Author's Note: Hey folks! This has been a really, really long time in coming, mostly because I never intended to publish anything. After my first two tries at writing fan fiction, I realized that I wasn't really good at it and was simply using it as a way to fulfill my need for character whump. Since my last story, I have gone through several extensive phases of Thunderbirds fan fiction, then Hawkeye/Black Widow/SHIELD fan fiction, then Supernatural. I actually first discovered Supernatural through fan fiction, and then binge watched every episode up to Season 10 last summer. Now I'm going through the whole series again, and binge reading everything I can find. To see the greatest hits from the last year of reading, see my favorite authors and stories lists.
I never intended to publish this story when I started, until I finished it and realized that it wasn't half bad. I won't claim that it's anywhere close to the masterpieces I have read in the past weeks and months, but I enjoyed writing it - and considering that I still enjoy reading it after the second time through, I thought I'd share it. There's no character development, the timeline is sketchy at best, and it's mostly hurt!Sam and protective!Dean. In the series, it takes place in a vague place right in the middle of 9.18, "Meta Fiction," if you squint and pretend that the events following the angel bombings happened over a much longer period of time, and if you pretend that Dean isn't feeling the effects of the Mark of Cain (because I wasn't ready to tackle that heavy emotional baggage, and I may never be).
This is unbetaed so all errors are entirely my own.
Thanks to Eric Kripke for the amazing characters with whom I am playing.
Enjoy!
TerraThorn
Sam Winchester woke to a bruising cold pressing against this cheek, and jerked to get away from it. Pain spiked instantly, cutting him off from the world almost as quickly as he had found it again. A groan escaped his lips, and he sank back to the rough concrete floor. He spent several long moments just breathing, struggling not to drown in the pain, maybe dipping below the surface once or twice before coming back around.
Once the agony in his head settled down to manageable levels, his training kicked in, and he began an inventory of his own body: breathing okay, bones all felt like they were in the right places, but mobility was restricted. A short experiment led him to the conclusion that his wrists and ankles were bound. What the hell? The last thing he could remember was walking into the motel room with Dean to find two unarmed strangers standing by the television. They'd drawn their guns, then had Dean dropped like a rock, and Sam had turned just in time to see a third man reaching for him. Then nothing.
Not men - angels. Sam groaned again, this time less out of pain and more out of frustration. Angels had abducted him out of his motel room? What the hell for? And where was Dean?
Priorities. Dean first.
Actually, scratch that; opening his eyes was first on the list. He finally managed to pry them open, only to find the view a stunningly dull swath of cinderblock wall, lit by the dim glow of an fluorescent bulb. He blinked, made sure that his eyes were focusing properly, and shut them again against the swelling headache. Which was weird, because angel roofies didn't generally cause sat up, falling down twice when the pain in his head and his bound hands prevented him from doing so. With perseverance and a rising urgency to locate his brother, Sam managed to sit up and lean heavily against the wall he'd been staring at earlier.
The room was small, and looked like a utility closet, with some heavy metal shelving units that looked like they had been hastily cleared months ago, now littered only with the occasional empty jar, dirty rags, and cobwebs. It was a cramped room, maybe ten feet by eight, with the narrow shelving along one wall and bare save for the solitary light switch by the door. He Inspected the door handle - it didn't even look like it had a lock.
Sam had already confirmed that Dean wasn't there, but he scanned again, just in case his headache was affecting his focus. No brother; he was out that door was the primary goal at this point, and to do that, he needed to get these ropes off.
Dean was tense; his hands fisted in impotent rage as the target of his anger disappeared with the signature flap of angel wings. They'd taken Sam, awaken Dean to explain their expectations, and then left. The rage boiled over, and he yelled his frustration to the empty motel room.
Castiel didn't come for an hour; when he finally did, Dean just about punched him in the nose, for need of a better outlet than the destruction that was now the motel room. He managed to stop himself, barely. Castiel looked on in curiosity.
"What the hell took you so long, man?" Dean asked, running a hand down his face.
"I was being detained by the investigation into the bombings. What is wrong?" Cass' voice was as calm as ever, making Dean want to hit him again.
"I'll tell you what's wrong: Three rogue angels just showed up and took Sam, then said I don't get him back until I set up a meeting with you. What the hell is going on, Cass?"
The angel's eyebrows met in a look of consternation. "Did they say anything else? What were their names?"
Dean found himself pacing a narrow trail between the debris on the floor, thinking and worrying and looking like a caged tiger ready to pounce at anything that moved. "Uh, one of them called the other 'Yoo-dah' or something hinky like that. Just said they wanted to talk to you."
Cass' expression changed from puzzlement to determination at the moment he heard that name. He stepped toward Dean. "We need to move, Dean," he said.
Dean stepped back, but Cass' hand was already on his shoulder. "No, wait! What about — Sam?" By the time he'd finished his sentence, Dean found himself in another place; one lit by the early morning sun. Unless Cass had just time travelled, Dean was pretty sure he'd been teleported to somewhere on the Eastern seaboard. "What the hell?" He repeated, looking around the empty, upper-class apartment. Out the window, Dean could see high-rise office buildings a few blocks away.
"Dean," Cass looked apologetic, and Dean felt fear clench his gut.
The hunter stepped forward, directly into the angel's personal space, and shoved a finger close to his trench coat. "No, don't you 'Dean' me. I need to know who these angels are, and why they took my brother as a ransom for a meeting with you."
Cass didn't flinch from the close quarters, but his eyes beseeched Dean's for understanding. "Surely you know that they do not have good intentions."
"I don't give a rat's ass what their intentions are — I want my brother back."
"They are members of a splinter group that has refused to side with me or Metatron," the angel explained calmly. Sensing more explanation to come willingly, Dean stepped back, waiting. "Yudah is the brother of one of the angels that Oren killed in the diner explosion. He has multiple reasons to want me dead."
"Wait a minute - aren't all you angels brothers to each other?"
"Technically, yes," Cass hedged, seeming to seek the best wording. "But Yudah and Simeon were particularly close, having a bond that most angels are incapable of, barring those few who live among the humans for extended periods of time. Once having experienced that kind of bond, having it taken away can be particularly painful, I imagine."
"So, let me get this straight," Dean said, disbelief in his tone. "Oren the overachiever takes out Yudah's best bud in your name, Yudah wants to kill you for it, and he dragged me and Sam into this… why, exactly?"
Castiel sighed, a sound so foreign to the angel's countenance that Dean blinked. "Word of my… affinity for you and Sam has spread far enough that they thought you would be an easier target."
"An easier target?" Dean scoffed. "First of all, how the hell did they find us; aren't your angel rib tats supposed to protect us from this kind of thing? And secondly," he plowed ahead as he saw Cass open his mouth to answer, "why are we considered 'easy targets?'" Air quotes followed the clearly derogatory term. "Sam frickin' kicked Lucifer to the curb, and a trio of baby angels thought he'd be easier than just walking up to your door?"
"It worked, didn't it?" Cass replied, silencing Dean's indignation. "And yes, you would be easier to reach, given enough time to track you down through the conventional methods. You must remember that I'm surrounded by an angel army; approaching me would be suicide for them. So, unfortunately, you have been dragged into this angel war, and I am sorry." And the angel did look truly sorry.
"Yeah well, I'll feel a whole lot better when we catch these sons of bitches and make them wish they'd never heard the name Winchester before."
"How can I help?" Cass asked. Dean ran his hand down his face again, thinking.
"Can you locate Yudah or his followers?"
"I cannot; most angels have warded themselves to prevent detection from the opposite party by this point, and Yudah is no exception."
"Fine, then I'll just have to call him back. We'll need to be ready for a fight."
"I can ask for volunteers to help with that."
Dean's blood rose at the thought of including more angels in this mess, but they were two against three, maybe more. "Can you trust them?"
"I will select only the most trustworthy."
Dean scoffed. "Yeah, that's all relative with you angels."
Cass didn't rise to the bait. With a nod, he disappeared with a flick of invisible wings, leaving the hunter alone in another empty room.
The jar was on the third shelf up, which posed a problem for Sam, but it wasn't insurmountable; he managed to brace himself against the shelf and rise to his bound feet, just high enough to grab the jar. It was a simple matter of dropping it to make it shatter. Thankfully, the angels hadn't thought to take away his boots, so his feet were safe against the shards so he shuffled away from the glass wreckage before awkwardly returning to the ground.
It look a few tries to find a piece that would work, since most parts of the former jar were simply too thick and dull to be of any use. Even with the best piece, it took the better part of a half hour to sever the rope, largely because he was doing it behind his back and couldn't get a good angle. By the time he started unwinding the rope from his wrists, his hands and wrists were bleeding from several cuts — all shallow, but they would start stinging shortly. He untied his ankles, and took a brief moment to gather himself, do another personal inventory (still nothing wrong except the ebbing headache), before standing.
Blood rushed from his head, and he braced himself against the nearest shelf until the dizziness dissipated. He was eager to get through that door and to find Dean, but there were probably angels out there, and he needed to arm himself.
Of course, the angel-killing blade had been in the weapons bag, which he'd presumably dropped when the third angel sent him to dreamland. It wasn't like he or Dean had been expecting a visit from any haloes. The closest he was going to get was an old handheld socket wrench tucked under the pile of rags. It would do diddly squat to angels, but it might give him the split second he would need to nab the angel's own blade. Otherwise, he was in for another nap, or worse.
He reached for the door, twisted the unlocked handle, and pushed.
It was locked. Sam swore, his hopes of an easy escape shattered by the external deadbolt for which there was no keyhole on the inside. It was a janitor's closet - whoever had designed this building hadn't been expecting to need an escape hatch. Sam rattled the door, kicked it, slammed his shoulder into it. The deadbolt held. Sam searched for hinges but realized that they were on the opposite side of the door.
He'd held it together rather well so far, he thought. He'd followed his dad's training, stayed calm, done inventory, remembered the relevant details, identified a plan of action, and acted on it. Now what?
Try, try again, he thought bitterly, stomping down the fear that threatened to rise in his chest and restrict his breathing. He couldn't afford to panic. Dean couldn't afford it.
It was a simple matter of opening his mind to Yudah and calling to him - Dean refused to call it praying. Dean didn't pray, and certainly didn't pray to self-serving angels who kidnapped his brother and held him for ransom. There wasn't a single part of this whole situation that didn't rankle Dean, but for Sammy's sake, he'd stuff his pride for now.
It wasn't Yudah himself, but one of his lackeys from the motel who appeared in the empty field, standing like almost all angels new to earth did - like he had a stick up his ass. But his flat demeanor was calm and determined. Dean stared back, his eyes glinting dangerously. He spoke before the angel could.
"First things first, Cass ain't anywhere near here. He's waiting for my go-ahead. And I won't give the word until I see Sam, safe and in one piece."
The angel nodded, as if he'd expected as much. "Yudah is prepared to meet your terms. I can show you your brother."
Dean had been hoping for a face-to-face, but those hopes were crushed when the angel pulled a mirror - a friggin' hand mirror - from his shoulder bag, spoke a few words of Enochian, and was about to hand it to the hunter when he froze, his eyes locked on the mirror's glowing surface. Dean's heart rate skyrocketed, wondering what that image showed that gave the angel such a perturbed looked.
"Hey, Clarence, show me my brother," Dean yelled, stepping forward to take it. The angel and mirror winked out of view, and took all of Dean's breath with it. He stood, feet frozen, body suddenly heavy as his mind raced to catch up with what had just happened. This was not what was supposed to happen.
Sam busted through the door on the third try. It had been a simple matter of realizing that while a thick metal bolt wouldn't give, three thinner hinges might, if he focused his barrage on one at a time. His shoulder would give him hell tomorrow, but that was tomorrow's problem. For now, he had a decision to make: hallway, left or right. Ten feet to the left, the cinderblock hallway ended in a T. Twenty feet to the right was a door. The mandatory red EXIT sign wasn't glowing, but whether that was because the batteries were dead, or because the lights were on, Sam didn't know. Door number one, Sam thought bitterly.
The angels clearly hadn't been expecting him to escape the utility closet, because this door wasn't locked. He caught himself just before he would've barreled through - the light weight of the wrench in his hand was a grim reminder that he had to proceed with caution. Sam paused to listen.
Crickets. Literally, crickets. Sam cautiously pressed the bar again, peering out into the dim haze of pre-dawn spreading its nascent light over an empty loading zone for trucks. A quick scan revealed no angels guarding his prison. Just him and a broken-down semi across the way and a broken-down road stretching off toward the sunrise.
He checked the semi in the hopes that it wasn't as busted as it looked, but a glance under the hood removed all doubt that it was useless; the entire engine block was missing, leaving only the frame and a few ancillary utilities remaining. Sam didn't know much about cars, despite Dean's attempts over the years, but he knew that missing engines meant no driving. He jogged around the perimeter of the decrepit factory/warehouse, alert for angels. There was a parking lot on the other side of the building, clearly meant to store employees' vehicles during the work day. And there, in the far corner, sat a dusty-looking, pre-2000s Ford Fiesta. Even from across the lot and in the dim starlight, Sam could see that it had a flat tire, but he jogged toward it nonetheless.
He had nothing to jimmy the lock, so he went with blunt force. Might as well keep the damage to his injured side, he thought just before he slammed his elbow, and the full force of his body weight, into the passenger side window. He flipped the lock, opened the door, climbed over the broken glass, and unlocked the driver's side door before extracting himself and circling around to reach in and find the trunk release. Fifteen seconds later, he was rewarded with the sight of a spare tire and replacement tools. Twenty minutes later, the flat tire was replaced, the battery hot-wired, and Sam was driving down that narrow, pot-holed road toward civilization.
He had nearly made it - he'd driven about ten miles, if the dusty odometer could be trusted, and he'd just passed through an intersection onto a larger road. His hopes bloomed when he had to wait for another car to pass before crossing, giving him hope that civilization was near. The car passed too quickly to flag down, but Sam turned to follow it.
Then a head appeared in the rearview mirror, and Sam jerked, his cramped legs striking the bottom of the steering wheel and the car quickly losing steam, then raging back to life before Sam got it back under control. His throat tightened, his stomach sank, and he had to remind himself to take a breath. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a little joyride through the back country?" he quipped, voice hard in barely concealed anger, and well concealed fear.
"Stop the car, Sam," the angel said calmly.
Sam grit his teeth. "Or what?"
"Or this car will crash when its driver is taken back to the factory, possibly injuring other drivers."
Sam had no weapons (he'd left the wrench in the trunk, he remembered), and no way to stop this angel from doing exactly that. He swallowed, and feathered the brake until the car rolled to a stop on the side of the road.
"Who the hell are you, and what do you want?" Sam asked, glaring at the intruder in the mirror, disciplining his body to remain still and nonthreatening. "And while you're at it, where's Dean?"
The speaker smirked; an odd look on an angel. "You're in no position to be asking questions, Sam."
The muscles in Sam's jaw clenched and unclenched. "You will tell me where my brother is, or you'll learn what a pain in your fluffy ass a Winchester can be."
The angel sighed, and exited the vehicle. The temptation to floor it and leave the intruder in his dust was tempting, but Sam knew that it would only tick the feathered bastard off. And not knowing who he was or what he and his friends were after, Sam wasn't ready to take that risk until he knew more. So he stepped out as well and faced the angel.
The vessel was only about five-five, giving Sam a distinct height advantage, but against this player, Sam knew that size was a nonissue. It clearly meant nothing to the angel, who stood stoically, appraising Sam like he would a runaway dog. Jeans, brown plaid shirt, short brown hair of the most conservative cut. He looked like a hillbilly from Tennessee, except perhaps better groomed in the jaw. But it was his eyes, hard and unconcerned at the same instant, that gave him away as not human. Reading angel emotions was one of the most difficult tasks Sam had ever come across in his experiences with Cass, but annoyance was the predominant one on this guy's face.
"You want to put me back in that room? Fine, I can't stop you, but I want answers."
The angel waited a moment, as if to consider Sam's demand. "Your brother is fine, Sam. In fact, he's working very hard to get you back as we speak. The process was interrupted by your untimely little escape attempt, but we haven't harmed him. You, on the other hand, are supposed to be playing damsel in distress back at the warehouse."
"You're blackmailing Dean?" Sam bit out, not liking where this was going.
"More like… ransoming, but you get the concept."
"What do you want?"
"Just a face-to-face with your friend Castiel. Rumor has it that you two have the big guy's ear, so we thought I'd tug on it. But," the angel clapped his hands, a sharp rapport on the currently empty road. "We've spoken enough. I need to go see if I can't salvage this little debacle."
With that, the angel stepped forward, placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam found himself back in the utility closet, staring down at the remains of his failed escape attempt.
"Rope's busted, door's broken; what are you gonna do now?" Sam queried, enjoying the look of consternation that flitted across his captor's face.
"I am an angel - my resources are unlimited, and I can retrieve them faster than you can step out of this room. However, that won't be necessary, since I don't suppose telling you to stay would work…" the angel replied, surveying the details that Sam had so succinctly described.
"You wouldn't believe me if I said it would," Sam spat back.
The angel sighed, and looked truly apologetic. This was one of the most expressive angels Sam had ever come across. "I didn't want to hurt you, Sam, but you give me no choice. Clearly, you are more resourceful and stubborn than I expected, and I may have to leave you here for a while. So you may want to sit down, to prevent further injury."
Sam's gut clenched, and quickly ran through his options for the thousandth time. He could try to take the angel hand to hand. But even if he managed to knock the angel out, there was no angel blade that he could see up the angel's sleeve, and the dude had already proven capable of finding him again. With the car now ten miles down the road, he wouldn't get far enough before his captor awakened and pursued him.
But hell if he would take this sitting down.
Another sigh of resignation was Sam's only warning before he heard a terrible cracking sound, and his legs suddenly couldn't hold him up. He dropped, and the concrete floor hit before the pain did. The angel had just broken both of his legs. Sam bit back the scream that tore at his throat, holding his breath against the pain before the need to breath forced him to exhale. Beyond the sudden bout of tunnel vision and black spots, Sam was vaguely aware of the angel's voice, speaking in conciliatory tones somewhere on the other side of the ringing in his ears, but Sam couldn't make out the words. He breathed again, and again, trying to get a handle on the pain that was quickly centralizing around his shins. He grunted, unable to prevent the noise from escaping, and felt himself slipping sideways, into the warm embrace of unconsciousness.
Dean stormed around the field, wearing down a narrow groove of flattened brush. He fumed, he yelled into the empty air for Yudah to show his lily-livered ass, and he yelled in frustration at nothing at all, raging at the injustice of it. He was so sick of being the pawn, and of watching Sam face the consequences. He needed his brother back, by his side, fighting to topple Metatron and kill Crowley, riding shotgun in the Impala.
Finally, he called Cass for a ride. He was careful to explain that this might be a trap, so he grudgingly requested some other chauffeur who wasn't the current target of an assassination attempt. Once back in the apartment, Dean conferred with Cass. The other three angels whom Cass had recruited remained silent unless spoken to, which was wise on their part, because Dean really, really hated angels right now. He even hated Cass, but that hate was tempered by the knowledge that this really wasn't the feathered freak's fault. Still, anger churned heavily in his gut, a hair's breadth away from exploding.
"So something freaked 'em and they bailed," he growled, trying hard to rein in his frustration and focus on being productive. "What other options do we have?"
Cass stood as stoic as ever, his eyes following the hunter's frantic pacing, noting just how animalistic the human looked. "We wait for them to contact us again. I have now opened my hearing to include Yudah, should he seek me out directly. He does not have what he wants yet, so he will. Or, Sam prays and informs us of his location."
"But he hasn't," Dean said, looking thoughtful and worried. "I mean, he may be unconscious, or he may not know what's going on." He wouldn't even consider the other option. "Do you have your ears on for him?"
Castiel nodded. "Of course; I have been listening for Sam since you informed me of his abduction."
"So what now? We just wait?"
"Unfortunately, that seems to be the only option at the moment."
The light weight of the wrench in his hand was a grim reminder that he had to proceed with caution.
Sam woke to pain, but it wasn't as bad as it had been. He quickly learned that not moving from where he lay was the best option available at the moment, as every movement took his breath away. Even if he wanted to crawl, he discovered that the angel had thought to use a padlocked shackle to chain one of his ankles to the back wall.
He had no sense of what time it was - no windows and an undetermined length of unconsciousness would do that to a person, Sam thought bitterly. Judging by the weakness in his body, he would guess it had been at least several hours. With broken bones, he was at risk for acute dehydration as his body fought to heal itself. He was especially looking forward to seeing Castiel again, and getting his legs back. In the meantime, he worked himself up to taking a look at his legs, to self-treating.
Sitting up hurt, the pain radiating from his shins up over his knees and down into his feet as muscles and ligaments bound to broken bones shifted, trying to leverage themselves with a foundation that could no longer support them. His shoulder hurt, too, but it was a bruised soreness that he could largely ignore. By the time his back leaned heavily against the wall, Sam was on his way to a heavy sweat, and his breath came in hard gasps. He breathed through it, prepared himself for the next step. No time like the present, he thought, and grabbed his jeans, carefully straightening each leg so they splayed out in front of him, cautiously arranging the chain attached to his ankle so it didn't pull. He nearly blacked out.
It was a long time - maybe minutes, maybe an hour, he wasn't sure - before he drew his mind back to the present and felt ready to try to pull up the pant leg. At least there was no indication of blood in the fabric, which meant that the skin hadn't been broken. Knowing that he wouldn't set off a round of bleeding, Sam decided to palpate the legs first, try to get a feel for how bad it was before he attempted to drag heavy fabric over it. If he had a knife on him, he would've just cut the denim away, but the angels had taken everything - phone, gun, knife, wallet, even his set of lock picks. Working through the pain at every point of contact, Sam gently felt along each tibia, wincing when he felt the breaks. They were identical; not too serious, still in alignment, but no longer stable. Only a scan at a hospital would tell him just how damaged the bones were, but at least he didn't have to worry about resetting them - he didn't think he had the willpower to do that to himself at this point. He rolled up the pant legs just long enough to see colorful bruising and swelling beginning to spread along his skins and down into his calves. Nothing he could do at this point, and looking at it just made him nauseous.
With both legs broken, Sam faced months of rehab and getting around in a wheelchair. This would put a kink in Dean's plans. Maybe the chair could fit in the trunk. The image of Dean wheeling his brother through haunted houses made Sam grin to himself, morbid humor better than dwelling on the pain and the fear.
Of course, Castiel could fix him in seconds, if their angel friend was up to it. And if he wasn't, perhaps one of his underlings would be willing. Sam chuckled to himself, thinking how convenient it was to have friends in high places.
Castiel. Sam's mind ran away from his legs and the small room and back to the details the angel had told him. He was being held captive to force Dean to set up a meeting with Castiel. No doubt, his brother wouldn't negotiate if he could avoid it, but surely had brought Cass up to speed on the situation at this point. Maybe the angel had a channel open.
His voice was scratchy from disuse or overuse, and it filled the silence of Sam's cell. "Cass, if you're listening, I want to let you and Dean know that I'm okay." He cringed, and amended his statement. "Relatively. I'm alive, anyway, and I'm pretty sure I'm alone." He let his thoughts wander for a moment, trying to gather enough intel to give Cass a clue where he was. He thought back to the weathered silhouette on the side of the building that he'd seen while walking through the parking lot, fought his memory to give up the company's name, but it was a blur. Cursing in his own head, he turned his mind to the road sign he'd seen at the intersection, but it was like the letters had been erased from his mind, even though the details of the rest of the memory were clear. "Dammit, Cass, I think he erased my memories of my location, so I can't tell you where I am." He huffed a chuckle. "Smart, really. So I'll just give you a rundown to tell Dean so he can stop worrying."
It occurred to him then that, given who his captor was, there was no guarantee that this prayer was even getting through. Sam hadn't seen any sigils or warding, but that didn't mean anything in the world of angels and demons and things that human senses couldn't perceive. But it was his best shot, and Sam would take it.
He described waking up and escaping the utility closet, getting outside, the semi without an engine, the warehouse, the state of abandonment, the car, the road, the intersection, the distances, the compass headings — anything to give his brother a chance at finding him. He described the angel and his tale, and how he was back in the utility closet. It wasn't much to go on, he knew, and he wasn't holding out much hope of a rescue at this point, even if this message was being received. "Anyway," he said in conclusion, "if by some miracle you and Dean find the place, don't expect me to be running anywhere. Don't tell Dean unless you have to, but the bastard broke both my legs, so a healing or a stretcher should be somewhere in the plan, whatever that is. But Cass," here, he took a deep breath, the enormity of what he was wrapped up in hitting him at this strange moment. "Don't give yourself up for me. It may feel like the right decision at the time, but I have to live with your decision after the fact." He chuckled again. Maybe the constant pain emanating from his legs was getting to him. "Believe me, I've experienced it often enough to know that I'd rather be dead than survive at the cost of someone else's life, especially yours or Dean's. So don't you do it, and don't let Dean do it. You can tell him I said so."
There was no way for Cass to respond, no way to know if he was even listening, and the silence that filled the room thrummed loudly in Sam's ears. "So, uh, I guess…"
A memory flitted to the forefront of his mind, making Sam stutter to a stop. The details of the car hadn't been wiped from his mind, and suddenly he could picture the license plate on the back, the big letters close to his face as he'd opened the trunk. "Wait, Cass, I think I've got something. Missouri license plate, 444, uh… WVF. Maybe VWF. Car was an old Ford Fiesta, red. Damn angel forgot about license plates." Sam laughed, the first inkling of hope lighting in his chest. "Okay, I know that you guys are probably busy saving my ass, so I'll shut up and let you work. And Cass, whatever happens, I don't blame you. I might blame your species, but in my book, we're good. And if I don't make it, you can tell Dean that the same goes for him."
It had been nearly twenty-four hours since Sam's abduction, and Dean felt like a caged tiger. He'd torn up two living spaces in as many days, and still he was no closer to finding his brother. He and the angels formed another plan — the same plan as before, really — and Castiel took him back to the field in the middle of nowhere. Dean called Yudah again, not sure what to expect.
This time, it was the diminutive angel himself who showed, looking for all the world like some kind of semi-modern cowboy. Dean glared at the angel, feeling the weight of the angel blade up his sleeve.
"I apologize for cancelling our last meeting, Dean," the angel said, looking across the space he'd wisely left between himself and the angry brother of he man he'd kidnapped. "It couldn't be avoided. But my offer still stands; I will show you your brother. Then, you call Castiel, and we can talk like adults."
Dean's face was hard, his eyes unflinching as he glared at the angel who had taken his brother. "Yeah? I don't suppose you're going to explain what happened earlier?"
The angel shrugged. "No, I'm not. But nothing has changed; you give me Castiel, I give you your brother back."
Dean's fists clenched. "I don't suppose you two are going to sit down over tea for a little chat," he called. "Cass filled me in on your brother, Yudah. Yeah, it sucks, losing your brother. If you listen to the rumors, you know that I know what that feels like. But Cass didn't send Oren. He's not responsible for Simeon's death."
The angel laughed. "And you believe that? Of course he would say he's not responsible!"
"Look, I know Cass," Dean argued. "I looked him in the eyes and I asked him. He's not the one doing this."
"Of course — he's never killed angels to further his cause before." The angel stepped forward then, finger pointing at Dean's chest. Dean held his ground, the blade sliding down his arm and into his grip. Yudah paused as the blade caught the starlight. "Are you prepared," he said, voice lowering. "To risk the life of your brother on Castiel's word? The same Castiel, who decided to play God and who released the blight that was Leviathan on this world?"
Dean's eyes didn't waver, none of the doubt whirling in his gut present in the hard facade he showed this angel. "Show me my brother, before I shove this pigsticker up your ass, you coward."
Yudah nodded, stepped back, and pulled out another mirror. Dean listened to the words this time, trying to memorize the phrasing. "Ya, Bar Alef Neun…"
There was suddenly a hand on Dean's shoulder. He jerked away, stumbled on hardwood flooring, the blade swinging even as electric lighting blinded him. The blade whisked past something, and the presence to his right disappeared.
"Ow," Cass' voice objected mildly, stopping Dean's secondary attack just in time.
Dean lowered the blade, blinking as he saw the silhouette of his friend standing before him, clutching his upper arm. "What the hell, man?" Dean asked, running his free hand through his hair, trying to process what had just happened. "You pulled me out! I was just about to see him…"
"I know," the angel interrupted. "But I have heard from Sam."
Dean felt like his breath had just been punched out of him, and he stared uncomprehendingly at Castiel for a moment. "From Sam?"
Castiel nodded, and started on his report of what Sam had said, not giving Dean a moment to catch his bearings. "Sam is being kept at an abandoned warehouse. He attempted to escape, made it several miles by car before he was recaptured. I suspect that this was the cause of Yudah's henchman's sudden disappearance last night. He wishes to assure you that he is alive, and that he is… okay." Dean didn't like that hesitation, but Cass was moving on. "His memories were erased to hide his location, but he was able to remember the license plate of the car he stole. I have written it down so you can find it on the internet." Castiel handed him a folded piece of paper, a look of expectancy on his face.
Dean took the paper, feeling numb in the face of everything that had happened in the last thirty seconds. He stared at the numbers, two lines of six digits each, the word MISSOURI at the top.
"Dean? You can trace it, correct?" the angel coaxed.
Dean nodded jerkily, eyes lifting to meet Castiel's, showing the angel the glint of hope in them. "Yeah, I can trace it. But the internet ain't gonna do it. You up for a little B & E?"
Sam considered laying back down when his tailbone started to go numb, but he waited, expecting his brother to come through that open doorway at any second. When the first hour passed, he forced down the thought that his prayer hadn't been received, and reasoned through it. Dean wouldn't be able to find the car's owner with a simple internet search; he didn't have the hacking capabilities. Which meant he'd have to get into a physical office and get past the password. Even with Cass as angelic taxi, it might take some time. There was also the possibility that he'd remembered the license plate wrong, which might send his brother to the entirely wrong place, or nowhere at all.
An angel appeared in the doorway, making Sam jerk out of his reverie, but it wasn't the one he'd been hoping for. The same angel from the car stood there, looking mildly angry — which wasn't saying enough; "mildly angry" on an angel's face likely meant "majorly pissed off." As the angel stepped through the doorway, Sam stiffened.
"Hello again, Sam," the angel said conversationally. "I can see you've made yourself comfortable. I really am sorry about the legs, but you would've just continued to try to escape."
"Yeah? Well you take your apologies and shove them up your ass, you coward," Sam retorted.
The angel smiled. "Like brother, like… well brother." The angel stepped up to the ends of Sam's shoes, looming over his prisoner for a beat before crouching, careful not to touch Sam's feet or legs. "Something has happened, and I am wondering what the cause of it was," he explained. "You see, Dean and I met, and I was about to show him that you were alive and relatively well, when, lo and behold, Castiel himself shows up." Sam's heartbeat quickened at the thought. "But he didn't stay; just flew off with your brother in tow, before either of them could ask for your release. Seems they don't care about you, kid."
Hope blossomed in Sam's chest, made him want to smile, but he disciplined his face to remain stoic. If the angel found out about his prayer, he'd be moved, and he'd be back to square one. He just had to convince his captor that his brother didn't know where he was, that he wasn't coming to the rescue.
"Now," the angel continued, looking searchingly into Sam's face. "I thought to myself: Dean loves his little brother, and Cass entertains feelings for both of you. So why would they back out of their only shot of getting you back? It took me a while, but I realized suddenly that in all my precautions to keep you contained… silly me, I forgot to prevent you from praying to good old Castiel." The angel's voice turned suddenly from pleasant to deadly, and he reached a hand down to grip one of Sam's legs, right over the break. "What did you tell him, Sam? I erased your memories, so you couldn't have told him where you are… Right?"
Sam bit down on the scream that clawed at his throat, threatened to escape. His vision greyed out, his ears rang, his lungs wouldn't inhale. The pressure on his leg intensified, then released entirely. He had no time to recompose himself, to regain his sense of sight or hearing, before he felt a hand clutch his jaw, press his head back against the wall, felt hot breath in his face.
"… tell him?!" the voice suddenly broke past the ringing in his ears, just as the hand released his jaw.
"I told him…" Sam gasped, looking into the gray that was his field of vision, seeking out the angel's face by the sound. "I told him not to trade his life for mine. Because I couldn't live with myself if he did."
The gray slowly opened from a pinprick to a small circle, and as his vision slowly cleared, he could see the look of consternation on his captor's face. The angel was staring incredulously at him, and Sam stared back, leaning into the truth of his statement, selling its validity with his whole soul. The angel stood, backing away.
"Well then," the angel finally said after a long silence filled with Sam's heavy breathing. "I guess I'll just have to up the ante."
Dean could feel the seconds ticking by, each one pulling him a greater distance from Sam. He let his impatience prod him through the process of finding the vehicle — registered under license plate 444 WUF, not WVF — and then digging through the records of the owner, one Michaela Brent. Her records showed no affiliation with any place of employment that would involve a warehouse or semi trucks, so Dean searched for family, and hit gold. Her husband, Grant Brent, currently worked at a grocery store, but his last job had been at a food processing plant in Missouri, which closed back in '05. He pulled up the address, showed Cass, and in seconds, he was there, ready for a fight, and ambush, anything.
The warehouse grounds looked silent, abandoned, and Dean's heart leapt at the thought of seeing his brother again. Almost there, little brother. It was dark out, only the stars and a waning moon to guide his steps, but Cass guided him to a side door that opened across from the abandoned, engineless semi. He took point, angel blade ready, and slipped inside.
Instantly, he heard yelling from a room down the hall, not Sam but familiar. Dean softly approached the flattened door, fast but stealthy, needing the advantage of surprise if he was going to take down an angel.
"Pray, Sam! Ask Castiel for help!" Judah's voice echoed down the hall. There was a snapping sound, a pained gasp, and Dean moved.
The angel was standing over Sam, who sat against the back wall, a look of rebellion burning from every pore, past the blood that flowed freely from a wound across his forehead. "Go to hell," Sam bit out, pain lacing the words with defiance.
In two steps, Dean was at the angel's back. He could see the moment that Sam saw him, and grinned as he plunged the blade into Yudah's back. "Here, let me help you with that," he growled into the angel's ear as light flashed. He held the weight of the body on the blade, wishing he'd had more time to really make the angel suffer for torturing his little brother, before finally turning and dropping the empty vessel to the ground. "That's for hurting my little brother, you bastard."
Cass was already at Sam's side, gently surveying the damage, but Sam's eyes were on his brother.
"Took you long enough," Sam said, head leaning back against the wall as if he didn't have the strength to hold himself up.
"Hey, Sammy." Dean knelt down, taking Sam's face in his hand, offering silent apology for a long moment. Sam snorted, reading his brother's mind and dismissing it. Dean looked to Cass. "Well? Can you heal him?"
The angel's hand was already on Sam's forehead, but nothing was happening. Cass' hand was shaking, Dean realized suddenly.
"Whoa, whoa, easy, Cass. Don't kill yourself," he said, pulling Castiel's hand away from Sam's face.
"My apologies," Cass said, voice trembling slightly in time with his hands. "I seem to have spent more energy than I intended during recent events."
Dean had sensed that something was wrong with his friend in previous weeks, but had dismissed them. Now, he was sure that Cass was hiding something. "It doesn't matter; call in one of your buddies, get Sam back on his feet."
In an instant, a newcomer stood in the doorway, and Dean felt like this utility closet was getting too cramped. He faced down the angel, bloodied blade at the ready. "You a friendly?" he challenged the big man, thinking that he might have been one of Castiel's friends in the apartment, but he hadn't really been paying attention to faces at the time.
"Mathias is with us, Dean," Castiel said. Dean lowered the blade, moved aside to allow the angel to pass, but the angel didn't move.
"Castiel, Yudah's followers are here."
Castiel straightened. "How many?"
"Two," reported the stranger. "Sebastian and Cromwell are holding them off; they seem uncertain in the face of their leader's death."
"Good," Castiel said, standing slowly. "I will talk with them. You heal Sam, then join me. I hope we can avoid further bloodshed this night."
Castiel walked out of the room, and Mathias took his place.
Sam hid the cringe as a stranger came so near, but Dean saw it, and tensed. He would end this angel, political ties aside, if he hurt Sam. But the healing went smoothly, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the pain etched in his features dissipated. The angel was gone then, leaving Dean standing over his brother.
Sam lifted a hand, silently asking for help, but instead Dean sat beside him, leaning against the wall, taking a breath as he stared at the body lying by his feet. Sam looked long and hard at him, reading whatever the hell little brothers read in big brothers after a rescue mission. "What are you doing, Dean? Don't you want to get out of here?"
Dean shrugged. "Just gimme a minute. Cass's got it handled." It was really to give Sam a chance to regain some semblance of his composure; while Castiel and most other angels were usually good about not just healing but cleaning up, Mathias had failed to clean the blood off of Sam's face. There was also a patch of red blooming from each leg, and Dean suddenly realized that his brother had possibly been bleeding for hours.
"I'm okay, Dean," Sam said, reading Dean's body language like he was a book, pages wide open. "It's not that bad."
"The hell it's not," Dean bit out. "That son of a bitch was torturing you."
"Only for a minute before you came." Sam sounded tired, but sincere. "Nice timing, by the way."
"Why was he telling you to pray to Cass?" Dean asked suddenly, remembering the scene he'd walked in on. "I figured he wouldn't want you talking on angel radio."
Sam shrugged wearily. "After you ditched your meeting with him, he figured it out, confronted me. I told him part of the truth — that I told Cass not to sacrifice himself for me — and he wasn't happy. Thought his secret hideout was still secret, so he wanted me to convince Cass to come anyway."
"But you didn't pray," Dean finished the story, and saw Sam's nod of confirmation. "That's my boy," he said, pride in his voice. "You did good, Sammy."
There was a long silence, both men tired and satisfied to rest for a moment. The rest of the world and all it's problems waited out that door, but it could wait. For now, they sat, content in the comfort of the other's presence.
"God, I hate angels," Dean finally said, breaking the silence.
Sam grinned. "I'm beginning to see why."
"You ready to get out of here?"
"You got a lock pick?"
Sam's answer confused Dean, and he paused in his attempt to rise, a questioning look on his face. Sam lifted his newly healed leg, rattled the chain that Dean hadn't noticed. "Crap."
"Story of our lives, huh?"
Dean sat back down, figuring he'd wait for Castiel to come back instead of leaving Sam alone to go get him. He just sat by his brother, and waited.