This really shouldn't be hilarious. It really isn't, actually. Out of one cage and into another, and whatever they put in that syringe was nasty. He still feels sick and dizzy and that must have been hours ago.
Damn, this cage is tiny. Hell of a lot smaller than the last one.
Dean's going to be so pissed.
Or then again, maybe not. The way things have been, Dean might just think he waltzed off and didn't leave a note.
And he just walked right into this one, didn't he? They're hunters, not family. He knew that, he did. They're hunters, and he should know by now what hunters do with him. (Gordon, Reggie, Tim, Roy, Walt.)
Sam supposes he can probably consider it a plus that they at least haven't tried to force anything down his throat or blow him to pieces or just shot him full of shotgun pellets. That's a positive, probably. He doesn't think anyone's bringing him back this time.
All out of second chances. Who even knows why he had so many to begin with.
There are cuffs on his hands but he can still clang the metal against the bars. "Hey. Hey! Anybody up there?"
He doesn't know what they think they're going to do with him now, since they don't seem inclined to make him Demon-Blood-Powered Super Terminator or whatever (been there, done that, look how it went) and it's not like the whole vessel thing is good for anyone but angels, and he's finished with that anyway, thanks.
That's the other thing. He feels…pretty calm. Just like this shouldn't be vaguely hilarious, this should really be freaking him out more. His back is starting to cramp from being bent over like this. His head throbs from whatever he was drugged with and hitting the floor.
This doesn't feel real. That's probably what the issue is.
He rattles his own chain again. "Hey!"
The door cracks open and a sliver of light stabs through his eyes and into his skull. Sam flinches and tries to look away, but there really isn't much space in this thing. "Now what?" he says, raising his voice. "You just gonna keep me down here forever?"
No answer. Maybe no one's there.
He doesn't know why that's funny, but he wants to laugh anyway.
"What do you want?"
Still no answer. Sam decides they're just messing with him and puts his head down, or tries. It strains his shoulders and his back screams in protest.
Someone's standing there, he realizes, and manages to twist his neck enough to see that it's good old Grandpa Campbell. His namesake. He's not really feeling much familial love here, but then he hasn't for a while. That's okay, though. He hasn't really been giving a whole lot of it either.
"You got a plan here you're going to clue me in on?"
No answer, still. Grandpappy's just staring at him like he expects Sam to sprout an extra head while he watches. Not that there's room in here for an extra head. Not that it would really matter. What's an extra head among family?
Demon blood, though, that's a problem. Always has been. Not much he can do about that. At least you can chop off an extra head, theoretically.
Again, the feeling that in this blank space should be worry, or fear, or something.
"Sam," says Samuel. He sounds sympathetic, or at least like he's trying to sound sympathetic. Sam doesn't really know the difference anymore. "I told you before…"
Sam shuts him out and tries to shift to make himself more comfortable. It doesn't really work. He kind of misses Dean, but he's pretty sure he doesn't have the right to that anymore.
He breathes.
"It's not safe, having you out there. You're not safe."
Same song, different verse. Of course, that probably means they all have a point, these people who think he's dangerous. That doesn't actually help.
Shut it all out, Sam. That's right. Keep it all inside, leave it all outside. Internalize. It's what you do best.
"Are you allowed to disown your dead grandfather?" He asks, and can't help but snort. Hilarious. (It isn't. But it is.)
Samuel leaves.
~.~
So far, nothing. His back has stopped cramping but he's pretty sure that's just because it's decided it'll be stuck here for the near future and had better learn to deal with it. When he gets out it'll really suck.
They fed him yesterday, or today. It's kind of hard to tell what day it is when the only sign of light you get is the artificial one that drills through your skull every time the door opens. Being in the dark all the time is weird.
And so far, nothing. No tests for evil, no demon blood, no salt or shotgun blasts. Just a cage and – that was actually some pretty good food. It doesn't make any sense. Sam always used to like things to make sense. That was before he figured out that they don't.
He thinks that the fact he feels almost giddy is probably a sign that he's been alone with himself for way too long. Then again, where else has he been lately?
(Ooh, a cynical voice in Sam's head murmurs, That's profound, Sammy, real profound.)
"Don't need that sass," he says, and chortles. His voice sounds funny in the dark. The door opens and he looks up.
"What now?" He asks, loudly. "What's the endgame?"
It's Samuel again. Samuel seems to like to just stand there and watch him. Dean would probably make some kind of comment about someone being a perv. Sam kind of wishes Dean were here to make that kind of comment.
Or maybe that's just what he thinks he should be feeling. Everything's a little bit weird. Course, the fact that he's in a cage in the basement of a house with his dead mother's long lost family, one of whom was really pretty dead for a while – not that he's the only one – might have something to do with that.
"Are you waiting for something?" Sam asks, though he doesn't really expect an answer. He's surprised.
"We're trying to make a decision."
"Oh yeah? What kind of decision?"
"If you're our problem or someone else's," Samuel says, and Sam almost laughs. He's been someone's problem his whole life. Figures that wouldn't change. John's problem, Dean's problem, heaven's problem, hell's problem. He's just the original Problem Child. Hilarious.
(Oh, come on, at least a little bit.)
Sam tries to shift and immediately regrets it. "Any option I should be rooting for?" He paused. "And who's someone else?"
Apparently Samuel's used up his word quota for the day, though, because he just falls silent and does some more staring.
"Dean called?" Sam asks, finally. Samuel shakes his head, and Sam just kind of nods. That's about par for the course. Least one of them's not an idiot. It's kind of tiring being rescued anyway. Rescue capture rescue capture rescue. Stupidly repetitive. About time someone broke the cycle.
Samuel leaves eventually, shaking his head like he was hoping for something he didn't get.
Aren't they all?
(Real profound.)
~.~
Sam begins to toy with the idea that he's insane.
Sam begins to toy with the idea that he's been insane for a while.
And not fixable insane either. The kind of insane that once upon a time got you locked up in the attic so you didn't embarrass the family and everyone pretends you're dead. Except the attic is a basement and he's pretty sure Mrs. Rochester didn't get a cage. He supposes that they're probably pretty worried about fires, though, given…well, everything.
So yeah. Insane. That would explain a lot, actually. It would definitely explain the feeling that he should be feeling something other than vague amusement with this situation. That's a little weird, he knows. That he doesn't feel it, but he feels like he should. There is all kinds of wrong there and he doesn't even feel like looking at it right now.
His shoulder feels like it's going to pop out of the socket but he doesn't think that moving would help. Last position he felt like his neck was going to pop out of its socket, and his neck doesn't even have a socket. Except maybe where his spine fuses to his skull but he's pretty sure it doesn't work that way.
Is this cage shrinking?
He's pretty sure that physics don't work that way either.
And the way Samuel's features keep trying to melt off his face definitely isn't normal.
Insane. It's nice. Convenient. Absolving.
There's probably another problem there, that's he's okay with this, pretty sure it's better than the alternative. But he's getting kind of sick, really, of cataloguing all the problems.
It's redundant. Really redundant. About as redundant as, say, death. At this point.
(There's a word for what he is being right now. It's called 'flippant.' He's pretty sure it's usually Dean's job.)
Samuel's watching him and Sam's pretty sure that's pity. "It's over," Grandpappy says, and Sam snorts.
"Been over for a while."
There are all kinds of things he should be feeling, all kinds of things he should be saying. They aren't there. There isn't much there, here, pick one, pick both.
He finds it doesn't really matter that much anymore.
Time to let it go.