This wasn't intended to be multi-chapter, but, well, plans change. Probably going to be a 3 or 4 chapter one, so not too terribly long.
This was a request by Astronema2345 who wanted me to, "...do a story where Sam is kidnapped again by the Men of Letters."
Heck yes! I had fun with this first chapter, which brings me into this:
Warnings: Very graphic imagery and depictions of violence (not for an extensive amount of time).
I'm hoping to get the Winchesters in a pretty package for Christmas...but nothing yet.
Reviews are appreciated if you have the time.
Enjoy.
The pain is all the same.
Well, he can't exactly say that. Sometimes the pain is burning, fiery and intense, clawing away at his skin in various places that he no longer knows the difference between. Other times it's stabbing; a piercing blade—literally—in his outer later that rips away bit by bit, piece by piece. A lot of the time, it's a drug-induced haze that brings forth many nightmares and horrors deeply concealed in the barriers of his mind, hidden behind the shutters and refusing to be let out. Most of the time, it's all of the above.
He lays on the sodden mattress in his cage, the shackles that scald his wrists and ankles not letting him go far even if he wanted to. He should've known this was going to happen at some point. The British weren't going to just set him free, especially not with his past.
He's done too much shit that never deserved to be forgiven for at this point he's refused to allow himself any form of miniature hope that seemed to formulate. To be honest, it was only righteous.
This is his living hell. Sam's experienced damnation at its finest when he was nothing but a soul with the body long forgotten, but then he could be ripped apart, preserved long enough to see his intestines shoved into his own mouth, and then brought back to life with a gasp. However, this is so much more different. He has to worry about thirst, malnutrition, overheating. Because it's hot—so much different from the Cage.
Sometimes he's put in a straight jacket. He's not sure why, actually. Perhaps he knows what they're planning. He's seen it, through the visions that had stopped so long ago that he barely even acknowledged that they were a thing. Not that he wanted to, at least. Some of them don't come true, though, and he's confused on what he's seeing.
Maybe he's just hallucinating and this whole thing is in his mind.
The rooms are white when he's not in his prison. The guards shock the collar on his neck and he falls, submissive. They take him somewhere and drug him with something and say the name of someone he used to be. He's ashamed he's given in so easily. But fighting when he first got here was so excruciatingly unforgiving that he'd learned not to try by the first two days.
He supposes he's been here somewhat around a month now. That's what the talleys on the floor tell him that he makes with a small stone he found lying near the iron bars. They're doing something to him, and he doesn't know what.
Every other day he's brought into a different room. A grey one. One that's not a matte, pearlescent white that forces his eye sockets shut in seeking of mercy. His cuffs are chained to a normal, blue chair in front of a normal, blue table in front of a normal, blue-suited man. The man asks him the same questions everyday in the same order. Sam had it memorized the first day.
What's your name?
What's your favorite color?
Who's your brother?
What car do you drive?
What's your pet angel's name?
Who are you?
His responses started with something along the lines of, "Fuck you."
The man only coyly smiled, lustful for fear, and Sam felt an unsettling panic reside in his chest. Somewhere along the line he stopped answering the questions with snarky comebacks altogether, instead opting for silence. At this the man got angry, and Sam learned very fast you didn't want to make the man angry. Ketch, they called him. He knew his name, because it had been marked onto his chest with a blade so sharp it made an X-Acto knife look like a kitten's toy.
One day he answered truthfully. The next day that got him tied to a pole and whipped twenty.
He never knew this side of the British Men of Letters. They were philosophers, not torturers and scientists. Oh, yes, the science part of this. He never knew his demon blood could be activated by six screws into his brain. Maybe that's where the straight jacket came into play.
The next time he answered the questions he was finally told the correct answers.
"What's your name?" Ketch asked, eyeing Sam studiously, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a symphony.
"Does it matter?"
"No. Exactly. You have no name anymore. No inhuman thing should have a title to abide by."
When the final question came and he said without even blinking, "Nobody," he received an extra ration of bread that night. He learned to answer the questions in that manner.
The thing about this place is that they're careful. Way too careful to be a place in Britain, desolate and empty, with no threats to their studies. There's 3 guards at the main door, one on each and every other, with around 16 near the front one. Sam's had time to discover about half of their names. He figured out their quantity numbers on his first and last escape attempt.
They don't underestimate him. They know he has a brother out there, scrounging the living Earth for his younger sibling that was taken from him so quickly and quietly, with nothing to compensate for evidence. Despite there being no clues, no traces, no leads, they know not to think they're safe. They also don't underestimate Sam's strength. Henceforth, he's never left unbound. Even when he's being transported on the stretcher to the main building where's he drugged and experimented on, they leave the heavy metal on.
Sam's dislocated thumb still aches from where he tried to break free. Funny thing is, to spite him, they took the other one and snapped the joint back, too. So now he has two dislocated thumbs and no place to go.
He made a lot of mistakes when he first got here, now that he thinks about it.
Sometimes he wonders about Dean. Dreams about him, even. He thinks of that classic rock during late-night drives in the rain. He thinks of the cheeseburgers he complained so dearly about the extra onions with. What he would give now for a cheeseburger with extra onions he doesn't even know.
He wonders what happened to Mick. Mick was nice. He snuck a lot of rations in late at night, and gave him a private access key to initiate his first escape attempt. He hasn't seen Mick since. Sam knows he's dead.
The familiar sound of echoing footsteps approach outside of his cage. He doesn't even make a move to look, staring at the musty ceiling in vain. The guards shock him anyway just for pleasure, undoing his chains and looping them onto their belts. They're forcing him to walk this time, and Sam's not sure he can.
But he makes his limbs move, and limps off to where he knows he's supposed to go to. With the guards' help, of course.
Blue chair, blue table, blue-suited man.
"What's your name?"
Sam stares unseeingly.
"I have no name."
tbc