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After two heartbeats of terror, Michiko told herself they couldn’t pick up the FBI on that scanner. She thanked God and hoped like hell whoever was in charge on their end wasn’t relaying info to the cops. Last thing she needed was for the bureau’s plan of action to be blasted all over the airwaves.
“Careful with that taco, Henry Ray!” Rachel snapped sharply, and the small car swerved. Three male voices yelped in protest, but if she cared, she didn’t let on. “You get that shit all over my car and I’ll make you suck it up with a straw! Through your nose!”
Everything came back to Michiko in an awful rush at that hated nasal voice, and Michiko was engulfed in fury.
The fucking bitch had trapped her. Hidden that asshole—Master Lee, or whatever the hell his real name was—in her bathroom then ambushed her.
And Michiko had been cocky and so sure of herself. Now look where the hell that had gotten her. She called herself twelve kinds of an idiot and tried to come up with a plan of action.
Every inch of her body hurt. Whatever they had done to her while she’d been unconscious hadn’t been nice. She froze as she inventoried her body for every woman’s worst pain—their worst fear. Thankfully, the only thing Michi felt between her legs was an insane urge to pee. It was every other inch of her that ached. She imagined the asshole wanted her awake the first time he raped her.
“If you’da let somebody else drive, sheesh!” the strange voice grumbled.
“My car, I drive,” she snapped back and jerked the car again so hard Michiko almost rolled over onto her face. That wouldn’t be good. She’d suffocate for sure in this stupid rubber mummy suit.
“Just take it easy ,at least,” that first strange voice she was quickly coming to despise said. “Be pretty stupid getting nabbed ‘cuz you cain’t drive fer shit. Speakin’ a’ which, you switched out them plates right, Robby boy?” A heartbeat of silence hung in the car where she assumed Robby boy swallowed.
“’Course I did,” came his soft reply, then she heard another loud crunch and the car was filled with the rather revolting sound and stench of drive-through Mexican food being consumed by people with the manners of barn animals.
“Get up.”
Light cut across Sam’s eyes and he groaned. Kimberly squeaked and tried to burrow under him like a field mouse and Dean, his shell-shocked partner, was on his feet and armed by the time Cas turned on the switch.
Cas wasn’t any more concerned than Sam was about Dean’s gun. His nudity, however…
“For God’s sake, naked!?” He turned away with a sound of disgust, picked up the first piece of clothing he could find, and tossed it blind over his shoulder. More followed as he spoke to the floor, flipping whatever came to hand over his head. “What if there’s a fire or, I don’t know, an emergency like your boss needs to come and drag your asses out of bed?” The last of the clothes landed somewhere on the littered bedspread and Cas stomped to the door. “You’ve got five to shower so make it quick.”
Sam blearily looked at his cell on the nightstand, then double-checked the wall clock. He rubbed his face. “Well, you know the saying. If you’re not an hour and a half early for work, you’re late.”
“Michiko.” Kimberly’s voice was a soft alto amidst the sheets, a sad and somber tumble of three syllables that stilled the very air in the room.
Sam ran a soothing hand over her side before he pushed from the bed.
“He’s got something,” Sam told her. “It has to be why he’s here. Let’s go see.” He and Dean locked eyes.
Dean was still pointing his Glock at the empty doorway where Cas had just exited; the two shared a long silent look.
He’d need to talk. They both would. Neither of them were for the death penalty and when maximum force was used in the field as it had been earlier, it hit them both hard. Dean liked to act as if water rolled right off his back, but as Sam looked his best friend in the eye, he knew Dean had left a part of his soul in those woods and there would be no getting it back. He’d been altered; it was up to Sam and Kimberly now to help Dean heal the wounds the day had ripped into his soul.
“The stupid bastardshaven’t even changed out the plates.” Cas didn’t wait for pleasantries, nor had he waited for an invitation to help himself, Sam noticed. Cas was at the stove, flipping cakes on the griddle like a fry cook while sausage sizzled away. He saw Sam smirking when he looked over his shoulder and stabbed Sam’s favorite pancake turner at the coffee pot. “Grab a cup. This is fastest and anyone who wants eggs is outta luck. You guys are out.” Hot cakes turned as coffee poured and Cas kept talking.
“We got a line on Bradshaw’s Chevrolet Spark hatchback on I-fifteen into the same damn mountains. Idiots.” He filled plates and handed them off, but he neither took a seat nor made a dish for himself. Sam took a closer look at a man he considered his friend on top of being the best leader he’d ever worked under. Cas appeared haggard and more worn than Sam ever remembered seeing him. He wondered, not for the first time, why Michiko had been brought into the case. Then he wondered what was going to happen if they didn’t get their agent back alive.
Sam shuddered at the thought and turned back to the conversation. Something occurred to him.
“Maybe not idiots,” he said aloud. “Or, well, okay, maybe three idiots and one scared kid who’s still trying to do the right thing?” The men stilled and Kimberly looked around, clearly waiting for an explanation.
“Robin, AKA, Robby boy,” Dean finally said on an exhale with a forkful of pancake in one cheek. He chewed, took a swig of coffee, and motioned for Sam to fill Kimberly in. She put her hand over Dean’s left one on the counter and their fingers interlaced. Sam took heart in that. Dean might not be up to talking, but he was accepting the comfort and love that was offered; that was enough—for now.
“The officer who left me uncuffed was Robin. He asked me to stop his uncle before he left. You guys know this wasn’t an accident that those plates are still on the car. He’s a cop—that would’ve been the first thing they would’ve done.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Cas agreed. Sam saw the fatigue and worry etched in every line of his face and wondered when he’d slept last.
“If they’re headed back into those mountains, there are a million caves they could slither into. Not to mention, the Hillbillies from Hell might have another uncharted cabin up there, too.” He took a swig of his coffee, turned, poured himself another and took a glug of the black and scalding brew before he faced them again. Sam grimaced. No wonder the man always looked so haggard and crestfallen—he drank sadness and anger for breakfast. Sam took a drink of his properly creamed and sugared coffee and felt pity for his friend’s palate.
“The thing is,” Cas told them, “I don’t think they are going back to the mountains. Now that we got Bradshaw and the cops, we’ve got lines we can follow back to other family, schools. I think the mountains are going to be a bust.”
“Then why the hell are we eating pancakes an hour and a half before work?” Dean asked his plate, but his usual good humor crept under the ring of frustration. Kimberly chuckled and rubbed his back. Sam loved the way she was always touching them. The way it soothed Dean was as obvious in the way his partner pressed into her caress, as if he were a cat she was stroking.
