Fic: With Empty Hands Extended 1/5

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Title: With Empty Hands Extended
Author: stangerine88
Recipient: hardlygolden
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Swearing, violence, death of minor original characters. Spoilers for Season Four Episodes 4.19-4.22. This is an AU from the events of 4.19: Jump The Shark.
Author's Notes: This was in no way supposed to be such a huge fic. 10K in I had to admit defeat and let the idea write itself. Thanks a bunch to my beta, loolookitty for fixing up this monster of a fic in record time! Thanks to ofthisangel for listening to be bitch, rant, moan and sulk about this thing too. She puts up with me for my candiez, I think. Lastly, thanks to the mods for all their hard work!

Summary:  It's simple really- Adam lives. Sam and Dean teach their brother a few things to keep him that way, but the Apocalypse looms and everyone, hunter or not, must prepare.


With Empty Hands Extended

Adam stops screaming for help- his voice ripped hoarse and raw- when he hears the telltale clatter of falling rocks. Oh God. It’s coming back.

The thick scent of musk and decayed flesh coats the inside of his throat as Adam strains to hear anything- something- move outside the casket he’s locked in. His lungs ache with the effort of yelling and the thin, light feel of the air. He’s running out of oxygen. Good, maybe he won’t feel a thing when they eat him.

The three perfect slashes, each one straight and uniform on both of his wrists, sting as he flexes his hands. His mind feels hazy and dull from blood loss. Adam remembers how he’d come home, frantic and sick with worry, only to find his mom and Officer Barton standing in his kitchen; the horrible feeling of wrong that kept his heart beat at maximum, even as they tried to tell him it’s all just a big misunderstanding.

Damn right, it’s a big misunderstanding- Adam’s pretty sure his mother isn’t a cannibal.

It- they- dragged him down here as far as Adam can remember with a throbbing knot just behind his temple. He didn’t wake up until they had started cutting.

Adam’s never seen that much blood.

Outside the enclosed darkness, he hears another click of rocks and dirt sliding down to bounce on the crypt’s floor. This place never used to be so fucking scary- he remembers high school and stumbling down the tunnels with Josh and Kara and Anthony and Melissa with a dusty, half-empty bottle of his mother’s tequila, drinking until he was sure he would glow with the warmth in his belly.

He’s so damn cold now.

It staggers closer, kicking loose debris out of the way and this is it, Adam’s going to die.

His fingers dig around in the slime and dirt for some kind of weapon, anything to defend himself- Adam’s defeated but he’s not dead yet a part of his mind shouts. Even if he can’t survive this fucked up Stephan King novel he’s trapped in, he can damn well take whatever had slaughtered and eaten his mom out of this world with him.

Its boots tap against the crypt’s floor, so close Adam can feel the echoes bounce in the air around him. There’s a dull thunk and a bitten off curse and through the panic he wants to laugh hysterically. Did it really just trip over something? That’s a first.

He listens to it fumble with the latch to the coffin, his heart trying to break his ribs as he waits for the top to snap open. He trembles with tension when the lid of the next coffin over- the one holding the twisted, scavenged remains of his mother- creaks open instead.

“Oh, you son of a BITCH!” It snarls in a voice Adam doesn’t know. There’s no time to analyze it as the footsteps halt just outside his coffin and the lid flies open.

A bright light nearly blinds him, and Adam yells, striking out towards it, furious and terrified and hopeless. He hits flesh, feeling the answering pain in his fist as it staggers back with a muffled curse.

Adam sits up, ignoring the way the crypt spins and his stomach tries to rebel. He swallows quickly, breathing in through his nose, out of his mouth to quell the urge. He hasn’t eaten in what feels like days- there’s nothing to come up but stomach acid and terror.

It’s dressed like a stranger- tall and pissed off as the flashlight in its hand jerks around the room like a spotlight. Why it has a light, Adam’s not sure; he knows for a fact it can see in the dark.

The only thing his hands could find in his prison was the long, stained end of a broken off femur. He wields it like a sword or a spear, thrusting it out in front of him.

His throat burns in protest as he shouts, “stay away!”

There’s a gun in its other hand, cocked and ready for use and the sight of it chills Adam’s blood. I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, gonnadiegonnadiegonnadie-

The flashlight shines into his face as it freezes and asks, “Adam?”

The thing takes a halting step forward as he tries to back up against the dirty wall, ignoring its question. He’s not going to play this sick game anymore.

Its eyes flicker back and forth between the bone in his hand and his face before the sight of full-blown panic makes Adam drop his bone, just an inch or so.

“Adam, what happened? How long have you been down here?” It asks, some kind of low southern accent making the words all roll together. Adam opens his mouth to tell the creature to fuck off when it asks a question that completely stumps him. “Where’s Sam?”

“I don’t know anyone named Sam, you disgusting son of a bitch! Stay back!” He shouts, pulling his legs out and over the edge of the coffin as it steps closer. Its eyes are wide and blown dark in the shadows of the crypt as Adam tries to pull himself over the edge of the rotten wood and splits open his scabbed wrists instead.

It feels like someone zapped him with a live wire, the pain bringing him to his knees. The monster darts forward, catching Adam before he hits the floor, wedging the gun and the flashlight up under the soft, hollow dip of his armpits.

The urge to cry makes his eyes and throat ache and Adam doesn’t even try to stop the tears, the hopelessness of it all an unmanageable weight on his shoulders. He pulls against the hold dragging him across the room because no matter how inevitable it is, Adam doesn’t want to die.

“No, no, get off me.” He snarls desperately.

It tenses up and mutters an astonished, “Fuck, it was never you.”

Adam sniffles, waiting for the sting of teeth but it backs up, letting him get his feet. Adam shakes with the effort of trying to stand on his own as the creature puts its hands up, pointing the flashlight and the gun at the ceiling in the universal ‘I surrender’ pose.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Adam laughs at that, dark and bitter and just a bit too hysterical. He’s still got the bone clenched in his left hand. It makes him feel like an idiot when the light glints off the shiny metal of the gun.

“Right,” he finally replies, “you’re just going to bleed me dry and chew the flesh from my bones as I die. Sounds awesome.”

“Fucking song of a bitch,” It spits before nodding at the coffin behind Adam. “You saw what happened to your mom?” He doesn’t look; he’s not sure if it’s just a trick-if it’ll get him when he looks away.

He really doesn’t want to see what’s left of his mother.

“You were there!” He reminds it, swallowing down bile at the memory. “Made me watch as you did that-“

“Listen, kid I’m not the monster who hurt you or your mother,” It says, interrupting him. “Hell, up until about five minutes ago I was pretty damn sure you were topside with my brother.”

Adam shifts at that. He’s an only child but he’s pretty sure monsters don’t have siblings.

…Right?

The thing sighs, tucking the flashlight under its arm to reach under its shirt. Adam tenses but it only tosses a knife at his feet. Adam just stares at it.

“That’s a silver knife. If I wanted to kill you and munch on your tasty insides would I really give you a weapon?” It asks, almost sarcastic.

Adam shrugs, keeping his eyes and his pointy bone on it as he slowly crouches down to pick up the knife. “Why can’t I have the gun?”

It….he huffs with dark amusement. “Because of the two of us, I’m only sure I’m not the man-eating monster here, but if it’ll make you feel better…”

He clicks the safety on and tucks the gun into his belt, lifting the empty hand to give it a patronizing shake at Adam.

It’s a crazy kind of logic that automatically sets him at ease. Adam feels better with the knife in one hand and the bone in the other; even if he knows that the gun in the man’s belt could take him out quicker than quick.

The man’s mouth dips into a hard line. “How long have you been down here? Did you call John Winchester’s old cell number?”

Adam nearly drops the knife at the mention of his dad. He shakes his head, regretting it as the crypt spins again. “I- I got here on the third. My mom was missing.”

“Crap,” the man says, rubbing his head tiredly, “it’s the seventh today. We got your call on the fourth.”

Four days. Fours days he’s been down here, just waiting to die. It doesn’t seem long enough. “I didn’t call him. I didn’t even think to.”

“Yeah, well I know that. Now.” The man says before shrugging his shoulders and sending Adam a cynical smirk. “I’m here to rescue you by the way.”

Bang up job Adam thinks before pointing out, “I’m still here.”

“That would be because the tunnel caved in about fifteen minutes ago, thanks to things that killed your mom.”

The very air around them seems to get thin and precious at those words- Adam can see the man’s not lying- there’s no sign of light seeping in down the once-familiar entrance.

He jerks back to stare at the man, tightening his grip on the bone and knife as he asks, “things?” There’s nothing quite as scary in the world as having your worst fears confirmed.

The guy blinks, an almost sheepish expression crossing over his face. “Oh, man. I keep forgetting you haven’t heard the ‘Monsters are real and we kill them’ speech from Sammy yet. Good thing, I need to work on his delivery.” He grins. “I’m Dean.”

“Adam.” He replies automatically, before remembering Dean already knew that. His mind is going a hundred miles a minute. “Wait, did you just say that those things are up there? Outside? What are they?”

“Ghouls.” He says cheerfully, like Adam’s whole world hasn’t just turned on its axis. “They like to snack on dead human flesh. It’s not too often they go for the lives ones. I’m guessing our- someone must have pissed them off.”

Adam shakes his head at the overload of information. He can’t think properly down here in the dark. He misses the sun like some kind of co-dependant plant during the winter. Not enough Vitamin D to function properly.

The knowledge that there are things in the world that would like to eat him doesn’t help.

“How do we get out of here?”

Dean gestures to the roof where a huge window sits over the stone slab in the middle of the crypt. “Up’s the way to go- first we gotta take care of those arms.”

Adam hadn’t noticed the fine lines of syrup-sticky blood dripping down to stain the floor. He tosses the grimy bone, shuffling forward with the knife instead. He figures if Dean’s really a ghoul- oh my god- then at least he’ll be close enough for Adam to hit something vital.

Did ghouls even have vital organs? He’s obviously been taking the wrong anatomy classes.

“Okay.”

Dean rips off his over shirt, easily tearing the cotton into strips. Adam’s knuckles are white around the handle of the knife as he watches as the guy folds a chunk of the ruined shirt over the cuts on Adam’s wrists and tie them in place with a few of the leftover strips.

He thinks this is what convinces him that Dean’s a person and not it- not a monster. They had laughed in his ears with rotting breath and bloody lips that dead meat tastes so much better. They had never tried to help him.

He looks ridiculous when they’re done, huge puffs of cotton at his wrists, but Dean’s eyes are sharp and proud as he gives the ragged strips one more tug. Adam twitches as he watches him casually wipe his bloody hands in his dark, dusty pants.

“Now, what do you say we get out of this slightly creepy hole in the ground?”

Adam has no arguments.

&&&

They stumble out into the daylight, tired and dirty and full of relief. Adam’s eyes burn with the sting of temporary photophobia- too much light after days in nothing but darkness and shadows.

Dean grabs his elbow, flashing a short sympathetic smile his way.

“I know your walking wounded here, champ but my brother is a sitting duck out there, playing Karate Kid with something wearing your face.” He searches Adam’s face for something- agreement perhaps- as he asks, “Think you can survive a little bit longer?”

He nods, nearly tripping over a grassy knoll towards-
“That’s my dad’s car!”

Dean closes his eyes like the world just got three times more complicated. Adam’s too tired and shaky to run but before he knows it the smooth, sun-warmed metal is under his hands and he feels safe again.

His Dad’s here.

The jangle of keys startles him out of his quiet, happy daydream. Dean’s at the driver’s side, head down as he unlocks the door and the bottom drops out of Adam’s stomach.

Dean glances up, his face unreadable. “Get in. I’ve got to get to Sam.”

Adam’s ass hits the seat before he can think to question it.

The impala is just like he remembers it, only not. Not really. Everything’s newer than when he sat behind the wheel, hands at ten and two as he drove down the straight back roads behind his house. John had sat where he is now, calmly barking out advice and pointers like the car was his kid and not Adam.

He’d have never sold it for anything in the world.

“How do you know my father?”

The impala rumbles under them for a moment before Dean answers, guarded and confidently evasive all at once.

“We worked together a lot. He was a hunter, like me.”

“Was?” A hunter?

One little word, uttered without thought if Dean’s face is anything to go on, and he’s an orphan.

Adam swallows down the grief, his eyes wet and heavy, his breath coming too quick and he needs to ask, needs to know how, when.

“What- how’d he-“

“Jesus, kid one revelation at a time, okay?” Dean snaps, a tick in his jaw. He grips the steering wheel tightly, working the leather like it’s the gas on a dirt bike. Like he wants to get away from Adam and his questions.

Maybe- maybe they were close; Dean and his dad.

Adam can’t shake the idea that there’s a sea of guilt there in the no man’s land Dean’s made of the memory of John Winchester.

The silence is a heavy, disappointed presence, like the shadow of a man sitting secretly in the backseat.

&&&

Adam finds the telephone number one day when his mom’s at work. He’s snooping for birthday presents, looking for receipts of things he knows his mom could buy and easily hide at a neighbor’s house.

Instead, Adam finds an old, crinkled piece of paper with the name John Winchester scrawled over the nine-digit cell phone number. He touches the age smooth edges with the tips of his fingers and digs farther into the false bottom of the drawer. He finds a picture, grainy and gray from the ink of the paper press of a newspaper, of a man with his nose and chin.

This is John Winchester, he thinks in awe, trying to pick out more details in the pixelated dots of the image- this is my father.

He hides the picture and the number under his pillow for three weeks, plucking up the courage to make the call himself- to see if this is real.

Kate finds the papers before he gets home from school one day. Adam walks into his room to find her clutching a pair of dirty socks in one hand and the phone number in the other. Her lips press into a hard line but Adam can see the tears in her eyes. She’s angry- duh- but she’s too sad to yell.

“I just want to meet him, Mom.”

“No.” Kate’s never spoken to him like that, so final and authoritative. Adam chafes under the idea that she can keep them apart.

“I’ll call him anyway.” He promises, even as she takes the number with her when she leaves. He’s had it memorized since that first night. She freezes at the door, the paper crumpled in her hand.

“Adam, John’s not the man you think he is,” she says softly, “He can’t be here like you want; he can’t be the father than you want.”

“Does he even know about me, mom?” He asks, desperate and desolate. “What did he say when you told him?”

Kate looks like someone punched her, paled-faced and breathless. She crosses the room to kneel in front of him, the paper crinkling against his thin shoulders.

“I couldn’t- I never-“

He feels loads older than just twelve when he takes her face in his hands and asks, “Don’t you think it’s about time you called him?”

Part Two