Thank so much for all the reviews and alerts. I'm so glad you are liking this story. I've been so inspired by the first few episodes of season 10, I can't stop writing. Does anyone still have "A Single Man Tear" still stuck in their heads? Please let me know what you think.
Chapter 2
Sam's blood froze in his veins and the panic he'd been ignoring reared its ugly head once more. He wanted to avert his gaze from Kit's face and shamefully curl up in the corner. But he, Bobby and Dean had prepared for this, someone was bound to put the pieces together. They'd covered their tracks the best they could and their stories would all match.
Sam wished it had happened when Lucifer was still banging around his head. It would have made it much easier.
"I know that it's over." Sam shrugged. "Can I go now?"
"That's a freebie, Sam. You won't get another one."
"I'm not sure what you want." He shrugged, the picture of innocence. Dean always griped about his puppy eyes, so he tossed those in too.
"A lot of crap's rained down on us lately—hunters getting slaughtered, town's disappearing, strange untraceable illnesses linked to vaccines—and somehow you're always in the eye of the shit-storm. You want to explain that?"
"Occupational hazard," Sam said flatly.
Kit crackled his knuckles. "Don't get cute, boy."
Sam found it harder and harder to be scared of humans after taking in the very founder of evil and when he knew how easy they were to kill. "You know the drill. You show up to town, work a case and people are lookin' at you like like you did the deed when you're only trying to help," he explained. "I've worked some pretty hairy cases, took down freakin' horsemen, damn near got gutted by hellhounds. I didn't see you there."
Kit's cheek twitched. Just as Sam braced himself for a fist to the face, he changed gears. "Roy and Walt said you were into something nasty."
"And their source was a demon. They'd have no reason to turn him against me, right?"
Kit stood up. "And the Harvelles? They died under your watch."
Sam's gut twisted and his eyes instantly teared. He glanced away and bit the inside of his cheek. Their deaths would always be an exposed nerve, a touchpoint of unassailable pain. "They died on a mission to take-out the biggest bad of them all. They sacrificed everything for the greater good. Say their names again and you'll find out why you need those chains."
Kit's face twitched. "You had your chance, Sam. Just remember that. Let's see how brave you are when your brother's in the shed next to yours, begging for mercy."
Sam scoffed, vision bleeding red. Dean was probably already gunning for them.
The door opened again and the other two entered. The kid tapped Sam kindly on the shoulder and motioned for him to stand, so he could take the chair. The concrete dust from the loose bolt crunched beneath his feet, mostly concealed.
Sam saw the flash of silver and could barely flinch to the right before the shot was thundered through the small space. The force of the shot spun him a bit before he collapsed to the floor. The warm lilt of blood dripping down his thigh. Sam grit his teeth, and braced himself for the pain.
"Nice try, Sammy. But it's like I said, you ain't slithering out of his one, Lucifer's pet or not. Chain him, Luke."
It descended then, white-hot and tearing agony in his leg that ripped up into his hip and down to his toes. He cried out, not caring how weak he sounded or how much satisfaction Kit got from it. The kid—Luke—was fumbling with the chains again. His mouth was tight with horror as he did so. Sam's streaming eyes met his widened ones for a long moment. Luke scrubbed the emotion from his face as he cuffed and chained him again and left without a word.
Sam mewled low in his throat in the quiet and ground his head against the floor. He could hear the slap of blood hitting cement. He raised his swimming head with effort and gasped.
Luke had cuffed his hands in front of him. It was a small display of humanity and Sam leapt on it. In the lowlight, he could see the obscene holes in leg. The bullet had hit him high with a downward trajectory. He had punched through the back of his leg, slightly off center. With fumbling, cuffed hands, he tore his flannel shirt and pressed it against the puckered hole just beneath his hip. The cloth was too small to tie off, so he could only apply torturous pressure. He coughed and whimpered as he did, letting his head thunk against the ground. Blood still wept from the exit wound lower in his leg that he couldn't reach. There was little he could do with his bound hands, so he just held on.
It wasn't long before Sam began to shake. The cold that had been a minor nuisance for the big guy who ran hot. Now it was frigid as the arctic, thanks to his decreasing blood volume. The world, that used to be filled with grandiose goals like ridding the planet of Leviathans, grieving for Bobby and saving the people, shrank to nothing but that shed and the business of suffering at the hands of another.
Consciousness wafted in and out like a despairing tide. He surfaced again, trembling violently, gasping for breath. He cried out, blindsided by throbbing leg, hands nestled against his chest for warmth. Every time he passed out and woke up again, he was assaulted by the memory of what happened, the trauma of being shot and the horror that he'd been abducted.
Sam blinked, eyes flickered to the puddling blood that sharpened and blurred as he fought hard to stay conscious.
He was bleeding out, and could barely summon the strength to care.
And then he remembered Kit's chilling promise about Dean.
The thought of Dean stirred something within him. Dean had barely survived losing Bobby, the fight for Dick Roman was the only thing keeping him going. Determined, Sam started to move…slowly. He groped blindly for the chain, fingertips probing in the dark. He gripped it hard, towed himself as upright as he could get without passing out.
The shifting and maneuvering sponsored incidious pain but Sam had endured worse. Torture the physical body was far different than that to the soul. It was closer, edged with finality, but it wasn't as intimate or as scarring. Physical pain, however bad, was easily survivable.
He positioned the chain above the wounds, and wrapped the length around his leg and pulled it until it was snug, a tourniqet of metal. The representation of his fear had now become a lifeline. Blood, drying and tacky, was smeared amongst the floor, but flow from his thigh lessened considerably. It was all he could do for now. Eyes rolling back, Sam slumped over and drifted out with the tide.
The smell was fierce and acrid, climbing into his nose and burrowing into his throat like possessing evil. Sam tried to turn his head away, to escape, but felt fingers digging into his chin, trapping him. His eyes fluttered, and the darkness gave way to Kit's stern face. "Up and at 'em, Sammy."
His big head, complete with bulbous nose and scarred forehead vanished.
"See you got creative with the chain there, probably saved your life," Kit praised.
Sam coughed, hacking and dry. He curled his hands against his chest, over his heart that labored and raced between him. Luke set up the chairs once more. Sam wondered how much working stage crew for a psychotic hunter paid.
"Have a seat, Sam."
Captivity and torture, Sam knew, was about more than just pain and control. It was about stripping spirit as much as the body, and humiliation was a powerful tool. Sam gritted his teeth and crawled across the floor with strength he didn't have. Hitching himself up on the chair almost did him in. The third time he tried, Luke gnawed on his lip before he took a step forward to help. A strong grip and hard glare from Kit aborted his effort. "S'okay, I got it," Sam said and levered himself up with pure adrenaline, dragging the chain with him.
Luke left without being dismissed. The woman, he noticed, was gone. Sam wondered if there was dissention in the ranks. He stretched his skewed leg out in front of him, ignoring how tight his jeans felt. At least the fever was providing him warmth. Sam pawed the hair out of his eyes and regarded Kit with disinterest.
"Detriot," Kit spat.
"Birth of Motown," Sam remarked. "Motor City too."
He knew probably deserved the fist that smashed into his face this time. Kit wasn't remotely zen, and now he puffed like a dragon, fire in his eyes. The rage was poorly controlled which made him as dangerous as an unstable bomb. Sam needed to tread carefully to prevent an explosion until Dean came. It had been too long, nearly two days judging by the patchy stubble on his shirt and the ripeness of his clothes.
"Sorry," Sam muttered, lapping at the blood in his lip.
"No, you're not. You're enjoying this. You may have snowed Singer and some other good hunters, but I know what you are, boy. I know what kind of filth runs in your veins."
Sam averted his eyes. "What is that?"
Kit sneered. "A wolf in sheep's clothing, a trojan horse. Take your pick. You pretend to carry the burden of the good but you've gotten your hand in every disaster in the past four years. Word gets out that you're dead and then you pop up looking better than ever."
Kit loomed again, snatching a fistful of Sam's hair to yank his head back. "I know you won't talk no matter what I do to you so I'm gonna play the only card I got." Sam startled as Kit rammed a piece of paper in his mouth and down his throat.
Gagging, Sam rushed to yank it out. He uncurled it and stared in shock. It was a print-out of a security photo of Dean, a familiar hunter leering in the background with a treacherous sneer. "Lena's tailin' him now. She ain't like me, boy. She likes to hunt but lives for the kill."
Kit clapped Sam on the shoulder and headed for the door.
He knew it was a trap, and didn't care. His actions, however well-intentioned, had consequences and he couldn't stand for one more person getting hurt because of him. Because of what he was. His fate had been sealed the second he was taken and Sam was done denying it.
He licked his lips and began to talk. "There were sixty-six seals that the demons needed to be broken to free Lucifer from the cage," Sam said. The announcement stopped Kit in his tracks. He canted his head over one shoulder, listening but not fully satisfied. "Dean and I stopped the breaking of eleven. We failed more than we tried."
"That doesn't surprise me," Kit chuckled, reclaiming his chair.
Sam leveled him a withering look. "How many did you stop?"
Kit kicked Sam's bad leg. Sam would have thrown up if they had fed him.
"And Detroit, the pile of bodies there?"
Sam sighed. He hadn't told Dean about that, though he suspected he knew. "Lucifer killed them," he offered, wondering why it felt like a lie. Maybe because he still remembered the taste of the marrow of their bones.
"I find it hard to believe that you encountered the devil and lived. You better start explainin' yourself, Sam. Quick like a bunny before I skin you like one."
Sam tried to gather the words when all that seemed appropriate were the guttural screams that haunted his nightmares. He opened his mouth, faltered and snapped it shut at a glimpse of Kit's disgust and hatred. Kit moved to stand. to order the death of his brother. Without thinking, Sam bleated out: "Because he was possessing me," with brittle shame.
There was a no hesitation, no fumbling. The hunter leapt on him with a roar and streak of camo and Sam had no strength to fight him off. His fists were jackhammers powered by righteous rage more than accuracy. Sam could only curl and cover as Kit pummeled him. The litany stopped as abruptly as it started and Sam opened his eyes, not surprised when blood dripped into one.
The shed door was unlocked and rattling in the wind. Sam crawled for it immediately. The twinkle of the chain was the only warning he gotten before it struck him across his backside and lower back with the gentility of a lightning strike. Sam howled. The second blow felled him and he was clinging to consciousness by the third. Kit kicked him onto his back, secured him with a crushing knee to the chest even though Sam wasn't fighting back, and looped the chain around his neck, and pulled. His face was a crazed crimson, his eyes glinting and dark. "You unholy freak. You are a disease that preys on humanity. You are a cancer!" Kit said, spittle flying from his lips.
Sam pawed and scratched at his hands as he bought the horrible pressure pooled in his sinuses and bulged his eyes.
It hit him all to late of what he was truly terrified of, not the torture of the pit at the hands of two archangels or even what he did while he was possessed, but Lucifer's intoxicating, freeing anger. It had been all encompassing and all powerful and giving into it wasn't like imprisoning your soul but liberating it. Such ire imbued him now, frigid and bright.
Sam sucked in a thin thread of air and canted his head at Kit. The hands that weakly batted at the throttling chain curled into fists. The uppercut blindsided Kit with a crunch of teeth. The follow-up to his temple knocked the hunter off him completely. Sam grappled for the chain, tugging it loose. Air rushed in as the adrenaline was horked out. He writhed, unable to suck in air fast enough.
Kit advanced again, so Sam completed his truth.
"I let him out of the cage," he confessed with a rusty, wasted voice, "and I put him back in. And I suffered for it...for centuries."
Luke appeared out of nowhere, hauling Kit back. "This is not what I signed up for," he yelled. "You've gone too far."
"We need to wipe that monster off the face of the planet." Kit seethed. His menacing tone was now weak and wet, thanks to Sam's fists.
Luke shoved him back again. "You heard what he said. He ended it! He cleaned up his mess. We're finished..."
Lena jogged inside barely sparing a bloodied, beaten Sam a glimpse, and announced, "They're close...too close. What do you want to do?"
"We're leaving," Luke answered. "Wipe everything and meet me at the vans." Luke said, instead of Kit. He whirled around to the other man, clutching his lopsided, bloody nose. "Dad, go."
Kit left but not before shooting Sam a withering glare, a promise that he would finish the job.
Sam's head thunked against the ground. Everything hurt, especially breathing. The air burned his raw throat like lava, and his lungs couldn't expand fully.
A musty, motheaten sleeping bag fluttered down over him, a burner phone pressed into his outflung hand. Luke patted his cheek gently. Sam jerked regardless, expecting violence. "Your brother's close. You're three miles east of highway 60 in the third shed. Call in your location, okay? I'm...sorry I let it go this far. There's a lot you don't know, okay?" The frantic voice was growing fainter. "I don't have time to explain. Call your brother, Sam, and you'll be fine."
Luke disappeared.
An engine roared and ambled away.
Sam gripped the phone, and tried to find the strength to use it.
