Chapter 1 Forfeiture

He doesn't remember falling.

Absently, Sam munches on his tasteless breakfast– served in the cells to be eaten on the floor or the bunks. Each day begins with the rattling of metal sticks against the bars, quickly followed by the racket of spoons hitting plates and people barking at each other. It's early enough to see the sunrise, if they could leave the cells before scheduled hour to actually enjoy it, that is. It took Sam finding himself alone here to realize how absurd it was that the guards insisted on waking them up so early to face such empty days. Through the window bars, Sam watches what he can of the faded yellow merging with pale blue.

He remembers Nathan's grip on his hand, the mix of horror and confusion in his little brother's wide, wide eyes, and how it took the coppery taste in his mouth to register that he'd been shot. How the pain kicked in after that, radiating from his side to his entire self like fire and stealing his breath, that much he can recall– but not the fall.

Had he remembered, maybe he'd have understood sooner.

Instead, Sam woke up in what looked like an improvised, overcrowded hospital room, vision foggy and breath hitching from the burning in his abdomen, but very much alive– which was enough to convince him that Nathan had gotten them out of there, somehow.

Then the feeling of cold metal around his left wrist made itself known.

It's okay, he told himself, staring at the low, cracked celling. Nathan will come back. Just gotta hang tight and wait for the cavalry.

(And if panic took the better of him for a few chilling seconds as he fumbled uselessly at the handcuff with his free hand, heart racing and pain forgotten, he blames it on the exhaustion.)

Sam sets his bowl on the ground and takes a breath deeper than necessery, ignoring the pain to test the bandages straddling his waist. And forces himself to smile anyway, because Nathan swooping by and saving his ass? Snarky little punk will never let him live it down.

The smile doesn't quite hold, but it's okay. Not much longer now.

The celldoors open. Sam stiffles a hiss as he stands up. Sounds of doors slaming and feet stomping fill the corridor as they head down to the yard, cons exchanging yells to complete the racket. Already, a hard shove sends Sam to the wall, and he looks up just in time to exchange a baleful glare with that guy from Gustavo's gang.

Sam has gotten back from the hospital a few days ago, and Gustavo has been looking for a fight ever since. He's ignoring him pretty well thus far, along with the others inmates' shoves and mock applauds at the failed escape a week or so earlier. The guards are just waiting for a reason to piss on his parade, and are finding plenty on their own already. No way Sam is giving them what they want. He sucks it up instead, and concentrates on his recovery.

And waits. Loses count of the metal-bar-striped sunrises.

It takes several weeks of emprisonment for him to miss the soft sounds. Steel, stone, the occasional shouts; that's about it in here. Not much to hear, not much to touch, taste or see– he's beginning to feel deprived in a way he didn't know could be possible, and when something does reach his senses, it's characteristically harsh.

But even that is being dulled in its own repetitiveness. Same shitty food, same ringing sounds as the cells close for the night, same guards in their tough guy uniform, same concrete walls caging the same inmates in their identical outfits, same harsh voices... Every day echoes the last as each assault on his senses is getting less and less noticable.

What's taking Nathan so long, anyway?

Rafe is going to beat them to the treasure at that rate (Sam isn't exactly trusting him to wait until he's free to make his move) and there's just no way that's happening. Sam should have listened to Nathan. Should have drawn the line when Rafe insisted on coming to the prison with them. Yet he had brushed Nathan's protests away and given Rafe the occasion to fuck everything up and put him into that shit.

Avery's treasure belongs to both Nathan and him, no one else. They needed the money, but simply allowing someone to get involved into their quest so deeply shoud have ringed quite a few bells in Sam's head. He's actually looking forward to hear Nathan chew him on that one when he gets out. Not that he'd admit it.

Trust prison to make him miss his little brother's big mouth. Sam snorts at the thought, which prompts Luis, one of his cellmates, to raise a suspicious eyebrow and ask him what's so funny.

It's lunch, and Sam stops picking at his dried rice to look at the man. Had it been another inmate, Sam would probably have lied or told him to piss off, but he actually considers answering Luis.

Neither his failed escape nor Gustavo's grunge have really helped boosting his popularity. Most of the inmates have been avoiding rubbing shoulders with him, not wanting to get on the wrong side of the guards or the gang. But Luis is the guy who's always got something to bargain for, and a way to get in the guards' good graces. Mostly, he doesn't give a shit about the drama between inmates, manages not to attract serious enemies no matter who he associates with, and seems deprived of any ill-intent.

"Thinking about my brother," Sam answers earnestly.

"Ah, that's good," Luis says around an absent smile, wiping his brow. Today's particulary hot. "Family's important."

He proceeds to tell Sam about his wife and two sons, who are growing up without him, and about how he's still waiting to be tried, not really explaining how he ended up here in the first place. Sam has a feeling he'll be at it for a long time, so he dives back into his food and tries to listen at least a little. Without much success. His mind drifts between Nathan and Rafe and Avery; Sam loses the flow of Spanish despite his best efforts.

Nathan better get him out before he becomes so desperate as to detail his life and griefs to the first guy he happens to strike a conversation with, Sam thinks.

The air feels cranked, thick with the scent of blood and sweat. Sam hears the fist flying against his cheek more than he feels it. Raw knuckles connect with flesh in a blunt sound that joins the noise around, all ragged breathing and roars and shouts coming from both fighters and their animated audience alike.

Gustavo didn't throw the first blow, but he asked for the fight all the same.

Sam lands a hit, takes another, tries for a swipe again. Their feet plummel the ground, another sound to rythmn the dance as they stomp in circle, leer at each other, then rush to hit, stumble, stand straight again, repeat.

"Think baby brother is coming to the rescue?" Gustavo had asked. Had sneered and taunted since morning, particulary feisty today, but Sam had brushed it off at first.

"How do you know he even got out alive?"

Graping hands all around; gruff voices cheering and barking insults, too numerous for Sam to be able to pick up the Spanish.

It feels like the crowd is caging them.

"I saw him riddled with bullets."

Punch, groan, dodge and breath, the clamor all around, another blow; there's a red spot on the side of his shirt now.

The adrenaline numbs it all anyway. The pain in his face, chest, and abdomen too, where the threads are the only thing holding torn flesh together.

"He was crying for big brother to come. I think he pissed himself."

Sam didn't let Gustavo say another word after that. He lunged at him, the urge to just shut him up dwarfing all sense of reason.

The guards' shouts don't quite cover the tumult as they storm through, so it takes rough hands grabbing him for Sam to register that they're here. They push against the crowd, waving their sticks, dragging Sam away from Gustavo's battered-yet-still-leering face, away from the sneering and laughing crowd.

They manhandle him to solitary unit. The door clangs loudly behind them, joining the guards' grumbling for some seconds as they push him down the hall, and Sam braces himself for the beating he knows is coming.

The blows rain, heavy when they land on his face, ribs, gut– head snapping back, body jerking, arms trashing uselessly against the vice-like grips holding him there, helpless. Sometime among the guards' barks and snarls, he hears his nose snap. He hacks and coughs wetly, chokes on blood. The scorching at his side awakes, joining the global pain that engulf his body to the point of consuming any coherent thought– enough now, someone make it stop, let him breathe

He doesn't realize they droped him to the ground until the assaults cease for several blessed seconds and a boot sets on his shoulder, forcing him to uncurl and roll on his back. He's panting harder than his battered ribs can take. Eyes clenched shut from the pain, almost oblivious to the guards' snarky remarks (he wishes he didn't know Spanish so well), he rolls to his palms and knees, trying and failing to stand.

"We got some calls," one of them says casually, catching Sam's attention. "Some guy that asked about you."

Nathan. Of course: all the Gustavos in the world couldn't make him doubt for a second. Nathan is alive, looking for him.

Sam pushes himself up, one hand against the concrete wall for support, the other on the gash at his side where blood is oozing lazily. He'd smile, but he's getting an uneasy feeling from the taunting tone and smirking face above him.

"You know us," the guy gestures broadly. "Always pleased to serve, right? You should know, given how close you seemed to Vargas."

Sam swallows hard, the sour taste of blood lingering on the back of his tongue, familiar but unpleasant all the same. He doesn't like where this is going.

"So," the guard drags, "we informed him best we could, you know? Confirmed that the guy he was looking for got killed during a prison break. What a shame, righ– "

Sam's lunging at him before he can finish, a roar that doesn't quite sound like his voice ripping from his throat. He can land a punch (breaking the guard's nose in a satisfying crack sound) before he's grabbed and shoved away. The sticks droping on his back sends him to the ground, his attackers' blows and snarls growing in intensity with anger.

Freshly-Broken-Nose stomps back towards him, seething. He raises his stick high.

"You think you can just spite us?" he brings the stick down hard, and Sam grunts. "Thought you could kill Vargas and walk away unscathed?" The baton lifts and drops in rhythm with the words, "Who do you think you are?"

The guy's panting now, Sam can hear it over his own ragged breathing. The blows have stopped at long last, so he dares to crack an eye open, moving his arms from where they were shielding his head. They're all bending over him, scowls twisting their faces, knuckles white around their sticks; satisfied by their handiwork judging by how some of them take a few steps back, glowering still.

"None of your little friends is coming for you, scum."

He's trembling now, half curled on himself and half crawling, trying to breathe, trying to stand, trying to tell them wrong but it's so hard to speak–

"You are going to stay with us for a long time."

The sound of their steps feels distant as they take their leave, but he flinches when the door clangs forcefully close.

Sam lies on the floor, back against the wall, aching all over, shaking, teeth gritted against the pain and the sheer need to scream– his fingers go to his bleeding side, claw at the ground, tighten into fists, move to his side again–

He wants to tear off the remaining stitches, dive his fingers into the torn skin and rip it apart– wants to bleed out here and now, but he can't, right? Because Nathan has to be coming for him somehow. He'll keep calling, Sam's sure, keep digging and searching.

Come on, little brother.

He'll find out.

Don't give up on me.