The air carries a strange chill, the kind born of humidity and darkness. Sweat cools on Sam's brow, his soaked shirt sticks to his back, unwilling to let go of goose-bumped skin. Only Sam's legs burn furiously, bandages rubbing burnt and broken skin raw. Everything aches and even picking up his head is becoming difficult.
It would be so easy just to give up.
There is nothing left to live for. Dean is dead. Cas is God-knows-where and the sun is back in its rightful place. These men of letters can help, they can save lives with their zeal and efficiency. To just give in, give them some names would be so easy. Would earn him some real food, maybe. Some painkillers…
But Sam still says no. Because what do these women of letters think they're doing here? Messing with private affairs, driven by some new-imperialistic ideal to change America. Fuckers. Sam will keep saying no, because other hunters don't deserve to go through this. They don't deserve to be kidnapped, tortured and drugged.
Because if these women had asked nicely, had pitted their plans before shooting Sam down, he may have listened.
It would be so easy to just give up.
There is nothing left to lose, though. There's no possible leverage that can get Sam to speak, no method of torture that can get Sam to give up. Inside, there's simply nothing left. Gone are the ideals, the love, the compassion and the grief. What's left is his core, cast-iron and dented beyond compare. Sure it's missing a few pieces, but it's functional as ever.
What these Women of Letters don't understand (what Lucifer understood, all too well) was that if you strip everything away from Sam, go down to his very basic settings, you'll get absolutely nowhere. All you'll get is his default setting; stubborn anger.
(Lucifer was smarter, he didn't break Sam a layer at a time, he broke the core right away, then played with the left-over pieces)
Sam can die here and the world will lose nothing. It will just be one obsessed, broken shell of a man poorer. But if he is going to die here, he's going to make damned sure that he gives his captors the hardest time of their lives. It is useless and spiteful (what, never seen a petty person before?), but it's all Sam has left.
It would be so easy to just give up. But really, where's the fun in that?
The door across from Sam opens. Toni steps in with clicking heels and a crisp, new pantsuit. Sam grits his teeth and clenches his fists against the obstinacy in his bones and the fury crawling under his skin. Heels click louder as they move up to Sam. Toni doesn't touch him (she rarely does, probably afraid to get her suit dirty) and she doesn't speak. She just stands there, as if waiting for Sam to say something.
Never one to deny a lady, Sam obliges.
"What are you waiting for? My first screw you of the morning?"
The air is still permeated by that underground chill, but Sam knows things will be heating up soon. In a strange, self-flagellating way, he's almost looking forward to it.