Paper Tiger

By Ridley C. James, September 2007

Beta: Tidia

Disclaimer: Nothing Supernatural belongs to me sadly. If it did I’d leave things along.
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Chapter 2/11
"It is not part of a true culture to tame tigers, any more than it is to make sheep ferocious." -Thoreau

“What about Caleb?” John turned to Mackland again. “He has a bond with the boys. We made sure of that. He knew they were sick last week and called. Wouldn’t he know they were in trouble?”

Ames ran a finger over his eyebrow. “His abilities are not always predictable, Johnathan. He’s still coming into them.” Mackland had no intentions of pushing his son’s training. Honestly, he was frightened that he might push his son over some invisible edge. “The nightmare he had last week wasn’t exactly a premonition.” Caleb hadn’t gone into details, only telling his father it was not a vision. It had shaken the teen enough to warrant a call home from Auburn. Sometimes Mackland feared John expected too much from all the boys. “But I tried calling him as I know you did and got his voicemail.” Mackland looked to Bobby. “Have you tried Fisher?”

Singer nodded, finishing off a sugar cookie in the shape of a reindeer. He dusted crumbs from his hands. “Got his voicemail, too. But that’s not unusual. They were going after a wood troll. Furry, bridge-dwelling bastards are mean sonsofbitches. Hearing like a bat. A hunter has to be damn careful around them.”

“Who’s back-up on it?” John inquired.

“Silas.”

“We may need to call him in.” Jim spoke up. “We’ll have him meet up with Fisher, finish the job if he needs to. I want Caleb here, with us.”

They had decided to meet at Jim Murphy’s farm. It was not the homecoming the pastor had planned.

Despite the twinkling Christmas lights on the tree and the overflow of presents beneath the fragrant Blue Spruce, the moment held anything but joy. The air was heady with tension and fear. Jim decided the discussion called for his ‘special’ recipe of eggnog, the one with a dash of Christmas spirit and a whole hell of a lot of his homebrew.

“Tell us again, Johnathan.” Mackland Ames leaned across the oak table.

“Damn it, Mac!” Winchester slid a hand over his beard. John was tired of wasting time. He was never one to sit around. He needed action. He needed to feel like he was ‘doing’ something to help his sons. “I’ve told you already. I came home; there was no sign of them. No signs of a struggle. No sulfur or resonance of spiritual activity. The EMF showed shit. If there were footprints or tire tracks they were covered by new snowfall.”

“Can’t you get anything off their stuff, Mac?” Bobby Singer asked, taking the glass of eggnog Jim offered him. Murphy had called the mechanic as soon as he had heard from John and he had made his way to Kentucky. “You usually can come up with something with that psychometric shit. That doesn’t mean…” Bobby let his words trail off as Jim cleared his throat.

“They’re not dead.” John hissed, not needing to hear the last of the grizzly hunter’s thoughts. “I would know if my children were dead.” He turned a tortured gaze to Ames. The dark eyes didn’t shine with the confidence of the tone. “Right, Mac?”

Mackland looked down at the one-eyed WooBee Bear and the weathered baseball glove. “I’m not sensing them.” He rubbed his tired eyes. “But it’s not the same as when I locate a body. It’s just nothing. More like I’m running into the proverbial brick wall.”

“Could it be because you’re too close to the situation?” Jim claimed the chair closest to The Scholar, squeezing Mackland’s shoulder. The psychic had been at it for hours. “You’ve never used your talents on those you love in such a grim circumstance as this one.”

Mackland frowned. He’d thought of that. Afraid he might subconsciously block his own knowledge due to the fear of finding Dean and Sam dead. “I’m not sure.” He exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry, John. I’ll keep trying.”

Winchester nodded grimly. It was all he could ask. “Jim? Have any of your sources heard anything?”

The pastor shook his head. “Nothing has shown on the radar. I have contacted Missouri and a few others with her gift. None of them have any idea of what might be happening. No hunter has heard anything either, but I have the researchers working overtime.”

“What aren’t you saying, old man?” John asked, picking up on the odd vibe coming from Murphy. He had no patience for the typical Guardian mystery. These were his boys. Screw The Brotherhood.

“I’m not intentionally hiding things from you, Johnathan.”

“But you haven’t told us everything.”

Jim thoughtfully moved his thumb around the lip of his glass, watching as the ice reflected the flashing lights on the tree. He recalled the odd phone conversation he had yesterday with Duran Hughes. "I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.” The pastor muttered.

“Jim?” Mackland placed a hand on his friend’s arm, unsure of the strange comment.

Murphy met Ames's concerned gaze with a slight smile. “I had a phone call from Duran Hughes yesterday.”

“Hughes?” John searched his memory for the name. “Isn’t he some kind of fortune teller?”

“He fancies himself a medium-cons people out of money to talk to their passed loved ones.” Mackland’s tone reflected his distaste for the man’s use of his gift. “Some of the families I have helped have fallen prey to his promises.”

Jim frowned. “He is not the most upstanding and pure of our ranks, but he is ‘talented’ in his own right.” And his family had been hunters for generations. Julian Smith, the prior Guardian had bestowed The Brotherhood ring onto Duran. Jim was not sure he would have made the same decision. But like most things, at times, The Brotherhood could be the ‘good old boys’ club. Who you knew and who your father was sometimes played more importance than actually ‘who’ you were as a person…as a hunter.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to warn me to be careful. When I asked what had brought about the uncharacteristic worry for my welfare, he said Julian had relayed a message from the great beyond.”

“Julian?” Mac looked doubtful. “Your deceased predecessor?”

The pastor nodded. Julian was much more than the former Guardian. He had been a dear friend. “I discounted it mostly. It is not the first time Duran has tried his little manipulations with me to win favor or to get something he wanted.”

Bobby snorted. “Why you let the bastard keep his ring is still a mystery to me. He’s into the dark arts up to his eyeballs and we all know it. He’s a slimy sonofabitch and it wouldn’t take much for me to kick his ass.”

“What did he tell you, Jim?” Ames purposefully ignored Singer.

“Only that line from Macbeth.”

Mackland glanced at John then returned his gaze to Jim. “And that concerned you?”

Jim twisted the silver ring. “Julian was a Shakespeare buff. We often joked he was a thespian in a former life." The pastor sighed. "And the quote itself is not a happy one.”

Mackland searched his sparse memories of Macbeth. “I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell."

“Someone’s out to off this guy Duncan?” Bobby gave his off the cuff interpretation.

“That pretty much sums it up, yes.” Mackland replied. He shared another quick look with The Knight and then focused on Jim. “Perhaps someone is out to harm The Guardian.”

“And they’re not above using Sam and Dean to do it,” John added grimly. It wasn’t a secret. Jim Murphy had a soft spot for John’s boys. John often counted on the pastor when a hunt would draw him away. Jim’s farm was home base for the small family-the only one they truly knew.

“If Duran is sharing information you can damn well be sure it’s not out of the goodness of his heart.” Bobby pointed out. “There has to be something in it for him. There always is.”

“Or he knows something and doesn’t want to be implicated when the fallout takes place,” Mackland stated.

John shoved away from the table and stood. “If he had anything to do with my boys being taken, I’ll send him over to visit his contacts on the other side before he can blink an eye.”

Jim held a hand up to ward off the infamous Winchester temper. “We don’t know this is even connected, Johnathan.”

“But your gut is telling you it is.”

The pastor exhaled heavily. “I think it has more to do with my heart than my gut.”
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The first blow to his gut did the trick and Caleb’s head snapped up, his abrupt return to consciousness entirely unpleasant. The distinct sounds of flesh striking flesh welcomed him back and left his face throbbing. Another slap had him trying to open his eyes to see where he was, to find some sort of escape. Unfortunately, Caleb quickly found he was unable to move and apparently blindfolded.

“That’s enough! Leave the boy be!”

The voice was nearby, unfamiliar, and slightly muffled by all the ringing in Reaves’s ears, but it sounded like it might be someone on his side. He turned his aching head in the direction he thought the words had come from and received another blow for his trouble.

He tried to shout a favorite expletive, but it came out sounding garbled and pitiful through the gag roughly tied across his mouth.

“He’s awake. Stop hitting him.”

Again the voice was trying to provide aid. It didn’t sound like Fisher, although Fisher might be more likely to cheer on his tormentor. “Oh, I’m just getting started, old man.”

A different voice. Someone who didn’t sound friendly or concerned. Caleb assumed it was the bastard currently rearranging his face.

“Take his blindfold and gag off. Let’s actually ask him a question since we went to the trouble of inviting him to the party.”

Caleb jerked away when rough hands touched him, fumbled to undo the rag threaded through his lips. The same grip tightened their hold before jerking the blindfold from his eyes.

Reaves blinked, trying to focus on his surroundings to get his bearings. He was no longer in the graveyard with Fisher, but in some sort of cabin. It was bigger than Jim’s hunting lodge, modern. He was in the center of what he presumed was the main living area. There was a large leather couch and chair, tables of various sizes, and a massive stone fireplace on the far wall. The head of a wild boar hung above the mantle, its unnatural glassy brown eyes glowering at Caleb.

The stuffed pig wasn’t the only one staring and Caleb fought off the sudden wave of nausea to return the favor. Four strange men surrounded him. He tried to reach out telepathically, but received a sharp pain through the skull for his effort. He would have to rely on his other five senses to scope the situation until his head stopped hurting.

They all looked human. No glowing eyes or shimmering in and out of corporeal existence. He didn’t smell sulfur. Of course that wouldn’t rule out a shape-shifter or countless other things that could take human form. But the run-of-the-mill supernatural baddies did not use rope and gags, nor did they hang out in ritzy cabins.

There was a bald guy with a too-tight t-shirt leaning against the door. He looked like a body-builder and the blank expression on his doggish face lent to an IQ falling in the same range as his body mass index score. Both had to be extremely low.

The other guy next to him seemed nervous and out of sorts. He was slight in comparison to the other goon and didn’t look much older than Caleb. He avoided making eye contact with Reaves and moved around the large man to get to the exit. “I’m going to check in with the others-let them know the status,” he mumbled before making a hasty retreat.

Great. There were others.

Caleb turned his attention to his two closest captors. They were a study in contrast. One was tall, lanky, with wavy dark-hair and olive skin. He was clean-shaven, dressed in jeans and a sweater. His bosom buddy was slightly shorter, blond with a mustache, beady blue eyes and pasty complexion. Until proper introductions were made Caleb would think of them as Starsky and Hutch. Caleb had fond memories of watching the late 1970's detective show featuring two police men, the dark haired Starsky and theblond Hutch who drove around in a red Ford Torino

“Did somebody mention a party?” Caleb croaked. His throat was sore and his tongue felt like he’d fallen asleep with a mouthful of cotton balls. It was similar to his first experience with a Tequila hangover. At least then he’d had a somewhat sympathetic John Winchester to fill him in on the details of what exactly had landed him on the cold-tile floor of a run-down motel bathroom.

He wished John would make a surprise appearance. Caleb wouldn’t mind the loud voice or the dressing down he would undoubtedly get from his mentor for getting caught by a bunch of humans.

“This is not exactly a function I imagine you would attend with intention.”

Caleb looked towards the man speaking. The man who had defended him earlier. Like Caleb he was tied to a chair and by the bruises he was sporting, the poor guy was obviously also on Starsky and Hutch’s shit-list. That was where the similarity ended. His fellow captive was at least twenty years older, black, and better dressed.

Reaves offered him a slow smile that made his face hurt. “What? No girls? Because I really don’t mind being tied up if there’s a pay off in the end.”

“He’s a funny guy.” Pseudo-Hutch spoke up, stepping close to Caleb. “I didn’t expect that.”

Caleb glanced up at him. “I know. The sense of humor throws people. They see the dark good looks and great body and think there can’t possibly be more.” Reaves shrugged. “I’m filthy rich, too. Ain’t that a bitch?”

“Yet all that luck has landed you in a very bad place.” Hutch clucked his tongue. “How do you explain that, Golden Boy?”

“Not sure.” Caleb forced another smile. “Are you after my family’s fortune? Because I knew that would come back to bite me in the ass some day.” Honestly, he had no clue what was going on, and it was unnerving. Give him a ghost, poltergeist, or furry any day over a psycho.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with your money.” Reaves’s fellow captive spoke up again and he looked at him. “That wouldn’t explain me being here.”

“So you’re not a long lost relative?”

“Despite the uncanny resemblance, no, I’m afraid not, son. I’m Griffin Porter.”

Caleb schooled his reaction. Griffin Porter was practically a legend. “And our hosts?” He inquired.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”

“You can call me Sid,” Hutch spoke up. He gestured to the dark-haired man Caleb had dubbed Starsky. “This is Mathews. He’s running things, and the big handsome fella’ in the back is Mikey.” Sid glanced to the bald man. “Mikey say hello to our guests.”

Mikey grunted and Sid laughed with more exuberance than was called for. “He’s a quiet one, our Mikey. But you should see him handle a blade. It’s a thing of beauty.”

“Enough small talk.” Mathews moved towards the prisoners now. “Who we are is the least of your worries at the present. You should be concerned about the reason you both are here.”

“That would be?” Caleb raised a brow. He had his theories, but his head hurt too badly to run through the scenarios.

Mathews didn’t seem to appreciate Reaves’s blasé approach. He wrapped his hands around Caleb’s right wrist and squeezed it in a crushing grip. “The rings you wear.”

Caleb forced himself not to flinch as he glanced down at the band of silver on his finger. “What are you the jewelry Nazi?”

The hold was released, but Mathews brought his fist up and backhanded Reaves. “Enough with the smart-ass routine.”

“Listen to me you Neanderthals.” Caleb’s new buddy Griffin Porter was speaking again and if it kept Mathews from hitting him, Reaves would gladly let the man talk. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to accomplish by this, but you have no idea what you’re messing with.”

Sid swaggered closer to the black man. “You mean your precious Brotherhood, old man?”

Caleb glanced at the blond. He had a smug smile on his face. They knew about The Brotherhood.

“I think we know exactly what we’re messing with,” Sid replied with his ever present stupid grin.

“Really?” Griffin challenged Caleb swallowed thickly as the black man turned to meet his gaze. “I don’t think they do, do you, son?”

Reaves shook his head. “No, Sir.”

“Loyalty is noble.” Mathews moved towards them, studying Caleb more intently. “I’ve heard you’re all very protective of one another. That’s honorable.” He knelt in front of the young hunter. “And it’s also a weakness to be exploited.”

“I’m loyal to no one.” Caleb lied easily. John had taught him all about the possibility of capture, the ways one could be tortured for information. It wasn’t a nice bedtime story, but it was a necessity in warfare.

“Then you won’t mind if I put a knife in your buddy here?” Sid asked.

Caleb glanced at the blond, noticed the nice shiny blade that had magically appeared in his gloved hand. “As long as you don’t get blood on me, Dude. I’m real squeamish when it comes to body fluids.”

Mathews shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to the overly muscled bald man standing behind them. He had remained eerily quiet throughout. “Mike will be disappointed to hear that. He was rather hoping you might make this difficult for us. But seeing as how you have no ties to your brothers, then I guess you won’t mind telling us about Jim Murphy.”

Caleb frowned “Jim who?”

Sid stepped forward and hit Caleb again. Reaves tasted blood. “Not bad. But I think your boss Mathews has better form.”

“Jim. Murphy.” Mathews pronounced. When Reaves said nothing the dark-haired captor jutted his chin towards the black man.

Sid pressed his blade to the older prisoner’s neck until a drop of red slid down the steel surface.

Caleb licked at his split lip and frowned at Mathews. “I thought we already covered the part about me not giving a shit about this other guy you’ve nabbed. Your buddy doing his bad cop imitation isn’t going to loosen my tongue. I didn’t even know who he was until five minutes ago. I’ve never been one to form attachments quickly.”

“I find it hard to believe that you’ve never met or heard of Griffin Porter” Mathews explained calmly and rationally. “Dr. Griffin Porter is not only a prominent scientist but a well-respected hunter.”

Caleb shrugged. “Never heard of him. But then I’ve never really been much of a science geek and I’m totally against hunting. I’d be a vegetarian if I had to kill my own food.” He turned to face the newly introduced hunter, feigning contriteness. “No offense, man.”

“None taken.” Griffin inclined his head. “I have no idea who you are, either.”

“This is Caleb Reaves.” Mathews was talking again. He looked at Porter, folded his arms over his chest. “I’m also baffled he has escaped your attention. After all, he is the eighteen-year-old son of Dr. Mackland Ames, who happens to be one of the leaders of your secret club. Caleb here is also the protégé of John Winchester, another influential constituent if my intel serves me well. More importantly, he’s practically like a grandson to your dear old friend Pastor James Euripides Murphy.”

“You don’t say.” Griffin looked chagrined. “The things you miss out on when you don’t reach out and touch someone.”

“I’m real good at reaching out and touching people.” Sid turned his feral gaze on Reaves again. “In fact, I’m so talented I’m sure I’ll change your mind about the whole disinterested party bit.”

“You don’t know me very well.” Caleb smiled at Sid. “I can be a stubborn bastard when I want to be.”

Sid bent down into Reaves’s personal space once again, his stale breath reeking of cigarette smoke. Caleb winced. “I know more about you than you think, Caleb Thomas Reaves.” He nodded to Mike who was standing silent sentry behind them. “In fact, I even know your big weakness–your green Kryptonite. Mikey, go get my secret weapon, will ya?”

“Sure thing, Sid," the large man answered.

Caleb watched dispassionately as Mikey, the walking mountain moved out of the room and disappeared down a hallway. He glanced up at the blond towering over him. “Sid, was it?” Sid nodded, and Caleb continued. “Don’t tell me you guys are in to props?”

“I’ve not seen them show any signs of intelligence yet.” Griffin interjected as an interested observer might. “However, even apes and chimpanzees use tools.”

“No need for anything fancy.” Sid didn’t look insulted. In fact he appeared amused. “I like the good old basics. It’s amazing what a man can do with Mother Nature when he has the right mindset. I myself like fire.”

“How Cro-Magnon man of you.” Caleb commented as he watched Sid move towards the hearth in front of them where a roaring fire was ablaze. “Thanks for sparing us the whole loincloth by the way.”

Sid ignored him, continuing his monologue. “A lot of people are afraid of being burned.” The blond squatted in front of the flames, reached his hands out towards the fire. He turned his head to look at the captives again. “What about you, Reaves? What are you afraid of?”

Caleb opened his mouth but his words were stolen. As if Sid’s words had conjured it, Caleb’s worst fear materialized before him. Mikey re-entered the room but he wasn’t alone.

He held a struggling Dean Winchester in his grasp.
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