless monster, I've put a lot of work into creating who I am."
"And how many lives have you destroyed in doing so? How many people have taken the fall for your incompetence? A real thief wouldn't have been as careless with leaving traces behind as you were. You've been playing fast and loose with other people's faces and lives and you were going to have to pay for it eventually."
She dug her fingers in deeper and then let go. "I don't need to explain a single damn thing to you. I didn't come here to talk."
Reaching for her purse, she pulled out a syringe and held it up for Sam to see.
Something cold settled in the pit of his stomach and he eyed it warily. This just kept getting better and better.
"I was playing nice last time, but that was before you didn't give me any other choice. This right here? It's a poison that will kill you in less than ten minutes once I inject it into your IV."
"Terrifying," Sam said, trying to keep the growing concern out of his voice. "Maybe if I wasn't already dying, I would be impressed."
She clenched the syringe tight enough to turn her knuckles white, her face screwing up. "I wouldn't talk like that if I were you. I will kill you, right now, and then you won't even get to say goodbye to big brother dearest. How do you think it will make him feel to come back and find you dead?"
Dean would never forgive him, but it would be better for Sam to die now than for Dean to get hurt.
Sam glowered at her. "Take Dean out of this, it's just you and me now," he ordered and Stanton's lips curled up in a smile.
"Oh, sweetheart, I don't think that I could take him out even if I wanted to. You two are conjoined at the hips, irrationally so, and I'm going to use that to my advantage. You see, I've been preparing for every possible outcome over the last few days and this isn't going to end any other way than me leaving New York alive."
Sam scoffed a laugh. "There is no way that you will leave here alive if you bring Dean into this. You've royally pissed him off, and he's not going to let you go. I'm the only one who can talk him down. All you have to do is walk out that door right now, and Dean and I will talk."
Stanton hesitated and then her eyes narrowed. "You really do think I'm dumb or something, don't you? I walk out that door, and Dean will be the first person you call."
"I know that—"
"No. No, we are doing things my way."
Sam shook his head vehemently. "No. Leave Dean alone, you've messed with his head enough."
"After everything that he's done? I don't think so."
"Lady," Sam began, leaning forward as much as his weakness and bound hands would allow, and staring straight into her eyes so that she could see the truth of his statement for herself. "If you want to live to see the next sunrise, then you will listen to me and you will not bring Dean into this."
"I have to do this," Stanton alliterated stubbornly. Sam opened his mouth to argue and she slapped him, hard. "Be quiet."
Clearing her throat, she looked away from him and snatched his phone up from where it was lying on the bed.
"Now, this is how it is going to go, and I'm only going to explain it once so you had better listen carefully."
#
"Try again, Dean."
Dean clenched the phone hard enough that he thought it might break as a burning and savage anger seared through his guts. Stanton had Sam. Stanton was in the hospital with Sam.
"You," he growled as he let go of the real Detective Stanton without a thought. She toppled to the ground with a grunt, but Dean was already walking away.
"That's right. Little old me."
"If you have so much as touched a hair on his head, then I swear that I'll kill you," Dean vowed as he yanked the door up and open.
She laughed. "Oh, Dean, baby. What if I already have? He could be dead. His throat slit; my hands red with his blood."
Dean felt both cold and hot all at the same time. She was lying. She had to be, she was just playing with him. "You bitch, I'll—put Sam on the phone right damn now."
For a moment she was silent and Dean feared the worst. That Sam was right and that he had finally pushed her too far. That he had gotten Sam killed.
"Fine, he's not dead—yet. I even think that he would like to say hello to you…soon, Sammy, soon."
Dean's lip curled up as he broke into a dead run, skirting around the row of storage units and heading back for the main road and the hospital. It wouldn't take him long to get there, maybe fifteen minutes.
It was too long. Sam could easily be dead by then.
"Get out. Get out of there now if you value your life."
"I like it when you're angry, it means that you make mistakes. Like leaving poor, sick, Sammy here all alone and defenseless."
Dean pushed his legs harder, skidding around another corner. "What do you want?" he ground out as he just managed to dodge an old woman on the sidewalk. She shouted something at him in a language that he didn't understand, but he didn't look back.
"What do I want? I wanted to live my life in peace. I never wanted to be hunted."
"Tough luck. You shouldn't have killed Ted Ambrose or put all those innocent people in jail. You should never have touched Sam."
Her voice was hard when she spoke again. "I'm willing to make a deal. Sam's life for mine. How does that sound?"
"Done." Dean didn't even have to think about it. If that was what it took to get Stanton out of there and away from Sam, then he would agree to just about anything. He would hunt her down after Sam was out of the equation.
"Not so fast. I know you. You haven't backed down this entire time, not even with Sam dying and despite all my warnings. I told you that I was coming for Sam if you kept this up, and yet there you are, at my storage unit. I need a little insurance that you won't come after me once I'm gone from the hospital."
Dean clenched the phone tighter. Damnit. "Look, I promise that—"
"So, this is how it's going to go," she interrupted him briskly, suddenly professional, and Dean could hear the hints of the real Detective Stanton there. "You are going to go to Central Park and wait there for further instructions."
"Fine," Dean snapped. He had no intention of going to Central Park which would take him in a parallel line away from the hospital, not closer. Sam couldn't afford for that to happen.
There were the sounds of movement on the other line, and it was followed by an aborted hiss of pain. That was Sam, not Stanton, and Dean felt his blood boil.
"If you hurt him—"
Stanton spoke over him. "Sam, tell Dean what's going to happen if he keeps lying to me?"
"Sam?" Dean barked, pressing the phone tighter against his ear even as he continued to run.
"Dean, you're on speaker." Sam's voice was carefully controlled, but Dean could hear the pain there and he ground his teeth together. "She wants me to tell you that if you don't cooperate she will…" Sam trailed off, hesitating. He clearly didn't want to say what was next. He paid for the moment of silence with what sounded like a slap, and Dean's anger leaped, thrumming hard and fast through his veins.
He was going to kill the bitch.
"I'm not saying it," Sam said in a low voice, talking to Stanton instead of him, but Dean spoke before Stanton could, trying to save his brother from any further pain or injury.
"It's alright, Sam. Just tell me, it will be okay."
"No," Sam repeated and Dean ground his teeth together.
"Sam, just do it!"
For a moment there was mutinous silence on the other end, and then Sam said, "Dean, she has a poison, apparently that is something of a specialty of hers, and she will use it if she has to."
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, firing off every profanity that he knew and then some in his head. This wasn't happening.
"That's right, Dean-o," Stanton crooned, sounding smug. "It's quick acting as well, not like the death caps. Ten minutes, and you won't have a little brother anymore, so I suggest that you turn around right now and start heading toward Central Park. I've been preparing for this, you see, and I knew that this might happen, that you might idiotically try one last time to hunt me down."
"Damn right, you bitch."
It was Sam who felt the effect of his words as the sounds of flesh striking flesh sounded again, and Dean tried to reel his temper back in. It wasn't worth it. Nothing was worth hurting Sam.
"There is a trashcan near the Alice and Wonderland statue and it has a phone taped to the inside. I'll be calling it in ten minutes exactly. If you aren't there to pick up, then I'll assume that you would rather hunt me down than save your brother and I'll happily kill Sam, ridding the world for good of one Winchester. Even if you kill me, it won't bring him back, so choose wisely."
The call disconnected abruptly and Dean swore loudly as he spun around, trying to figure out where he was. Central Park was to the east, and Dean took off again, running down the street with his heart somewhere in his chest. He might have been able to make it to the hospital in under ten minutes, but Stanton wasn't messing around and he couldn't take that chance.
Not with Sam's life on the line.
Pouring on the speed, Dean saw a relatively clear intersection and took his chance. Cutting across the road sent a literary of horns blaring and brakes screeching, but Dean just kept running. Why had he left Sam? He hadn't thought that the shifter would—no, he hadn't been thinking at all. He had let his rage and helplessness guide every decision he had made over the last few days.
This was on him. If Sam died, it was going to be his fault.
Central Park wasn't that far away, but ten minutes wasn't that long and he checked his watch as he skidded into the entrance. "Damnit." He had just over three minutes to find that stupid statue, and he had no freaking clue where it was at.
"Hey—hey!" He demanded of an older gentleman who was sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons. "Please, I need help. Where's the Alice in Wonderland statue?"
Tilting his head back, the man glared at him in complete lack of care of his utter panic.
"Please, I have to find it."
Shrugging, the old man pointed with a gnarly finger. "Keep going in that direction. It's somewhere over there."
Without bothering to thank him, Dean took off, checking his watch again.
He had just under two minutes. That wasn't going to be enough, he wasn't going to make it in time.
Stanton should know better than to hurt Sam. If she did, then there wouldn't be a place on earth where she could hide from him. They had hunted their mother's killer for over twenty years, and Dean was more than prepared to do double that if he had to.
"Alice in Wonderland statue?" he demanded of the next passerby that he saw, and got a shake of the head and a shrug.
One minute, thirty-six seconds.
Dean couldn't breathe around the lump in his throat. He didn't know where he was going.
Spotting a vendor up ahead, he sprinted in that direction and butted his way to the front of the line with little regard for the unhappy murmurs he was creating. "Please, I just need to know where the Alice in Wonderland statue is?"
The vendor glowered at him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can't just cut—"
Dean yanked out his wallet and threw a wad of cash down. He didn't know how much, he didn't care. The vendor blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting that.
"It's on the little path that's just after the carousel. Can't miss it," he said, pointing vaguely to the left as he began to gather up the cash.
Dean took off again, glancing down at his watch, and immediately wished that he hadn't.
Forty-two seconds.
The carousel wasn't even in sight yet.
Dean's heart was going so fast that he thought that it might beat right out of his chest. Sam was going to die, and there wasn't anything that he could do. He dialed Sam's number as he ran. If he could just explain to Stanton what had happened, then maybe she wouldn't kill Sam, but she didn't pick up and Dean glanced down.
Twenty seconds.
There was nothing he could do but call Sam's number again and hope that Stanton would pick up.
She didn't.
He looked down at his watch and felt his stomach drop.
He was three seconds past the deadline.
#
Stanton ended the call to Dean, and Sam craned his head back, trying to read her expression. His side gave a deep, unpleasant, twinge, but he ignored it. It wasn't like there was anything that he could do about it.
"So, what are we going to do now? Chit-chat about the weather?"
She glared at him as she began to pace the length of the bed, her hands twisting together nervously. The phone call with Dean had shaken her.
Sam dropped his head back down, unable to retain the position for long. "Can I ask you something?" he asked, still following the shifter's movements even as he continued to twist his hands in the scarf.
"Can I stop you?" Stanton snapped and Sam almost smiled. He was typically stopped from talking or asking too many questions—usually unpleasantly—in these types of situations, but Stanton wasn't the same as the rest of them.
"Why did you send Dean to Central Park?"
Stanton's lips curled up into a dark smile, and Sam's heart sank.
"Oh, I have a little surprise waiting for him there. You see, there is no phone, but there is a gun taped to the inside of the trashcan. The same gun, in fact, that killed Ambrose. A police officer is also waiting there, seeing as I called in a little tip this morning that someone was coming to pick up an illegal firearm at that location. I gave them Dean's description and everything. That'll keep him busy for a couple of hours."
Sam swore silently, fear tightening his chest. That—that wasn't good. If Dean was arrested then it would only take running his fingerprints for them to figure out who he really was, and that would be bad all around. Sam was in no condition to break his brother out of prison, and that was if Dean wasn't immediately extradited out of New York.
Sam might never see Dean again, not even if survived the death caps.
The thought was like ice in his veins and Sam's breath caught. He still had so much to say to Dean and things that he had to make right. He had been preparing to talk to him, but he hadn't had the chance. Of course, Dean might fight his way out of it without issue, he wouldn't put it past his brother, but he couldn't count on that.
He had to warn Dean. If he could just get ahold of his phone somehow, he could tell him what was about to happen and then Dean could just walk away. No harm, no foul.
Sam only had ten minutes to do it, however, and he glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine and a half minutes, to be more exact, so no pressure or anything.
Schooling his features with effort, Sam looked up at Stanton. "Why not just kill me and leave?" he asked as he twisted his wrist harder, not caring that the fabric was cutting painfully into his skin.
"I can't. I have to know that Dean is in custody before I dare give up you. You're my leverage and about the only thing keeping me alive."
"Okay, then I have another question. Why the mushrooms? Why death caps?"
Sam was genuinely curious about that one as well. He had ideas and theories, but that wasn't the same as cold hard facts and if she was willing to talk, then he wasn't going to turn the chance down, especially if it kept her too busy to notice his attempts to break free.
She pursed her lips and began to pace a tight circle. "Another mistake, I think. I should have just killed you both outright, but I thought that the death caps would be easier. John had been talking about Colombia's project on them, thought that it was interesting. When I overheard you making plans with Monx's secretary at the funeral to meet with him, I thought that it would be the easiest solution. You would both be too sick to come after me while I tried to figure out how to get my vase back."
"Only, Dean didn't eat the mushrooms." Sam smiled at the frown on Stanton's face. "Don't take it personally, Dean's good at screwing up people's best-laid plans. And why the detective? Why Stanton?"
Stanton shrugged, her agitated pacing slowing as she warmed to the subject. "Why not her? That bitch has been a pain in my ass ever since I got here, and I needed to be someone who was in a position of authority so that I could get my vase. Being her meant that I could also keep my eye on you, so, you know, three birds, one stone."
"I get that, but why alert the hospitals to be on the lookout for mushroom poisoning? If you hadn't done that then they wouldn't have caught it when I came in for dehydration. They would have just given me fluids and sent me home. I wouldn't have gone in again until it was too late to do anything about it. In some messed up way, you might have saved my life."
"Oh, please, "Stanton's lip curled up again. "I didn't do it for you. Who knows what kind of damage you could have wrought in the couple of days that you felt fine and this way I knew where you were at and exactly what was happening. The doctors have been giving me daily reports and updates. Dean also was at least half occupied with you, instead of devoting all of his energy to hunting me down. It was an added benefit that because you were involved in a case, I could put every resource of the NYPD to good use. That's how I found out where you were staying."
Sam huhed softly. Put in that light, it did make more sense. Stanton was smart, he'd told Dean as much. "I'll give it to you, it makes sense."
She laughed. "Sense? It made more than sense! It was supposed to be the perfect plan, but you two dumb Winchesters just couldn't leave it alone. Dean just kept pushing and pushing, he wouldn't stop, and now…now I'm being hunted like some common bitch." She forced another laugh, but this time it was higher and less controlled.
Turning abruptly away from him, she crossed to the window and stood there, her back rigid. Sam took advantage of her back being turned to more openly work on freeing himself, tugging urgently against the scarf. He was getting so close, just another—
Stanton turned back around, eyeing him suspiciously, and Sam relaxed, letting his hands hang loosely. He glanced at the clock, and his heart skipped a beat. He only had about five minutes to get free, eliminate Stanton, and call Dean.
After a long moment of staring at him, she turned back to the window, tapping her fingers nervously against her arm.
Throwing caution to the wind, Sam worked his left wrist violently until it abruptly popped free. He slumped back against the pillows in surprise, panting heavily from the exertion. Swallowing back the nausea that was rearing its head again, he glanced back at Stanton as he untangled his other hand and then swiftly tucked them both back into their original position, trying to give the appearance of still being bound.
The scarf was no longer pulled tight and if Stanton gave it more than a passing glance she would know, but it was a risk that he was just going to have to take. His legs weren't going to hold him up long enough to walk across the room, never mind attack Stanton from behind.
He was just going to have to do what he could while lying down.
There was no question of not doing it—for Dean, Sam would be willing to try just about anything—it was just figuring out how.
The fear that kept bubbling up wasn't making it any easier and Sam shifted, trying to push himself more upright in preparation for what was to come. He winced, his side protesting. "So," he began, trying to think of what he could say to bring Stanton closer to him. "You knew that we were trying to trace your phone. You had it turned off for a reason, why did you make that call? It was pathetically dumb."
Stanton turned from the window, glowering at him as she took a step closer. "I took a chance, I was on the phone for less than five minutes and I had to make that call. They wouldn't have picked up for just anyone or any number. I figured either I would get away with it and would be on the next flight to Europe without you knowing better, or…or this would happen. I came here directly after I finished up at my storage unit, and as soon as I saw that Dean was gone, I knew. I knew that he had left to hunt me down, to kill me."
Sam leaned forward, trying to subtly hide his hands with his body. "Dean's not going to get arrested today, he's too smart for you."
Stanton laughed again. "He's an idiot."
"If you think that, then you've already lost," Sam insisted, "and you should know that if I die right now by your hand, then even an airplane trip to Europe won't save you. Dean will hunt you down until either you die, or he does. Is that really how you want to live the rest of your life? As a fugitive? Because that is what is going to happen if you underestimate Dean."
She strode closer, the look of disgust back on her face. "I dislike you, Sam Winchester. And I hope that the death caps kill you slowly and painfully."
"I don't really like you either, so no hard feelings."
She slapped him, hard enough to snap his head to the side, but it was the opening that he had been waiting for.
Pulling his hands free from the scarf, he lunged upwards. Stanton flinched back, her eyes going wide in horrified surprise as Sam wrapped one hand around her face while the other caught her hair. The silver ring he was wearing began to burn and distort the delicate skin across her mouth and she let out a breathy shriek.
Sam yanked her down as hard as he could, rotating her so that her back was pressed against his chest. Wrapping his arm around her throat, he tried to cut off her air supply even as he covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her screams as the ring continued to burn her skin.
Jamming her elbow back, Stanton sank it deep into his bad side. Sam grunted, pain searing through him like a hot poker and he retched weakly on nothing but air.
Taking advantage of his weakness, she squirmed free of his hold around her throat but Sam wasn't letting go completely. Shoving his ring back into her face, he dragged it across her cheek and down the side of her throat before tangling it in her hair and snapping her head down again.
She began to thrash her head wildly and Sam clung desperately to her even as he caught the sleeve of her blouse and dug his fingers into her arm.
His phone began to ring, but both of them ignored it as Stanton tore herself away, leaving several strands of hair in Sam's hand. Lunging towards him, she reached for his throat, her eyes wild, and Sam rolled onto his side, thrusting out his hand to keep her at bay. With an enraged shriek, she dragged the nails of her hand down his arm with all the strength she could muster and Sam hissed as the manicured nails cut through his skin.
In retaliation, he reached up and pressed the ring against the hollow of her throat.
She backed off, collapsing onto her knees and scooting back and out of his reach. One hand came up to cover her now disfigured face and she stared up at him, her eyes wide.
Sam toppled forward to lean on his arm, breathing heavily, and stared right back at her. The fight had not done him any favors, and he had to blink sweat out of his eyes as his heart pounded against his chest. He sank further forward, gasping weakly.
Damnit, he was weak.
Stanton staggered back up onto her feet and Sam watched her carefully. His reflexes were too slow to stop her when she lurched forward, grabbing a fistful of his hair. Yanking his head back, she slammed him face-first into the safety railing.
Warm blood gushed over Sam's lips and chin from his nose and the room tilted alarmingly. "Don't—" Sam got out, trying to reach up to wrap his fingers around her wrist, but Stanton rammed his head against the railing again and everything greyed out.
When he came too, Stanton was reattaching his hands to the railing, trying the scarf tight enough around them that his circulation was cut off.
Taking several steps back, she just stood there, breathing heavily with both hands pressed over her face, trying to hide the bright red, bubbling, scars.
Sam leaned forward, gagging up the blood that had run into the back of his throat from his nose. His stomach lurched, and he retched again, dry-heaving vainly. When he finished, he awkwardly tilted his head forward, trying to keep the blood from running down his throat and from doing a repeat performance.
"I hate you," Stanton whispered thickly, and Sam tried to laugh through his own burgeoning self-reproach. He had failed. He had failed Dean yet again.
"Yeah, a lot of people do."
A tear slipped down her face and she sniffed wetly as she bent, picking up the syringe from where it had fallen onto the floor at some point during their struggle. Sam's breath caught, and he eyed her warily.
"You do that, and you'll never know a moment of peace again," he said quietly.
Her grip tightened around the syringe and her lip wobbled as she tried to blink back more tears.
"I hate you," she repeated before attempting to take a steadying breath. She gingerly wiped at her eyes, hissing as she accidentally brushed damaged skin.
"Fine. Hate me. I don't care, but just leave."
"No." She bent, picking up Sam's phone from where it had fallen under the bed. "First—first I want you to know that I ruined your brother's life. I want you to know that I won. Dean isn't going to pick up, because he can't and you probably know just what that means better than I do." Her voice was trembling, and if it was with fear or rage Sam didn't know.
She hit redial, putting the phone on speaker as it began to ring.
Sam's stomach dropped, his heart clenching with each unanswered ring. If Dean didn't pick up then it would mean that Stanton had won and that Sam had failed.
#
It took Dean an agonizing three minutes to first find the carousel, and then the small path that led to the Alice in Wonderland statue.
By then, he was out of breath, sweating, and reaching new levels of desperation. If Sam died because of him, because he was too stupid to know when to call it quits then Dean would put a bullet in his own head.
Skidding to a stop next to the trashcan, Dean reached through the grating for the duct tape that was holding the phone there.
"FREEZE!"
Dean jumped violently and then froze. He didn't have time for this—whatever it was— and more importantly, Sam didn't.
"Put your hands up where I can see them and turn around!"
Dean slowly raised his hands above his head and turned to find himself face to face with a police officer who had his gun out and pointed right at Dean's chest.
Great.
"Officer, I think that there has been some sort of mistake," Dean said, his mind whirling. He didn't quite know what was happening, but he could make some educated guesses. Once again, he'd been played. "I don't—"
"Back away from the trashcan and the gun," the officer ordered, waving his gun to the side and indicating that Dean should move in that direction.
Dean did as asked, watching the officer carefully. He was already done with this interaction, but he couldn't get out of this quite yet, not without getting shot and that wouldn't do anything to help Sam.
"Get down on the ground, hands behind your head," came the next order and Dean laid down on his stomach, his hands behind his head. A restraining knee was placed on his lower back and he could feel the officer patting down his legs, and then his pockets.
The tension in the air was palpable when the officer found the knife, and Dean winced.
"Look, I can explain that," he said, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice and not sure that he succeeded. "Just let me talk, and I'll explain everything."
"Likely," the cop sneered, tossing the knife far out of Dean's reach and then grabbing his arm, pulling it down so that he could snap a handcuff around it. "You're under arrest, buddy, for buying an illegal firearm and carrying dangerous weapons. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an—"
The officer was reaching for Dean's other wrist and he saw his chance. Rolling hard to the right, he slammed the officer back into the ground and grabbed the gun with his free hand to keep it pointed away from him. Without giving the officer time to recover, he drew back his fist and slammed it into the officer's jaw. All the anger and fear that he had been feeling the last few days went into that punch, and the officer went slack.
"Sorry," Dean muttered, not feeling that sorry at all. Digging the key to the handcuffs out of the officer's belt, he unlocked the one from around his wrist. Dropping them back onto the unconscious officer's chest, he retrieved his knife and tucked it into his pocket.
The bitch. If Stanton thought that arresting him would work, that he wouldn't fight back and do whatever it took to get back to Sam, well, then she had thought wrong.
Moving to the trashcan, he crouched and yanked the duct tape down to find a gun taped to the inside, not a burner phone.
He'd been tricked. Stanton must have tipped off the police that he would be coming, but she should have realized that it wouldn't have stopped Dean. No rookie officer would have been a match for him, not right now. Not with Sam's life on the line.
"Damnit."
Running a hand through his hair, Dean tossed the gun aside and then began to sprint back the way he had come. He had to get back to Sam, and if Stanton was still in the hospital with him, then he had a few things that he was dying to say and do to her.
He was going to rip her limb from limb.
His phone began to ring and Dean glanced down at it.
Sam was calling.
Did he dare hope that Sam had somehow overcome the shifter and was the one on the other end? Sam had gotten so weak, though, could he even—Dean hesitated, and then answered the phone.
"Sam?" he barked.
A disappointed sigh was the only thing that he heard over the line and Dean's lip curled. Not Sam, then. "Nice trick you played there, bitch. Did you really think that it would work? That one cop could take me out? Well, guess what? I'm coming for you."
Stanton's voice had a hard edge when she finally spoke. "Do you both think that I'm playing some sort of game? That there aren't consequences to your actions? I don't like killing people, but I will. I will kill Sam, I will kill him—I will make both of you suffer for what you did to me."
Something had changed since the last time he had talked to Stanton, and he didn't think that it had been for the better.
"Don't you dare hurt Sam," he growled.
"Oh, I'll do more than hurt him. I still have the poison so give it ten minutes and you won't have a little brother anymore."
"You do that, and I'll make you suffer in ways that you can't even imagine."
Stanton laughed deliriously, and there was none of the clear superiority that had been there before. It was filled with pain and Dean hoped to hell that Sam hadn't done anything stupid, that he hadn't tried to play the hero or anything, because if he had, if he had put his own life at risk…
"I'm done playing games, Dean. You had your chance to let him walk away unscathed."
Dean shook his head and poured every ounce of loathing and anger into his next words. "You do anything to him, and I'll hunt you down. Even after you die, you won't be safe from me. I've been to Purgatory, I will find you there, and I will kill you again so walk away right now if you know what is good for you."
"You bastard."
"That's right. I'm a bastard and a son of a bitch, but I'll be the son of a bitch that kills you."
"Dean, stop!"
Sam's voice came through muffled by distance but there was no mistaking the hoarse pain there, nor the gasped breaths, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut. Sam was in a hostage situation, and he was mouthing off, what in the hell was he thinking?
"Don't do anything stupid," Dean tried, the anger taking a backseat to the fear. His brother was more important to him than winning, more important than killing Stanton. "Look, leave Sam alone and I promise you that I won't hunt you down. I won't look for you again, just get out." Just don't hurt Sam.
Stanton was silent for a second, but it felt like an eternity to Dean, his chest tightening with so much more than the physical exertion of running.
"No. No, I don't trust you. You really are just a bastard. No matter what I do or what you say, you're going to hunt me down." The anger was now mixed with hopelessness and Dean knew that they were royally screwed, that Stanton wasn't going to let Sam go. She was going to kill him, and Dean was going to hear it over the phone and there wasn't going to be a thing that he could do about it.
"Please, don't." Dean hated begging, it made him feel small and inadequate, but for Sam, he could do just about anything. "Don't do it. I promise that I'll talk it through with you, that I'll let you go. Just, don't hurt Sam. Please."
Stanton wasn't listening to him, and there were sounds of movement over the phone. Dean could hear Sam protesting, and then cursing.
"Don't, please—" Dean repeated around the lump in his throat, his voice coming out all wrong. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
"You have ten minutes, Dean, and then Sam will be dead. You can try and get here to see him one last time, or you can come after me. The choice is up to you. And, because you're as thick as a brick wall, I'll give you some help to make the right decision. Enjoy listening to his last moments. Au revoir, Dean Winchester."
The phone was jostled, and he could hear Sam's voice growing steadily louder as the phone was brought closer to his mouth. "You're going to regret this, trust me. That was a mistake."
Dean's heart was about to snap in half.
Was this how he was going to get to say goodbye? No. This wasn't how it was ending. It couldn't be, he refused to believe it. He was already pushing himself to his limit, but he tried to force himself to run faster, to move quicker.
He would save Sam, he wasn't going to let him die.
"Dean?" Sam raised his voice, but it sounded strained.
"I'm here! Save your strength, don't yell, I can hear you fine." Dean skidded to a stop as the path branched, trying to figure out the quickest way to get back to the hospital. Damn Central Park and its intersecting paths.
"I'm sorry," Sam said, his voice soft and apologetic, "There wasn't anything that I could do. Stanton injected the syringe into my IV."
"So pull the damn thing out. Sam, we have time, you just have to do something. Is she gone?" Dean cut across a large swatch of grass and to the exit that was just ahead. He'd thought he had screwed everything up when he got to the supposed phone late but this…this was so much worse.
"Yeah, she left, but I'm tied up and I can't… I can't pull free, okay?" Sam sounded ashamed and Dean shook his head. Sam didn't have a single damn reason to be ashamed.
"Okay, I'm coming. I'm getting there as fast as I can, but you've got to yell for help. Get someone else in there."
Sam wasn't listening to him. "Dean, she's running scared. You might still be able to catch her. She is going to the airport sooner rather than later, and she let slip that she is going to Europe. That means that she's headed for the JFK airport. You can still catch her if you get a taxi, you can wait for her to show up. Or use an FBI badge to get in, watch the security cameras—"
"Shut up. I'm not worried about that. I'm coming for you. Talk to me, tell me how you are feeling."
Sam was silent a moment, and Dean's heart skipped a beat.
"Tired. But Dean, I know how much this means to you, if she gets away now then it will be almost impossible to find her. You have—"
"No, Sammy," Dean broke him off again, panting hard. "No, I'm not doing that." The anger that had been carrying him all week had deserted Dean, and there was nothing but fear left. If it was a choice between Sam and Stanton…well, it wasn't much of a choice, not for him. It never had been.
Dean would willingly let her go a hundred times over if it meant keeping Sam alive.
Sam made a small sound on the other line and Dean squeezed his eyes closed, before forcing them open again.
"Dean, I'm not…she injected it into my IV. It's already in my bloodstream. Just go. It's fine, I'm okay with it."
Dean's breath caught in what felt horribly like a sob. This couldn't be happening. "No, Sammy. Just no. You try and yell for help. You get a nurse in there or someone and I'll be there as soon as I can," he repeated dumbly. Did Sam think that Dean would just chase after the shifter and leave him behind to die? To die alone?
Sam didn't try, Dean would have heard him.
"Sammy? You still with me?"
"Dean?" Sam somehow managed to slur the word and Dean hated everything about this.
"Hold on, man, just stay with me. I'm almost there, I can see the hospital, so you hold on. Don't go to sleep, you hear me? Sam?"
"If this is it," Sam began, his voice thick and his words getting harder to discern, "then let me go. Not like…not like Purgatory. Sorry about that. About Purgatory."
"Damnit, Sam." Dean shook his head. He wasn't having this conversation over the phone. He wasn't having it, period. "Stop that right now. You're freaking me out. You're not dying, all you have to do is stay awake. You stay with me, you hear!"
"Trying to," Sam said, and even though his voice was faint there was a note of frustration and defiance there. That tone had always made their father angry—Dean too sometimes if he was being honest—but right now he couldn't be happier to hear it.
"You do that. We can even count if you want. Do you remember that? From when we were kids?"
"Don't need to count, jerk." Sam snorted, his breaths hitching audibly over the line. There was so much packed into that one word, so many ups and downs, and love, and Dean couldn't do this.
"Bitch," he forced out, willing for the one word to carry it all back to Sam. How much he loved him and needed Sam to fight. Sam had to fight because Dean couldn't do this alone.
Sam was silent on the other end and Dean tried to swallow back his fear. He was losing him.
"Sam? What's going on? Talk to me!"
"Dean?" Sam sounded so young right then, young and scared. Like he was a kid again and waking Dean up because he couldn't sleep.
"I'm right here, Sammy, I'm here." Sam didn't answer, and Dean cursed. "You've got to answer me, dude. C'mon."
He could hear Sam's raspy breathing, but that was it.
No, no, no, no. This couldn't be happening.
"SAM!" he yelled, drawing on every ounce of fear that he was feeling to make the word carry.
He had reached the hospital, but he was going to be too late.
Bursting through the entrance, he yanked open the side door that led to the stairs and began to take them two at a time. He'd made this same journey only yesterday and had sworn to not leave his brother again. Why hadn't he listened to himself? What had he done?
The fifth floor seemed to take forever to reach, and when he rounded the bend that led to Sam's room it was empty. His heart sank. Why weren't their people there helping Sam? He needed help, he needed doctors.
Shoving his way into the door, Dean felt his breath catch as he stumbled to a halt.
Sam was just… lying there.
His hands had been tied tight enough to the safety rail that they were dusky purple from lack of circulation, and blood had gathered on the bedding from the deep scratches on his arm and from his nose. Dark bruises were already starting to form across his forehead.
He wasn't moving. His eyes were closed, his whole body lax.
"Sammy?" Dean barked, ending the call as he strode forward and non to gently ripped the IV from his brother's arm, sending a fresh dribble of blood down and onto the blankets. It was probably too late to matter, but if it gave Sam even the slightest chance then Dean would take it.
Grasping Sam's shoulder, he shook him roughly. "SAM! Wake up!"
Nothing was happening. Sam wasn't stirring, his body rolling limply as Dean shook him again.
Fumbling for the call button, Dean pressed it frantically as he looked around at the various monitors. Sam's heart rate was slower than normal, and he was pulling in air like there wasn't quite enough.
He jammed his thumb into the call button again, yelling as he did so. "HEY! I NEED SOME HELP IN HERE!"
Sam didn't even twitch at the sound, his head lolling listlessly as Dean shook him uselessly again. Gritting his teeth, Dean rubbed his knuckles hard against Sam's sternum, but nothing happened. "Sammy? C'mon, Sam, wake up. Don't do this to me, man. You know that I'm no good on my own. C'mon."
He couldn't swallow past the fear and grief that were invading him, and there were tears in his eyes. He placed two fingers against Sam's throat, feeling his sluggish pulse for himself before dropping his hand down to curl up in the shoulder of the hospital gown.
"C'mon, buddy. Wake up."
Sam still wasn't moving, and where the hell was the hospital staff?
He pummeled the call button again. "HEY! I NEED HELP!"
He checked his watch, glancing back around again at the various monitors. The ten minutes were up. Shouldn't…shouldn't Sam be dead by now? Shouldn't he be in more distress than he was? Shouldn't he be dying?
Faint and painful rose the first dregs of hope. Maybe he hadn't killed his brother. Maybe Sam would still make it out of this alive. Maybe this had been one last trick to get him away from Stanton and it hadn't actually been a poison. He'd play the fool until the day he died as long as Sam lived.
Closing his eyes, Dean offered up a silent prayer to Cas even as he smoothed Sam's hair back and away from his face.
Please let it not have been poison. Please, please, let him wake up again.
The door opened behind him and Dean half turned. "Help him!" he ordered of an unfamiliar nurse. She stared at Sam, her eyes growing wide with shock as she took in his condition.
"What happened?" she asked in disbelief and Dean gestured pointedly at Sam.
"Help him, something's wrong. He's not waking up," he insisted even as she continued to stare, slack-jawed, at the ropes and blood. "Yeah, someone attacked him and now he's not waking up. Do something."
That broke the nurse out of her shock and into action. She hurried forward, pulling on a pair of blue latex gloves and ordering as she did so. "Go find another nurse and DeCary, get them in here asap, and have someone call for security."
Dean hesitated, unwilling to leave Sam, but she turned a hot glare on him. "Go!" she ordered and he tore himself away.
It didn't take him long to find another nurse, and then Dr. DeCary, who simply looked confused at the story that Dean was fumbling to get out. The wild panic in his eyes must have come through crystal clear, however, because he turned on his heel and began to run towards Sam's room.
Dean followed.
Dr. DeCary came to a stunned halt as they entered the room, his face paling dramatically.
The nurses were working together, one cutting the scarf from around Sam's hands while the other inserted another IV in, this time going straight for the jugular.
Dean felt sick. "You have to do something, he's not waking up," he demanded hoarsely, gesturing uselessly at Sam.
"What…?" Dr. DeCary asked, looking over at Dean, but he wasn't in the mood to explain anything and just pointed at Sam.
"Help him."
Dr. DeCary shook himself, moving forward.
One of the nurses leaned in, stopping him and picking something up from the little rolling table.
"We found this in here, it's not one of ours. We think that whoever attacked him must have injected this into his IV. Thing is, they didn't inject all of it. There is some that we can test," Dean heard her say in a low whisper and looked down to see her holding a syringe.
Dr. DeCary grew even paler if that was possible but he didn't outwardly panic as he moved in behind Sam's bed and unlocked the wheels.
"Lisa, go ahead and get that down to the lab asap," he began to order briskly. The first nurse nodded, striding purposefully from the room even as Dr. DeCary began to push the bed. Dean jumped forward to help, but Dr. DeCary shook his head.
"Stay here, do not leave this room until someone has come to get you. I'm taking Sam to testing."
"But—"
He didn't give Dean a moment to protest as he pushed the bed through the door.
Dean didn't even get the chance to say goodbye before Sam had been whisked down the hallway.
He stood in the room, feeling helplessly alone.
That didn't last long as Dean found himself first answering questions from hospital security and administrators, and then later the police officers who had been called in.
When they showed up, he had half wondered if they would be here to arrest him for what had happened in Central Park, but they didn't mention it and he wasn't about to bring it up.
It took over an hour, and Dean found himself answering the same questions again and again.
No, he hadn't seen what had happened. He'd gone for a walk to clear his head and to get some coffee. No, he didn't know why someone would do this, or why they would want to hurt Sam. No, Sam didn't have any known enemies.
The questions then turned to Detective Stanton, who had been seen going into Sam's room by both Dr. DeCary and the security cameras.
Yes, he had met with Detective Stanton a few times. No, he didn't know why she had done what she had. He and Sam were completely innocent.
After that, he was free to return to Sam's room.
It was still empty.
The hospital equipment was silent, and various supplies were scattered across the floor, attesting to the haste with which Sam had been pulled out.
Blood spotted the floor near where the bed had been, and Deans stared at it.
Why hadn't he left Stanton alone? Sam had tried to tell him that he was pushing too hard, that the shifter was going to snap and push back, but he just hadn't cared. What kind of John Winchester mentality had gone into this hunt? Had he truly been more concerned with getting the shifter than with helping Sam, than with keeping him safe?
He had sworn that he would never emulate that side of his father.
As soon as Sam had been threatened, he should have backed down. Sam was more important to him than any hunt ever would be. He was more important than revenge or the death of some shifter.
If Sam died, if it had been poison. If it wasn't something that the doctors could fix…
Dean blinked back the tears and ran both hands through his hair.
This was all screwed up, and he had no one to blame but himself.